Fear the Wicked (Illusions Series Book 2)(24)
Turning I saw that Richard had already left the man to approach his lovely daughter. A single brow arched over my eye before I returned my gaze to the man. "I'm not touching her, but I never said anything about Richard."
Slamming the door shut, I returned to Eve, finding her exactly as I'd left her. I only had time to free her of her chains and turn in the direction of the compound before two voices could be heard screaming from inside the cabin: the high pitched scream of a very frightened girl, and the low baritone bellow of her raging father.
Eve, lost in her delusional state, didn't appear to notice. I'd be lying to say I didn't regret having to leave.
However, responsibility called and I had a parishioner to meet. I would arrive with just enough time to greet him before delivering my sermon.
JACOB
Whatever it was I expected from pushing the old door open, it wasn't what I found. The stark difference between what I imagined and what reality set before me pulled the breath from my lungs on a big rush of air that neither disturbed nor altered the interior of a house I hadn't stepped in for years.
The hinges didn't groan for the door to swing inwards, a gust of musty air didn't billow out until I was caught within its embrace. The smell of mold or mildew didn't attack my senses, and dust didn't dance beneath the overhead lights when my hand found the switch just inside the door.
Nothing had changed and yet everything was different, simply because I was the only breathing body walking into the foyer.
“Dammit, boy, can't you move faster? These groceries aren't light!”
“Be quiet, Jacob, and listen to your father. He knows what's best for you.”
“Why is he always so mad at us, Jacob? We didn't do anything wrong.”
Three distinct voices, one loud and low, one high and soft, one so small and scared that it frightened me when he whispered. They'd always followed me inside these walls, but now, they were silent.
Nothing had changed and yet everything was different.
The overhead lighting still shone off the polished brass handles of the stately stained oak tables within the large foyer. The black tile with metallic silver striations still gleamed as if hand cleaned by Jericho and me following punishment. On hands and knees, we’d scrubbed until our faces could be easily seen within the stone, our reflections showing us each light bruise forming from where our father had inflicted his reprimand.
The silk flower arrangements my mother had constructed as a means to escape the sounds of crying children were still set neatly within their intricate glass vases, no dust marring the petals or leaves to show they hadn't been handled since her death.
Across the foyer, the staircase rose in a lazy curve to the second floor, the balustrade oiled to a gleaming shine. There were no scuff marks or indentations, no holes in the walls or peeling paint. There was nothing to tell the tale of what madness existed inside this house when I was just a child.
A lie, this house and all its glory was just one giant fabrication, and the twin boys trapped inside had been the only souls to realize it.
Turning to my left as I stepped inside, I saw the formal sitting room my mother had forbidden us to use. The white carpets were pristine, the white couches with nailhead details appeared brand new. The wood tables were unmarked with scratches or water rings, and the crystal coasters sat perfectly stacked in the small brass racks that held them. Never did I step foot inside that room, not even on the day I left home at eighteen. It was my mother's space, her lie hiding the truth that the perfect home she'd put together was nothing more than a farce.
To my right, a doorway opened into the custom kitchen with gleaming chrome and solid oak cabinets. The countertops and appliances were dated from the passage of time, but still you could see the expense in the design. I could smell the savory roasts my mother would cook for Sunday dinner, the same scent that wafted beneath my nose as my father marched me down the basement steps to inflict another punishment.
Another few steps had me inside the hallways leading to the back family room. On my left hung a large, ornate wooden cross, the dark stain contrasting sharply against the brass detail running the edges and gemstones embedded at all four points. In the center was the crucified Christ, his eternal suffering only made worse by our sins.
“Each time you act out, boy, it's another whiplash on Jesus.”
My father's belt would come down on me then, giving me strike for strike of what my Savior had suffered as a result of me. I was never one to enjoy the lashings, but I'm convinced my father did. I used to stare at the crucifix and see myself, used to imagine my father dressed in Roman clothes laughing as he beat me thoroughly. Where Christ was made to bear the weight of his cross as he walked to where he'd be erected, I’d crawled along beside him bearing the weight myself, not physically but emotionally.
It took me years to understand that my actions weren't what killed the Savior, that my failures weren't the spear piercing His side. If anything, it had been my father's willful abuse, and my mother's quiet compliance, that drove a man who had never sinned to His eternal cross.
Was I the evil one for childish antics? For disobeying? For having fun during the years where fun was nothing but innocent exploration? Or had my parents been the evil ones, abusing two boys who couldn't fight back, while they draped themselves in holy robes and promised it was better for us to be hurt by them rather than suffer damnation?