I didn’t get to hear the rest of the conversation, but by the following Sunday, we were attending a new church.
***
Our new church was a small building with a large cross plastered on the front door, floorboards cracked and splintered with age. Our new priest was a man with self-appointed authority to speak on God’s behalf, his allegiance not to the Pope, but to himself.
My father did not approve. He had been hesitant to leave the St Augustine community—a community that had welcomed him in Rose Chapel when he was freshly nineteen, looking for work in a small, honest town.
My mother disagreed. She believed St Augustine’s had betrayed her, that Father Andrej was no longer a trustworthy advisor. That was why we joined the God’s Soldiers Church. Here, she said, we would be saved.
But it didn’t feel like we were being saved. My mother had lost a lot of weight, blue veins protruding from her pale skin. Sleepless nights darkened the circles around her eyes, bottom lip speckled with dried blood from her incessant picking.
Religion became an obsession. It controlled her every waking moment. While she grew closer to God, we all grew further apart.
“You have the devil in you,” she’d tell me whilst securing rope around my wrists, the rough fibres biting into my skin. “This is for your own good.”
She’d then throw me into the linen cupboard, slamming the door shut.
Blood soaked into the rope’s frayed strands, droplets falling one after the other as I blindly reached for a towel to control the bleeding. This earned me further punishment when my mother opened the door hours later to find two towels soaked with blood.
Dragging me into the kitchen, she removed the rope and poured lemon juice over my open wounds, a scream ripping from my throat at the burning acidity.
I spent more time locked in that linen cupboard, fighting through panic attacks, than ever before. If this was what being saved entailed, then I did not want to be saved.
Another Sunday rolled around, red, orange and yellow leaves crunching beneath our feet as we piled into the car.
The gentle patter of rain fell against the windshield, blurring the multitude of trees that followed us to the God’s Soldiers Church. Upon arrival, we hurried from the car to the house, ducking beneath our coats as a fine mist chased us up the steps.
Joseph Kade—or Joe, as my mother called him—stood at the front of the dimly lit room, black hair combed away from his forehead, light stubble grazing his sharp jaw. He spoke slowly, deliberately, each word casting a spell over the small congregation in attendance. Heads tilted, eyes widened. They were starving and his words were theirs to devour.
“We are called to spread the word of God,” he said, colourless eyes meeting mine for a fraction of a second before drifting to the entranced devotees digesting his every word, “and to silence those who speak against it.”
My mother had a small notebook on her lap, thin fingers curled around a pen to record each and every word that rolled off Joe’s tongue.
“God delivered you all here, to me. It is our mission to save the world, to repent, to free one another of sin,” he went on.
“Man thinks he’s Jesus,” my father mumbled under his breath.
I barely suppressed a smile.
It was no secret my father disliked Joe. He thought him to be arrogant and prideful, a false prophet claiming to be divinely chosen by God. But my mother worshipped him, hanging off his every word.
“The Devil is among us.”
Silence.
Not a cough. Not a whisper.
No one moved. No one blinked.
I held my breath, the Devil stirring at the threat. I closed my eyes, willing him to remain quiet, fearful of the consequences. My leg bounced up and down, a subconscious admission of guilt.
“You.”
I opened my eyes, expecting a finger pointed in my direction, cold eyes condemning me for my sin. But there was no finger. At least not pointed at me.
Joseph’s eyes were on a young woman in her early twenties. Trembling, she shook her head, the denial dying on her lips as all attention fixed on her.
“Come here, child,” Joseph said, opening his arms.
