Page 74 of Drag You Down
An angel I ran away from instead of allowing to help me.
“You will pray where I tell you to pray,” Father Zachariah says sharply. “This back talk is exactly why you need to spend time alone with your prayers.”
“I need my copy of the Bible. I need to reread the verses,” I say, my voice wobbling. If I get to read, I can have the light. It might be sparse — flickering and threatening to die at any moment — but it would be something.
I need it.
Father Zachariah’s expression remains stern. “We’ll see.” He waits, staring, and I know what he wants me to do.
I clench my fists, and after another breath, I start down the stairs.
Down to the main floor, and I glance around helplessly, hoping for somebody to save me. But there’s nobody. None of the others even crack open their doors when we pass.
I stop short of the basement door.
My heartbeat thunders in my ears, coming so very quickly, as I try to calm myself down. It’s only a basement. There’s nothing down there.
Nothing but darkness, nothing but silence, nothing but my own personal gateway to Hell.
I try to choke out another plea, but the words die in my throat as terror grips it and holds it tight. I can’t go down there.
I can’t.
Father Zachariah pushes the door open. “Go down, Levi,” he orders sharply.
I whimper and shake my head, but that’s a mistake.
Father Zachariah growls and grabs my arm, and he pulls me down the stairs with him. I almost trip, and a laugh bubbles up.
How ironic it would be if we both fell into Hell together.
When we reach the bottom, Father Zachariah pushes me toward the lone chair lying on its side by the boiler.
The lightbulb flickers above us, reminding me of how it had gone out two days ago. The long shadow of the chair stretches out, its spindly arms reaching into the depths of the darkness.
“Right the chair and kneel against it,” Father Zachariah orders.
With hands that won’t stop shaking, I pick the chair up, steadying it.
I slowly get to my knees in front of it, facing it, and I croak out, “My Bible? Please?”
I need the comfort of the familiar pages, the familiar verses. I need to remind myself of the benevolent as well as the opposite.
I need a reprieve from the fear.
“I’ll send somebody to bring it later.” Father Zachariah waits until I’m in position.
I watch as he takes my wrist and snaps a metal cuff around it, the kind police use on criminals. I flinch as it clicks into place,staring down at the cool metal in a daze. He snaps the other side around the wooden bar of the back of the chair.
When he reaches for my other hand, I pull it away automatically.
“Levi!” Father Zachariah barks. “Hand into position.”
“Father Zachariah,” I plead, “I don’t need the… the cuffs.”
“Considering you ran off? Yes, you do,” Father Zachariah says. “You will stay here and pray, and remember that the only voice you need to listen to is mine.”
I want to protest that I do listen to him — that that’s part of the problem — but he’s not listening tome.
