Page 45 of Written in Sin
“‘If thy right hand offends thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee… But you, you have offended far more than your hand, haven’t you? You have allowed rot to take hold in the temple of your flesh, and now it must be purged. As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten…’” I tighten my grip on the horn and pause to finish his speech from that night. “‘You should be grateful, little lamb. This suffering is mercy. Now, let us begin.’” I don’t pay attention to my aim, this is going to hurt regardless of if Iforce it into his ass or just impale him in that area. I put as much force as I can into the first stab, forcing it through his body’s tight resistance. I drive the ram’s horn down with all the strength I have, plunging it deeper this time.
The sound that rips from his throat sounds ungodly. Surely this is what they meant when they said the wailing and gnashing of teeth.
“This—” I yank the horn free and slam it back in.
“Is—” Again. Less resistance this time.
“For—”
“Lucy.”
The sickening odor from the blood and shit seeps into the air. The stench is almost unbearable, thick enough to choke on it, and I do. I arch forward and vomit, heaving until I’m empty. I stumble back, tossing the horn aside to wipe my mouth with the least bloodstained part of my sleeve. I’m covered in filth, muted browns and deep, wet reds. His eyes aren’t open, his body is slumped over jerking every few seconds, but I’m not done. A strange sense of peace washes over me. This is it.
I crouch beside him, pulling his head up by his hair and leaning him against the sofa. I know the pressure in his bottom will send fire through every nerve in his body. I slap his cheek. “Wake up, Fenris. I need you to see this,” I taunt. His eyelids flutter and he blinks, fading in and out of consciousness. I take my time picking up the horn. “This is for Cat.” His mouth barely opens and I pull out what fabric I can before forcing it wider. My grip is tangled in his hair, and I begin to stab. Over and over. Face, throat, eyes. I keep going until I hear the crunch of something breaking beyond repair. Bones, cartilage, muscle. The holy trinity. I watch as his corpse slumps, sliding down to the floor. What’s left of his head is tilted against the couch. I drop the horn.
Killing the devil was easier than I thought. But now I have to live with what he took from her and the wreckage that’s left behind. That’s the part that will never die.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Zedediah
Isit on the edge of my bed, unsure of when or how I made it back to my room. The fabric of my clothes, saturated with Fenris’ blood, clings to me. I played video after video showing his vile transgressions. But after watching the second most recent video, the one that showed Melinda restrained to the same table Lucy spent her last moments strapped to, I couldn’t stomach anymore and had to pull away.
Once I found Melinda and buried her body in the graveyard, the sun was just beginning to peek through the trees.
I’ve been sitting here staring at the floor for hours. Fenris didn’t only play god, he needed proof of his power. Like if he captured it on tape, it made it all real. There were hidden cameras nestled in every corner of the property, labeled as sermons.
I thought I knew what he was, but I couldn’t have imagined the depravity that was in his bones.
So many buried questions were answered. But for every question his videos answered, two more took their place. I think back to Lucy and Jonah. Fenris wasn’t punishing me for my slipup. He was punishing Jonah. He wanted him to suffer, to break. He did the one thing that would do just that.
Why didn’t Jonah say anything about his plans? I could’ve helped. I would have.
I tuck the USB I downloaded the information to in my pocket and think of the faces I haven’t seen in years. The people we were made to believe had run from the fellowship, but hadn’t.
In many videos, I saw my own, much younger, face. I don’t remember them but there I was, doing exactly what he told me to. The death this place has witnessed in the last forty-eight hours is its own cross to bear. I feel like a man who has woken up in hell, realizing he helped build it. But I didn’t. I was bred into it. Finally letting my exhausted body give up, I pull my knees to my chest and tell myself over and over it’s not real. It’s not real. And then I cry until everything goes quiet.
I decide it’s time and push myself off my bed, not bothering to brush the dirt off that I’ve been laying in. I grab my duffel bag, tossing it on the bed.
Going into the bathroom, I retrieve my hidden stash of cash. It’s wrapped in a plastic bag and hidden in the toilet tank. I walk back over and start tossing things in. A few clothes, the bag with the cash, and Cat’s necklace. She must’ve dropped it when she was fighting Fenris. My hand lingers over the gun for a second before shoving it into my bag. I zip it up before tossing it over my shoulder.
She can run as far as she wants, but she’ll never run far enough for me to let her go.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Catarina
The cold checkered tile sends a shiver through my body as my bare feet leave the carpet stepping into the bathroom. I look down at the blood still caked under my nails and dried in the creases of my palms. The water drips down my forearms as I splash water on my face. The smell of the iron being washed away causes my stomach to churn and the taste of metal coats my tongue. My fingers shake as I grip the sink, staring at my reflection. The person in the mirror doesn’t seem real but she is. She’s me. I stare at my eyes unable to shake this feeling. The one where I’m waiting for something bad to happen, waiting for a reason to run again.
A knock sounds at the door, cutting through the quiet of the room. “Catarina?” It’s Nathaniel. I guess he read whatever message Harold sent him again and realized there’s an additional A in my name.
“You can come in,” I say.
He stands in the doorway holding a tray and walks in to set it down with a soft click. “I brought you something.” A glass of orange juice, a few pieces of toast, a couple eggs. I should bestarving, I can’t remember which meal was my last. Yesterday feels so far away. I walk over, pulling out a chair tucked beneath the basic white table in the corner. He waits for me to sit before he pulls out the chair beside me, sliding it away to give me enough distance before casually plopping down. “So, we have a connection with someone who has a few long term rentals,” he continues, pulling a small folder from his bag and sliding it across the table to me.
I don’t move immediately, my eyes just follow the folder as it’s pushed in front of me. He’s not rushing, he’s giving me space to process it, and for that, I’m thankful.
“There’s only a couple of options, but scan through those and let me know which you’d like to look at.” He pauses for a moment before continuing. “We’ve got you set up with a cell phone. There’s also been a bank account opened in your name. Everything’s ready. It’s not much, but it’s a start.”
