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“Who is Corbyn?”
All the smugness drains from his face turning it pale. His head lifts and his eyes widen.
“What do you know about that name? Get me out of here.” He fights against his restraints.
Funny, he wasn’t nearly as terrified of the Church as he was of this Corbyn guy. Yet, he knows the Church’s capabilities. This is the first time I’ve seen true fear in his eyes.
“Tell me about Corbyn,” I repeat.
Tim glares at me. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with. I’m not saying anything.”
I believed him. He was too scared of whoever this Corbyn guy was. True fear, the one that has this man nearly wetting his pants at just a name, will make you lock up like a vault. He’s willing to die before he betrays this Corbyn person.
I had one more question. I pick up the ring off the table. The moment he sees what I’m holding he panics.
“Give that back,” he shouts.
“What’s this symbol?” I turn the ring so that the emblem is facing him.
He turns his head refusing to look at the ring. I wait for his answer, but he doesn’t speak.
Letting out a deep breath, I drop the ring back on the table with a loud clank and then climb to my feet. I don’t believe he will say anything else, but when I’m done he will wish he had.
“Make him bleed,” Mother says in my head.
“As you wish, Mother.” I reply as I allow her to slip over me and fill my head.
I rip open the front of his shirt, causing buttons to fly everywhere. Grabbing the straight draw knife off the table, I place it at the top of his chest, with light pressure I drag the blade down. His screams rip through the room making my ears ring. I toss the large chunk of skin onto the floor and move on to the next.
By the time I placed Timothy Smith’s body into the incinerator, the only skin he had on his body was on his eye lids.
After cleaning the kill room and showering, I drop the car at the chop shop before heading home.
I used the word again. Home. Never in my life did I think that I would feel like any place was my home. Even when I stayed with Priest and my brothers, I never thought of the place as home. However, I’m finding that any place where Summer and Gabe are, is home.
I walk into the house at nearly five am. Summer is fast asleep on the couch. Her tea mug is on the coffee table and a bowl of popcorn is beside it. She tried to wait up for me.
After checking in on Gabe, I head back into the living room. Kicking off my boots, I climb on the couch behind Summer, then lift her up and place her on top of me.
“Gabriel?” she moans my name with her eyes closed.
“It’s me. Go back to sleep.”
“Okay. Love you,” she hums before burying her face in my neck. She quickly falls back to sleep oblivious to the words she’s just spoken.
I hold her body close to my chest. If I had it my way, I’d never let Summer go. However, a memory of my childhood pops in my head.
I was five years old. I’d been locked in my crate down in the basement for a month. Those were the worst punishments. When I was locked up upstairs, I could at least talk to Mother and listen to her daily scriptures.
Yet, when I was in the basement, I had no one. Mother only put me in the basement when I’d really done wrong. This time, I smiled at the image of a lady on TV. Mother said I was sinning for lusting after the woman.
I’d been in that crate so long my legs had gone numb. I’d learned early to not complain or cry about my punishments. One night, I heard clawing outside of my cage. Turns out a small mouse had found its way into the house. I named him George after the Curious George cartoon I used to watch.
I remember sharing my food with George and talking to him for hours. I was so desperate for the company. For five days, George was my best friend. He would come out of his hole to greet me. Any time mother would come downstairs I would send George back into hiding.
However, on that fifth day, I did not hear mother open the basement door. I didn’t have enough time to send George back to his den, so I grabbed him in my hands to protect him. Mother hated rodents. If she found him, she would’ve killed him without second thought.
When she pulled me out of the crate for my daily beatings, I clutched George to my chest doing everything I could to keep him safe. However, even at five I was bigger and stronger than most kids. When mother tossed me back in that cage and I opened my hand, I had crushed my friend to death.
