There you are.
“No,” I drawl. “We’re going to talk about how you’re going to be my partner.”
“In crime?” she mutters sarcastically.
I sigh and pinch her naked ass, making her jump.
“Just because I decided not to kill you, Jewel, doesn’t mean I’m above punishing you.” I grin down at her. “I think I’ll enjoy finding reasons to do so daily, if I’m honest.”
“Honest,” she snaps. “What about tonight has been honest?”
We’ve reached the ride entrance, and I nudge her in before I answer. “I haven’t lied to you, Jules. The Sanctum of Ash Prophets are vile, depraved demons. Not every story is mine to tell, but I’ll share what I can.”
I help her into the pink two-seater boat, then follow her in.
“Alright,” she says once the boat stops rocking. “I’ll listen.”
I wink at her. “Off the record, of course?”
“Of course,” she mumbles, rolling her eyes.
I chuckle one last time before allowing myself to revisit the past.
The boat drifts forward with a soft mechanical hum, plastic brushing against water as we slip into the tunnel. Pink hearts hang crookedly from the ceiling, their paint chipped, the bulbs behind them dimmed to a jaundiced glow. The contrast almost makes me laugh.
“I wasn’t born in a hospital,” I say at last. My voice sounds strange in the enclosed space, too honest. “No birth certificate. No doctor. No name, at first.”
Jules stays quiet. She’s good at that, I’ll give her credit.
“Like all babies in the Sanctum of Ash, I was born on amattress on the floor of a church basement,” I continue. Jules’s fingers curl into the sleeve of my jacket around her shoulders.
The boat glides past a tableau of plaster lovers locked in an eternal kiss. Their faces are cracked, eyes blank.
“My mother died three days later. Infection. They said it was God’s will. They buried her in an unmarked grave and told me she’d been too sinful to stay.”
The tunnel grows darker.
“The Sanctum of Ash wasn’t a church. It was a factory.” I tilt my head back against the plastic seat. “They manufactured obedience. Fear. Guilt. Boys were raised to be tools. Girls to be vessels. Everyone to be expendable.”
A fake cupid jerks to life on the wall, its wings creaking as it fires a chipped arrow into nothing.
“They beat us for asking questions. Beat us for not asking questions. Beat us for thinking the wrong thoughts.” My jaw tightens. “They called it correction. Discipline. Love.”
Jules exhales shakily.
“They starved us during fasts that lasted weeks. Made us kneel on gravel. Locked us in prayer closets until we forgot what day it was.” I glance at her. “Do you know what happens when a child is told every day that pain is proof of devotion?”
She shakes her head, eyes glassy.
“They stop believing pain is wrong.”
The boat turns a corner. The water smells faintly of rust.
“The sermons were fake Christianity,” I go on. “Crosses on the walls. Bibles on the altar. But the words were twisted. God wasn’t mercy. God was hunger. God was obedience. God was whatever the Prophets needed Him to be that day.”
My fingers curl around the edge of the boat.
“They called us chosen. Special. Told us the outside world was corrupt, evil, diseased. That we existed to cleanse it.” Ahumorless smile tugs at my mouth. “Funny thing is, they believed that part.”
