“The gloves rub against my skin and it hurts.”
“Do you remember what Jesus suffered when he died for our sins, Augustus?”
I nodded.
“He was whipped, crowned with thorns, and forced to carry his own cross until he was nailed onto it, left to die,” she went on. “Do you think he could just stop because it hurt?”
I shook my head.
“That’s right. He could not. So you will do those dishes, and you will not complain. Do you understand?”
Ensnared by guilt, I nodded my head. She was right. How could I be so selfish? Jesus suffered. For me. A sinner. And here I was, complaining about soapy water and cracked skin.
But, the Devil spoke up, just as I rolled up my sleeves to fill the sink with water,Jesus did not want to die. His Father condemned him to that fate. Just like your mother is condemning you to yours.
“That is not the same,” I whispered under my breath.
You’re right. It isn’t. Because you are not Jesus,and your mother is not God. So why should she control you as though she were?
I reached for the dishwashing liquid and poured it into the warm water, ignoring the Devil’s words. He was just trying to get me into trouble.
I know you don’t want to do it, Augustus.
My hands hovered above the soap, the instinct to avoid pain holding me back. The Devil was right. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to be in pain.
Without uttering a word, I walked away from the sink. My mother called my name, but I ignored it.
“Mary–” my father started, but he was too late.
My mother’s fingers found the back of my shirt, using it to throw me down onto the cold, tiled floor.
“You don’t want to do as you’re told?” she asked, a dangerous glint in her eye. “Very well. You leave me no choice.”
She bound my arms and legs together with rope, dragging me along the floor toward the linen cupboard.
My father watched with a pained expression but did nothing to intervene when my mother poured lemon juice into the cracked skin of my hands, another scream tearing from my throat at the excruciating pain.
She shoved me into the cupboard, the towels and bedsheets familiar prison mates.
“I hate you,” I hissed.
“I hate you more,” my mother hissed back.
The door slammed shut in my face, and the last thing I heard was, “I am taking him to Joe tomorrow.”
CHAPTER SIX
There was a room in Joe’s house, with floor to ceiling mirrors on each wall. Not a single window, light reduced to the thin crack beneath the metal door.
In the centre of the floor yawned a small, sunken pool, the water motionless and black. There, in the water, I sat.
Iron chains snaked around my wrists, a cross dangling above my head. I screamed, and begged, and thrashed around. But my pleas went unanswered.
“The Devil is in him, Mary,” Joe told my mother, their bodies huddled in the doorway, “you were right to bring him to me. God will save him. But we need to be strong.”
“How long will it take?” my mother asked.
“I cannot say. It is God’s will.”
