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The polished mahogany desk, the one he sits behind everyday, a symbol of authority, bears the weight of a man who wears his righteousness like a mask. My father, the preacher, a figure revered by the congregation, the monster behind closed doors.
There’s paper covering nearly every inch of the wood. It’s a mess. It wasn’t before I got here, but now it is because I couldn’t stop wondering if he’d fucked her here yet.
Every drawer was organized, every corner perfected. Now it’s as chaotic as my thoughts and the drawers are as empty as the organ barely beating in my chest.
I left her.
I couldn’t stay.
Not when she tasted so good, felt so right.
Not when she’s not mine.
Burn it down.
I ripped apart his Bible. Thought about burning it, but then I got distracted by the words he jotted down on scraps of paper and jammed between the holy pages like the dirty secrets they are.
I pick up a page, my eyes scanning the familiar scrawl and my brows furrow.
For the lips of a forbidden woman drip honey, and her words are smoother than oil.
“Proverbs 5:3. How fitting,” I mutter, palming my lighter, as I move to the next sheet.
Flick.
Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.
My lips wrap around the words, the verses coming back to me as though it was just yesterday I was forced to memorize them. Repeat them. Again and again.
“Matthew 6:13.” The next. “1 Corinthians 6:11.” Another. “Romans 4:25.” The sheets drop and with every one, the temptation to destroy it all grows. “Luke 11:49.”
Burn it down.
I drop my lighter and it clatters to the heavy wooden desk, the black leather wrapped Zippo tainting the otherwise white surface. A single sheet of paper falls to the floor, catching air on its way and pulling my attention with it.
My head cocks to the side slowly and I blink, some of the previous numbness washing away. The curtains are thin cloths with frayed edges. They go from floor to ceiling, only feet away from the worn floorboards and nearly rotting rafters.
It would be so fucking easy.
Would the curtains light quickly? Would the flames slowly build in intensity, creeping inch by inch until suddenly, the air would shift, the fibers would catch and then the entire thing would ignite?
It would be so beautiful.
Flick.
As I run my fingers over the worn armrest of his leather chair, I can almost hear his thundering voice echoing through the hallowed halls. The verses he preaches, the warnings against deceit and cruelty, ring hollow in my ears, even as pain builds slowly in my chest.
Isaac is the very embodiment of the false prophet he so eagerly condemns.
The memories surge forth, unwanted and relentless. The sharp sting of his backhand, the cruel words that cut deeper than any physical blow, the nights I spent cowering in my room, praying for deliverance from the man who should have been my protector.
Burn it down.
I shove up to my feet, letting the rolling leatherback chair slide across the floor, banging into his bookshelf. I follow the chair and kick it out of my way, watching it fall to its back with a thud that feels utterly anticlimactic.
With a huff, I turn to the books and graze my handwork with my fingernail. The shelves are laden with leather-bound Bibles and theological memoirs that are now turned backward, their spines hidden, their pages on display so he can’t find what he needs.
How many times had he thumped these sacred texts, preaching to the congregation to live in accordance with their teachings? How many times has he convoluted those words to serve his own twisted desires? How many times has he used them on me? On my mother or Jane?
