Fear the Wicked (Illusions Series Book 2)(30)

Why?

It was the same damn question on an endless loop, the one now screaming in my head as I lifted the metal box, brushed the errant dirt from the top and sat back to place it in my lap.

The ice cold temperature of the metal seeped down into my jeans, an icy finger reaching down through my skin to trace the veins of regret and fear, anger and remorse, the memory of lashing and violations that scarred me. Phantom screams erupted inside my head, my brother's young voice only quieted by my own, and as my fingers traced the latch holding the lid of that box closed, one more voice lifted up to remind me that my father's abuse hadn't been the only scorn we'd suffered.



"Maybe if you two didn't break the rules, he wouldn't have to punish you."

"Shush, Jacob. Don't speak of it in public. You'll only destroy the family."

"It helps if you walk away and don't listen. He'll eventually stop and all will be silent again."



I wasn't sure what was worse: my father's abuse or my mother's complacent acceptance. While he beat us down with fists and belts, she kept us silent while painting a picture of the perfect, Catholic family. My father's abuse had been performed in anger, but what was her excuse? Fear? Or was it something else?

My mother, Christy Samantha Hayle, had been a beauty queen when my father met her. According to the stories, at least. She had long brown hair and green eyes that sparkled in the sunlight. I remembered loving her as a child, gravitating to her before the darkness crept in to shadow her gaze. From birth until age five or six, my family had been absolutely normal. Yes, my father had still been a self-proclaimed Saint, a man who believed he wielded the might of God in his hand, but he hadn't been abusive. It wasn't until Jericho and I had been caught with that book that the abuse started.



"Do you look at your mother that way, boy? With lustful eyes? The devil has gotten inside you. He's filling you full of his evil."



Thinking back now as the memories flooded me, it was odd he'd dragged my mother into that accusation. We were just small boys, just innocent youth, but he'd immediately assaulted us with disgust. My mother. Why would a young boy ever look at his mother in that way? And why had my father assumed we had? In truth, all I knew about my cock at that time was that it was useful for pissing while standing up. It wasn't until he'd made such a big deal of it that I'd become curious as to its other uses.

Perhaps our curiosity had scared him. Our interest in the female body leading him to believe we'd been touched by some sinful thing. Whatever it was had shattered the happy illusions of a close-knit family, had crushed the belief that his undying faith could protect his sons from real life.

I never saw my father hit my mother, never saw him threaten her or make her fear for her life. But I clearly remember the wineglass in her hand that, through the years, transitioned into a tumbler, a pint glass, a bottle. I'd grown to hate her more than my father's angry fists just because she sat back and silently allowed it. Every time my brother cried out in pain, it wasn't my father I'd wanted to punish...it was her.

As it turned out, it wasn't necessary for me to strike out at her, she'd taken care of that all on her own with the amount of alcohol she drank. It sapped the life out of her as the years churned on, destroying her on the outside as well as within.

My mother wasn't a beauty queen any longer by the time I left home. She was a shadow of the woman she’d once been, a victim of my father's torment even if he'd never laid a hand on her.

Staring down at the box, I flipped the latch and opened the top.

What I thought would be a simple handwritten confession turned out to be so much more.





ELIJAH


The family slowly shuffled out of the sanctuary, single woman going through one door toward the women's dorm, single males through another. Married couples were allowed to go back to their rooms together, because it wasn't a sin for them to sleep together.

I didn't have to direct them where to go, they knew the routine, so I took the opportunity to train my gaze on the solitary person still sitting in his seat struggling to understand why I'd brought him here in the first place.

Slowly meandering down the aisle, I inclined my head toward those people who complimented the sermon, smiled when appropriate and carried myself in such a way that nobody would notice my level of excitement. Reaching Gentry's chair, I hovered for a bit before finally training my gaze on him.

"Did you like the sermon tonight? I'll admit it was somewhat tame compared to the normal family meetings." My smile didn't reach my eyes, but it didn't much matter. There was no telling what my features looked like to a man whose pupils were twice their normal size and whose pulse was visible beneath his skin. I watched that flutter of blood flow on his throat and knew he was feeling just fine.

His fingers drummed over his thigh, his expression somewhat strained yet contemplative. "I heard the same thing at the parish, I'm not sure how any of this will help me in my situation. You promised results, Father Hayle. How will you get them by just talking?"

I hadn't promised anything during our conversation earlier that day, but I didn't feel the need to correct him.

"I haven't finished showing you what I have here. A lot of it you'll need to see during the day. You are still interested in the gardens, correct?"