Page 25

No feeding tube.

Just a body that wouldn’t quit. Lungs that kept pulling in air, a heart that refused to know it should have stopped the moment it hit the floor at the bottom of those stairs.

Why wouldn’t he just die?

I used to lie awake wondering if this was God’s hand. If He’d reached down and delivered His own brand of justice, trapping my father in this living hell. After all the years of sin he wrapped in scripture, all the abuse he masked as righteousness, was this the balance? A life spent preaching salvation only to end up here, frozen in a purgatory of his own making?

Day after day, he’s sat there. No family to visit him. No wife or daughter to pray over him. A silent monument to guilt. To hypocrisy. A man forced to bear witness but never allowed the release of confession or death.

And tonight…

I’m the one speeding toward that reckoning…

His breath is hot and sour against my neck, his body pinning me to the bed. The room is dark, lit only by the flickering glow of the television in the corner. A rerun of some drippy family sitcom played, the forced laughter cutting through the thick air like a taunt.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, his voice low and venomous. “You’ll always be mine. God made you for me, Lydia. You’re so tight. This cunt of yours is mine. Do you understand, sweetheart? I wasted too many years allowing all those other men to touch what’s mine. Why did I see my vision so incorrectly? How could God trick me the way he did? I’ve been such a loyal soldier.” He groans again against my stiff body.

I want to scream, to claw my way out from under him, but my body betrays me, frozen in fear. He runs his tongue along the side of my face, licking the tears. He presses his lips to my ear, his voice growing softer, more insidious.

“You’ll replace her,” he whispers again, his tone dripping with venom and feverish conviction. His hand clamps harder on my chin, angling my face toward his. His pupils dilate, gleaming with something sick and unnatural. “You don’t see it yet, Lydia, but the Lord’s seed takes time to flourish. It needs to be planted in soil cleansed of sin, tended with patience, nourished by faith. That’s what you’ll be, a vessel for the Lord’s seed. My seed. Together, we’ll grow something pure, something holy. A son”—his voice trembles slightly, as if overcome by the thought— “who will walk in righteousness, carrying the work of God into generations.”

He releases my chin to brush his fingertips over my cheek, his touch gentle, almost reverent, a mockery of tenderness. “Do you understand what this means? You’re chosen, Lydia. Anointed by His will. And me…” his lips curl into a grotesque imitation of a smile, “I’ve been His soldier, His shepherd, fulfilling the plan all along. The church was just a steppingstone. You’re the real ministry.”

My stomach twists as he lowers his voice further, an intimate murmur meant to burrow deep into my core. “We’ll raise him right. Not like the wayward sinners in this town who’ve abandoned His word. He’ll be disciplined, strong, obedient to the Lord. He’ll never waver, never stray like your mother did, like… like you’ve been tempted to do.” His hand moves to grip my shoulder, fingers digging painfully into my flesh, and I shudder. “It’s my job to guide you back, Lydia. To break you open and remake you as He intends.”

He leans in, his breath hot against my ear, thick with rot. “Don’t you see?” he whispers, voice soft like a prayer, but soaked in poison. “This is His mercy. This is how you’ll be cleansed.”

The words hit me like acid. My stomach churns, bile rising sharp and bitter at the back of my throat. His child. The idea is a black void, bottomless, choking, a terror I can’t even wrap my mind around. The thought of carrying his blood, his twisted legacy, into the world makes something deep inside me twist, recoil, burn.

“You know why it hasn’t happened yet, don’t you?” His fingers tighten, digging hard into my skin, leaving crescent moons I can already feel bruising under the surface. His words come in a steady rhythm, matching the sick pulse of the moment, a practiced sermon, one he’s delivered in a hundred ways, in a hundred rooms, to people too broken or too blind to fight back.

“It’s not me, Lydia,” he breathes, his voice dipping lower, hungry, triumphant. “It’s the devil still clinging to you. Tainting the vessel God made for me. But the Lord’s work takes patience.” He presses closer, his smile wide enough that I can feel it against my cheek. “Cleansing takes time.”

He groans, his head tilting back in mock reverence. “You’re my reward,” he whispers, his breath hot and sickly against my ear. “All these years of spreading His word, of saving others in His name, it was all leading to you. Your body, Lydia… It’s mine to worship, to sanctify. God knows this, and so do you.”

His grip tightens, and his delusion bears down on me. “Once you’re ripe with His seed, our child, I’ll go easy on you. I’ll spare you from the others. You’ll be a mother, Lydia. A holy vessel. But not yet. Not yet.” His voice trembles, not with uncertainty but with anticipation. “The Lord hasn’t told me to stop. There’s still work to be done. You’re not ready. And until you are, I’ll teach you to accept His will through me.”

The bile rises in my throat, sharp and acidic, a bitter affirmation of my disgust. My body may have betrayed me, motionless under his weight, but my mind is still mine, my hatred a smoldering fire he can’t touch. This is his God’s will? This is his righteousness. To take and take until there’s nothing left but ruin?

As his words grow more fevered, I picture the faces of the men of the Covenant, the deacons, the parishioners, the brothers who had taken an oath I was never given the chance to refuse, who stood by as he handed me over to their hungry hands in the name of “God’s plan.” It wasn’t just him. It was never just him.

Something inside me snaps.

He may think I’m his, that I’m bound to him by faith, by blood, by his twisted interpretation of divine will. But he’s wrong. So very wrong. Let him believe his God rewards this filth. Let him believe this is holy. By the time I’m finished, he’ll know just how wrong he’s been.

I push myself up slightly, just enough to meet his hovering face. His breath is sour as it brushes against my skin. My voice comes out soft, trembling, the perfect mixture of fear and reverence, exactly what he wants.

“Cleanse me, Father,” I whisper, my lips quivering as I speak the words, I know he’s craved for years. “Make me whole in the eyes of the Lord. I am yours, only yours.”

His eyes widen, glistening with triumph. The corners of his mouth curl into a grotesque smile, and he strokes my hair with unsteady hands. “Yes,” he murmurs, the word thick with exhilaration. “Yes, my precious lamb. You see now, don’t you? I am your salvation. Your guide to His divine plan.”

I swallow the bile rising in my throat and force my trembling hand to touch his cheek, an intimate gesture I know will break whatever restraint he has left. “You are my god,” I whisper, the words cutting through me like shards of glass. “My redeemer. Lead me, Father. Lead me to His glory.”

The pumping increases, his pace frantic now, his grip on me tightening as he moans his delusional ecstasy. His faith is his weakness, and I play the part flawlessly, twisting the blade of his beliefs as deeply as he’s twisted into me.

“You’ll bear my seed,” he groans, his voice cracking with lust. “Together, we’ll show the world the true meaning of His love.”

“Yes,” I whisper again, my voice trembling. My hand snakes toward the nightstand, fingers brushing against the cold brass of the candlestick. Its weight in my palm steadies me, grounding me in the storm of his depravity.