Being the preacher’s son is not always the easiest. Always following the rules, abiding by my parents every hope and dream. Mother is transparent. She has no knowledge of his unjust actions and temptations in which they baptized they’re children into. Abel and Cain, the twins, they were lucky enough to find themselves in to a life of righteousness and not seek temptation as father has. They skipped out of town moments after graduating from the academy. Sura, my dear younger sister. From the age of three, she was able to help out with the various chores mother was to accomplish around the house. A bright child she was. Learning to serve men and god rather than delve into the joy of being a young girl. She was wed to one of father’s associate pastor Jeremiah, on her sixteenth birthday. Arranged marriages aren’t fun, well not speaking from experience but I do recall Sura phoning mother the day after the wedding and all I could hear were sobs of sadness. It was very few and far between moments that anyone saw Sura after she married Jeremiah. He kept her under lock and key, just as father does with mother. She never ventures out of the house. Never does anything to set father off. Always obeys what he wills and wants. Never second guesses him. She has no idea. She is lost in the clouds while her lovely husband, my father, torments the living and sends them to eternal damnation.
I help my father. Helping with his victims. Yes you heard me correctly, victims. Plural. He has killed multiple young girls. He takes one each month. What mother doesn’t know is when we have our week retreat each month to another church, what is actually happening is that we are going to his cabin. The cabin his father used for hunting. He locks his victims there and unfortunately, I take care of them for him. When he gags and binds them, I turn them loose. When he whips them, I tend to they’re wounds. When he rapes them, I set them free. Setting them free is one of the hardest tasks I could ever accomplish. I simply unlock the door and tell them to run. Typically I find the body, tops maybe two weeks from the date that they are set free. Decomposition is the worst part of finding them. Sometimes the animals have gotten to them, sometimes the bugs. One time I found one, Farrah, with a shotgun wound to her face. I knew it was her due to the fact that she has quite the number of tattoos. Especially one that I vividly remember when he made me rape her. I am no saint. I was forced by my father to take the innocence of a young woman that I knew. I went to school with her. The only reason that he took her is because he found my journal. Several entries would recall different memories I had of her from when she would ask me for help on homework or for a writing utensil. Pastor was angered by my flattery and admiration for her. That’s why he took her. Took make my life worse, more than it already is. To have me rape her was icing on the cake for him. The gratification and satisfaction that was experience by him in that moment was horrifying and absolutely sickening. He find joy and pleasure in dissecting and crucifying people for his interpretation of them. He thought Farrah was a whore. That thought popped into his mind from him reading my compliments about her hair and her complexion. Just with simple compliments, he destroys a single persons life. Without realizing the consequences of his actions, entire towns have been sent into an uproar over people being kidnapped and never being found.
There are days when he comes up with more crazy ideas to go with him scheme. Some days he says he will kill me if I don’t follow his orders. But then there are some days when he says he will lock me up in the cabin for solitary confinement. He thinks I need solitary most of the time to cure my behavior. Solitary would be fine if I had headphones, music and my journal. My writs to god. My writs of any and everything thought that comes to mind. My cowardice thrives when I write and my cowardice shines.
Psalm 56:3 When I am afraid, I put my trust in you.
Father often watches people, especially me. He watches and tries to understand what makes me tick. What makes me envious to feel emotions for others. He waits and tries to interpret and analyze others. Assume that they are beneath him. Assume that others will bow down to him, because he is the holiest of holy. But he doesn’t even compare to god.