“Is that what you heard me say?” I challenge quietly.
Daddy said that I’m to gather all of the girls tonight and bring them to him for his nightly ritual. Where he feeds them God’s nectar. I said no and called him unholy.
His face grows red, and his nearly black eyes bulge from his head. He’s an ugly man. Thinning brown hair that
shows his scalp in several areas. A squared jaw and a hooked nose. He’s Romanian, and still speaks with an accent. He uses his accent like a weapon, along with his charm and charisma. That’s how he gets all of his followers. That’s how he brainwashes them.
“Put your hand on the table.”
“No,” I whisper.
He laughs. It’s an evil laugh that shows me his patience is wearing thin.
“If you don’t, I will punish your mother. She’s not doing a particularly good job of raising you.”
My mask cracks for just a moment. My lip trembles from the threat, and I have to bite it sharply to stop the tremors. He caught it, though. Daddy knows she’s my weakness. He knows how much I love her.
Slowly, I rest my hand on the table, keeping it far away from him.
“Bring it here.”
I grit my teeth as tears burn my eyes. I won’t let them escape—that would only spur him on.
“Did the Lord say that I need to be punished?” I ask, stalling.
“Yes, he did, Sibel. He sees everything you do. All the naughty things you do when you don’t think I can see you. And how you continue to disrespect God’s only disciple. How do you think that makes Him feel?”
I don’t answer. If I tell Daddy that I don’t believe God speaks to him, he will kill me. That is the foundation the Saintly Baptist Church is made on. God speaks to Daddy, and he relays His message to his faithful believers. They worship Daddy, they don’t worship God.
For whatever reason, they believe his lies. Even though I’ve only ever seen Daddy do evil things. Unholy things.
“Bring your hand here, Sibel,” he orders again when I don’t answer.
I take a deep breath and slam my hand on the table in front of him, defiance set in my jawline. He stares at me, not making a move for a solid thirty seconds. And then as quick as a whip, he raises his fork and stabs into the top of my hand.
A yelp escapes, and I squeeze my eyes shut against the pain.
“Jesus had his hands nailed to the cross. I’m only showing you a morsel of the pain he felt when he died on the cross, for people like you. For your sins. You spit in his face every time you disobey me and the word of God. Remember that, Sibel.”
He retracts the fork, and blood spurts from the four tiny wounds in my hand. If he didn’t completely fuck up my hand for life, it will leave a barely noticeable scar. Funny how something so painful will heal and disappear like it didn’t nearly bring me to my knees.
That’s what God wants, doesn’t He? Me on my knees, praying for strength and perseverance.
I shake like a leaf, trying to hold in my tears. I want to run to my room and cry. Curl up in a ball and try to breathe through the pain.
But Daddy would never let me run and hide. He’d rather I be forced to show weakness in front of my siblings. He’d rather I embarrass myself.
My wet glare meets all the dim eyes staring at me. None of them make a move to help me. Defend me. Soothe me. They just stare on like lifeless zombies, desensitized to the punishments Daddy’s constantly doling out to me. They’re used to my defiance. And they’re used to leaving me to stand alone.
I meet Daddy’s glare, his lip curling. I didn’t give a big enough reaction. I’m not hurting enough for his satisfaction. And that makes the bleeding wounds in my hand feel a little bit less painful, and a little bit more like consummation.
So, I take another deep breath, pick up my spoon with my left hand and scoop a mouthful of mashed potatoes in my mouth.
He stares at me, his face smoothing into impassivity. But I see the glimmer in his eye. The evil thoughts he’s having of murdering me in cold blood.
He’s not God’s disciple. He’s Lucifer’s little bitch.
***