“Your mom won’t be coming home.”
It was the last time he had spoke anything about his mom. Any time he tried to bring up the issue, he would get yelled at until one day, a backhand was the result for simply mentioning her. That’s when it started. That’s when he knew. It was his fault. His mom left because of him. He was the reason she abandoned them. It was the only thing that made sense. Why else would his father be so mad? Why would he hit him all the time? He had driven his own mother away.
At first, he took the punishment because he believed he deserved it. He had no bad thoughts about his father because he felt he had the right to correct him. Whatever Jason had done to drive his mother away had to have been bad. If he was bad, he needed discipline, a word he’d learned early. That much he knew. But as time rolled on, questions arose in his mind. Why was his father drinking so much all the time? Why didn’t he show him the letter? He was a good reader, even at his age. He was smart. Smarter than all the other kids his age. He would have understood what she had written. However, the burning question more than any other was why was he being punished all the time? What he did was bad, yes, but how long was he supposed to suffer for what he’d done? Why was he never told what he had done so he could try to fix it and she would come back? Something wasn’t right.
He wiped his mouth. It could have been worse. Sometimes it was. What had just happened was mellow compared to other instances. Two slaps were minor. There were many occasions Jason came home, greeted at the door with a paddle. Something was out of place, or his chores weren’t finished in the exact way his father wanted. It never failed. Always something. Today, he must have been in a good mood today.
Setting his book and backpack on the bed, he walked over to his dresser, looking at himself in the mirror. He stood there, moving his face from side to side, searching for bruises that had covered his face the week before. Most of them had healed and to his amazement, his father’s slap only left a red mark. It was wishful thinking because he knew it would develop into a bruise. Their presence invited inquiries at school, but he would cover it up by claiming he had gotten into a fight with Frankie, which wasn’t a lie. He’d pick a fight on purpose and cover his face while Frankie tried to beat him up. After taking punches and slaps from his father, Frankie was nothing. Just a stupid bully. He almost never would land a real punch, but it would always suffice from the guidance counselor as legitimate. A reprimand would follow for being in fights so much, and Frankie would retaliate. He didn’t care about that. Frankie, he could handle. As long as they left his father alone. That was the last thing he needed.
Taking his shirt off, he turned towards the mirror and inspected the various pink welts on his back, compliments of an extension cord. They appeared to be healing, which brought a weak smile to his face.
Even though he was to blame for his mom leaving, he hated his father. He hated him for what he always did to him. At school, he’d overhear the conversations, kids talking about their parents in ways that seemed… normal. Right. Being picked up for soccer, being allowed to spend the night over at a friend’s house, getting money to go to a game or the movies. His ears filtered this through his mind and his insides shrunk and shriveled up. He felt two inches tall. He was listening to something foreign. Another language. Another reality.
Man! He hated his father!
“I wish I could beat up on him like he beats up on me.”
Throwing his shirt across the room in a fit of anger, he jumped on the bed, burying his face in the dark blue pillow, screaming as loud as he could. Tears soon followed in its wake. He hated his life, but he hated his father more. Salted streams poured from his eyes beckoning him to forget it all if only for a few moments, to let the oblivion of sleep cradle him.
Part II - Growing Concerns
Sebastian sat in the leather chair in his makeshift office, his chin set in the crook of his hand, looking down at the ground. To the onlooker, it appeared as if he was praying. He was. The news he had received from the Pennsylvania chapter was uncomfortable. That was an understatement. When he received the phone call late that night, it had forced an inaudible sigh from inside him. Praying was a normal response for him on such occasions. He had done it for so long; it had become a reflexive habit.
Parsons informed Sebastian that his team had found two disturbing things.
The first was a gathering they had stumbled upon in Meechum Forest. It didn’t take them long to determine it was a coven ritual. The women there focused on the nature altar in the middle of a circle they had prepared. Rituals like this were always the precursor to some plan or solidifying of their power base or both. It was pagan worship with a purpose towards the need of increasing their influence. Without fail, that was the goal.
Wasn’t that always the goal for all kinds of religion, to increase their power base to some degree? Sebastian knew the answer. No. His order was an order dedicated to the worship of the Most High God.
