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His eyes flash with the power he has over me and the snarl on his face tells me I’m in trouble and, as he pulls down sharply, he growls, “Your hair will be the first thing to go. To drive the demon out, you need to be stripped back. A shaven head offers no vanity. A simple cotton tunic offers no attraction and a face devoid of paint gives the devil nothing to hide behind.”
He pulls me roughly to my feet and I feel his breath against my face as he hisses, “I will break you, girl, and let those demons out. Only then will I rebuild you into the wife I deserve. To serve me, to be at my command and to satisfy my physical needs. You will have no voice, no control, and no life without me by your side and your bastard will be brought up to respect the lord and be obedient in our ways. The sins of the mother will not be bestowed on the child and so any claim you have has ended today. You are not fit to be a mother because you are an evil, filthy whore.”
Once again, he strikes me hard three times around the face and as the blood from my nose splashes on the ground, it’s quickly joined by my tears.
He steps away and rings a bell and almost immediately the door opens, and he says in a cold voice. “Show the whore to her room and lock her in.”
Somehow, I find the strength to follow the silent woman dressed in black and sin, and she leads me up a wooden staircase to a room at the end of a bare hallway.
As she opens the door, silently and with a sneer on her lips, she slams it shut behind me and, as the key turns in the lock, I stare at my prison with a growing sense of desperation.
He wasn’t kidding, this room is a prison because inside these four walls is nothing but walls, a mattress and a wooden table and chair and there on the center of the table is the biggest bible I have ever seen with one stark lightbulb hanging above it. A bucket in the corner is my only means of relieving myself and I have seven days to do the impossible.
CHAPTER8
JONNY
One hour later, I have everything I need. The key to the cabin along with the directions.
I will be eternally grateful to Mr. Gaston because he has stepped out of his comfort zone to help a renegade and his real fear for Faith has hardened my resolve.
I head to my bike, ignoring the curious glances of the passers-by, intent on heading to Faith’s parents’ house and demanding to see her.
I know it won’t go down well, but my rage knows no reasoning and yet as I reach my girl, I notice a white piece of paper tucked in the seat.
I waste no time in grabbing it and am intrigued by the words on the page.
Meet me at the Henderson barn
As I sit astride my bike, I wonder who could have sent the note. One of my parents, perhaps. Doubtful.
Definitely not the two people inside the store, so either someone has seen me, or word spreads fast around here.
My curiosity wins as always and I steer the bike toward the meeting place, hoping like crazy that it’s Faith and I can tuck her behind me on the Harley and get the hell out of Heaven.
My hometown exists as the land that time forgot. Nobody comes here unless they have a connection to the town and visitors are as scarce as any humanity in this place. As a child, this is your world. There is nothing else and there isn’t anyone around to tell you differently. No television, no radio, and no contact with the outside world. There were hushed words on the street about a different world far away, but nobody ever believed it. It was just a dream. The devil’s work some said, but I was curious. That curiosity manifested itself into an idea that grew by the day, and as soon as I was old enough, I made my escape. One of the delivery trucks that rolled into town was the perfect wagon to carry me away. Not that the driver was aware of anything as I stowed away in his vehicle without his knowledge. It was a long trip, and I only had the water I brought with me and a small amount of food that I stole from our kitchen.
I had very little, and it angered me when I reached my destination and saw exactly what they had been hiding from us. Civilization.
I stepped from that truck into a world I never even knew existed. It blinded me. The world was amazing, beautiful, and extreme.
As I walked the streets, I stared in awe at the colorful shop windows, dodged the intense traffic and marveled at the houses that were far better than anything I had ever seen.
I was naive and trusting and learned the rules the hard way.
The first sign I saw advertising a job, I stepped inside to apply. I had no social security number and no fixed address. I was nobody.
I felt like a fool.
I lived rough on the streets and opened my ears. Learning everything I could about this strange new world, and soon found myself on the doorstep of the military recruitment center where I found the place I belonged.
They arranged everything. My life became theirs as they made a citizen of me, and I was grateful for the opportunity. I learned my lessons well and bonded with my platoon and soon I was untouchable. My skill, as it happens, is killing. Fighting and strategic planning. I became good at what I did, and I was soon educated in more than war. The women who flocked around us when we hit the town were an education of the sweetest kind. I discovered a love of soft flesh and willing lips, stolen kisses, and gentle touches. I thought I had died and gone to my own version of heaven on earth, which revealed that my own town was built on a lie. Heaven isn’t a place on earth and definitely not the one I came from. It’s a different thing entirely.
I grew up in Heaven and became a man in the military, and I suppose I would still be there now if I hadn’t gone home for a visit where my life took a new direction. I met Faith, which changed everything, but now as I approach the Henderson barn; I wonder if it had all been for nothing.
I park my bike some distance away and make the rest of the journey on foot. Surveillance was always one of my sharpened skills and so I take the route in through the forest that offers cover. I am silent, deadly and any compassion was left on the war-torn fields of distant lands and as I head closer, even the birds don’t register my arrival.
The Henderson barn is a dilapidated structure that was left to nature when its owner died a horrific death farming one day. Amos Henderson was a recluse which killed him in the end. He trapped his foot in the plow and was dragged around his own fields until he was no longer living. The jackals found him before help and there were no friends or family to mourn his passing or inherit his farm. It became an open grave for the poor man who loved it and, as I approach, the creak from the open door is the only sound as it swings in the slight breeze.
