Page 90 of Pray for Scars
My brother.
Not my brother.
Jeremiah.
“Sid,” he croaks out, his voice hoarse.
I don’t know what time it is. I don’t know what day it is. We get fed two meals a day, consisting of hard bread, red wine. Communion.
We get taken to relieve ourselves three times a day. I haven’t been able to figure out the time from the irregular intervals in which the armed guards come to escort us to the bathrooms through a dark hallway in this basement.
“Jeremiah?” I respond, but my throat is so dry, I don’t know if he’s heard me. If the word even came out at all. I feel a little delirious, but I’m aware of where I am. I’m aware that Jeremiah is in chains in his cell, but I’m not.
I’m given that smallfreedom.
I’m aware of who put me in here. Who put us both in here.
I’ve seen him, waiting in the shadows, arms crossed as his blue eyes stare at me without a word. I’ve screamed at him, pled with him. Asked him to put me out of my fucking misery.
He never says a word.
“I love you.”
I close my eyes, press the heel of my hands against them, hard. I know why Jeremiah has been saying it so often. Why he’s told me every day. Every day? Every few hours? I don’t know time anymore.
But I still know why he says it. Because we’re going to die in this church.
All because I let Lucifer fuck me in a club. Because I trusted him, even when I knew I shouldn’t. Some small part of me held on to that hope. His words, of beinghis.
“I love you, too,” I whisper to my brother.
He doesn’t speak again after that.
* * *
I’m awokenfrom a dreamless sleep by the flood of bright lights behind my eyelids, so bright, for a minute, I can’t open my eyes.
I cover them with my hands, peeking through my fingers, brows pulled together as I try to understand what I’m seeing.
A man, tall and lean, dressed in a black suit, walks down the narrow walkway between my cell and Jeremiah’s. I can’t take my eyes off of him as he approaches, even though I see Jeremiah’s cell is empty.
Empty, save for a red, sticky puddle.
My heart drops into my stomach and I swallow, bringing my hands down from my face. But I don’t look at the blood. I keep my eyes on the man.
He crosses his arms, and I see a silver snake ring on his finger, curved into a 6. He dips his chin, surveying me with eyes that are mirror images of Lucifer’s.
Lazar Malikov.
His lips tug into a smile. He’s probably in his late forties, but he’s just as handsome as his son. As handsome, and probably as cruel. There’s no warmth in that smile.
“Sid Rain,” he whispers to me softly. He sighs. “It seems my son decided to skip your sacrifice.” He rolls his eyes, lashes fluttering as hetskssoftly. “Unsurprising, really.” He squats down, so we’re nearly eye level as he gazes at me through the bars. “But I’m sure you know that by now?” He cocks his head, and it reminds me so much of Lucifer, I dig my nails into my palms, hard enough to draw blood. “That counting on my son for anything will only end in disappointment.”
He regards me for a minute, eyes trailing over my body, the loose grey shirt I’m wearing, baggy sweats.
“Underneath all those clothes, you’re probably as firm as you were when I first pulled you back here,” he remarks, his voice distant, as if he’s talking to himself. “Maybe I could…” He trails off, then his eyes snap back up to mine. He smiles again, shakes his head. “No. That won’t do. You have a big fucking mouth, Sid Rain.”
Then he stands to his feet, turns away without another word.
