Page 13 of Drag You Down
The wall I’ve avoided looking at.
I stand and pull my shirt off. I hear Eve’s inhale, and the soft breaths of others in the room.
None of their backs are as scarred as mine. They take a lash or two every few months.
I take penance regularly.
I go to the center of the dirty white wall in front of me. I place my hands over a dark stain, one that’s familiar and matches the groove of my hand.
Just above eye-level is another dark, ruddy brown mark.
Copper.
I lick my lips and wait for the familiar sting, for the familiar pain.
Father Zachariah removes the thick whip from where it hangs on the side wall and strides over to me. He drapes the leather across my back, stroking over the scars I’ve accumulated over the years.
“Watch, my children, and remember this. Levi makes this sacrifice to protect all of you,” Father Zachariah says.
Is it really a sacrifice if I’ve drawn the Devil’s eye?
He takes several paces back, and my apprehension only grows as he puts more distance between us. As soon as he’s far enough away, he’ll begin.
I close my eyes instead of continuing to stare at the dark stain. I can still see it in my mind’s eye, though. Focusing on it is better than nothing at all, but when my mind goes blank and the pain suffuses my entire being, I know it will begood.
Maybe if I suffer enough, the Devil will stop stalking me. The first lash falls between my shoulder blades. It isn’t a particularly hard strike, but it still draws a sharp hiss from my lungs. The pain quickly transforms into somethingother, something that fills me with yearning and shame alike.
Father Zachariah always ramps it up by subtle degrees, drawing out the whipping to make sure the lesson is learned and imprinted into my skin.
As it gets progressively harder, I sink into a place inside of me where the pain becomes penance, where I know that the absolution for my sins is within reach. It’ll take more, I know, but I need it.
My rebellious flesh grows hard under the onslaught, but I keep perfectly still, not flinching away from the lashes, not grinding against the wall like my sinful body wants me to.
I cry out the first time the whip cuts my skin, my body shuddering. It gets more difficult to remain still as he speeds up and I have less time to relax before the next strike lands—and as the pleasure builds, aching for something forbidden.
The slow trickle of blood down my back is a familiar feeling, and as it seeps out of me, so too does my sin.
There is nothing but this pain, this euphoria.
This is supposed to be penance, yet I chase it,wantit.
Cleanse me.
Make mefeel.
I stifle a moan as the lash hits me once more. I attempt to turn my thoughts to God, but instead of the beautiful, shining light, I see dark brown eyes and a lurid smile.
I see the Devil, smirking at me.
Little lamb.
I gasp and squeeze my eyes shut, arching my back for the next lash so I can drive these thoughts away.
It’s harder than the rest, cutting more deeply into my skin. I never count. Father Zachariah doesn’t like it when we count, preferring instead for us to put our faith in him to determine how many strikes are needed to absolve us of our offenses.
I expect another, but it doesn’t come.
My heartbeat thuds in my ears, then I feel Father Zachariah’s hand directly on my back, over the cuts.
