Page 1 of Judge's Mercy

PROLOGUE

JUDGE

Itrudge into my dark cabin, a gust of howling wind fighting me as I slam it shut. The silence would be blissful if I could ignore the incessant voice in my head screaming at me to atone. The scars on my back ache but not in pain; they beg for me to make them bleed, that it’s the only way to make things right. I know it’s all lies, but completing the ritual is the only way to make it stop.

With a heavy heart, I lock the door and flip my porch light off, signaling to my brothers that I don’t want visitors. As the club’s spiritual leader, it’s my duty and my honor to offer my brothers guidance and solace when they’re in need. But not tonight. The weight of my own turmoil is too heavy to hold space for anyone else’s confessions. How can I offer absolution of their sins if my own conscience isn’t clear, if my mind isn’t at peace?

The old wooden floors groan in protest under the weight of my heavy boots as I run my hand over the worn, faded floral fabric of the sofa. It’s nothing to look at, but I don’t give two shits about appearance. To me, its value is in the cushions with permanent butt imprints that bring comfort after a long day at work. It’s in the stains from a glass of wine being spilled during a rowdy girls’ night. It’s in the frayed fibers from years of children being told not to sit on the arms but who do it anyway. I can’t say if any of these things actually happened, but it brings me joy to imagine these seemingly insignificant moments I lacked in my adolescence.

With ritualistic ease, I pluck at the rigid piece of plastic from under my collar and yank it free, tossing it to the ground before sliding my leather cut down my arms. Reverently, I place it on a nearby chair. My gaze shifts to the antique console in front of me as I deftly undo the buttons of my shirt, slowly exposing my chest to the cool air. I bend down, loosening the laces of my boots before pushing them off and leaving them to the side.

The storm brewing outside kicks up another blast of wind, making the walls of the cabin vibrate and the branches of nearby trees knock against my windows in a steady beat. It steals my attention for only a moment before my need for repentance draws me back in. The eyes of Jesus and Mary watch from the paintings on the wall as I strike a match and light the candles on either side of a large, ornate crucifix on top of the table. My instinct tells me to blow out the flame once each wick is lit, but I resist, watching the wooden stick consume itself until searing pain shoots through my fingertips. Only then do I shake it out.

The pungent sulfur scent reminds me of my childhood, but not from nights around a campfire telling ghost stories and eating enough s’mores to make my belly ache. Instead, the aroma brings back nightmares that are so painful, they’re hellish.

Rosary in hand, I sink to my knees and weave my fingers around it, holding it over my heart as I murmur a prayer for mercy. Mercy for me, mercy for my brothers, mercy for the lives we lead. Without the vow to not repeat my sins, I’m not certain my prayers will be heard, but I say them anyway.

My breaths come faster, and my heart thuds in my chest as I mouth the word “Amen”. Tipping my head back and dropping my arms to my sides, I release the rosary, letting it fall to the floor with a gentle clink. I wait for a feeling of redemption, for some sign that the prayer is enough, but it never comes. My heart remains heavy, and the lump in my throat remains lodged in place, all signs that I must proceed.

Swallowing hard, I straighten and reach for the cat o’ nine tails resting on the bottom shelf of the console. My nostrils flare as I grasp the braided leather handle tightly in my right hand while lifting my left arm in the air. I swing the whip with all my might, striking my shoulder and upper back. The thongs land punishingly, feeling like red hot fire ant bites. My teeth clench and my spine goes rigid, but I don’t make a sound. Punishments should be accepted with reverence. The ritual demands five hits, symbolizing the Wounds of Christ, so that’s what I do.

Sweat beads on my forehead as I switch sides, repeating the process. My skin burns, and blood trickles down my back by the fourth hit, but with the pain comes the sense of repentance I’ve been desperate to feel. My chest swells with emotion until it’s too much to contain, and by the last flagellation, my cheeks are damp with tears.

Releasing the whip, I brace myself on my thighs, head bowed as I catch my breath. Each long exhale brings me back to myself, no longer lost to the ritual. When my eyes blink open, I curse. Shame coats every fiber of my being as I see the result of my self-discipline tented in my pants, throbbing painfully. Standing, I ignore the intrusion as I take the cat o’ nine to the sink, where I complete my worship by pouring hydrogen peroxide and water in a bowl to rinse off the bloody thongs before spreading them out on a cloth to dry. Once that’s done, I head for the shower.

Relief I don’t want to feel spreads through me when I release my dick from the confines of my pants. My palm itches to take myself in hand, but I fight the urge the way I always do, hoping today will be the day I’m strong enough to not give in. It didn’t take long for him to train my body to react this way, and I’ve spent every day since trying to fix what he broke.

Stepping into the glass enclosure of my shower, I relax as the spray beats against my tense muscles. The scent of artificial pine surrounds me as I wash my body, remaining indifferent to the touch until my hands reach between my legs. My heavy sack tingles the second I reach my traitorous cock, and I already know I’ll fail this test. Rage wars with pleasure as I squeeze my cock to the point of pain, which only serves to make me harder. With weakened legs threatening to buckle under me, I brace myself on the tile wall and roughly stroke up and down, losing the battle once again.

The stinging wounds on my back feel the same now as they did back then, reminding me of a time in my life I’ve tried like hell to forget. It was abuse, I know that now, but it didn’t feel like it back then. I felt special, cherished, and loved in a way I haven’t experienced since. I lean into the memory of those emotions as I pump faster.

My eyes squeeze shut, and my left hand forms a fist against the cold tile wall while my right works to deliver pleasure. Pressure builds, and euphoria spreads throughout my body right before I spurt my release, painting the glass in thick, white sin.

My cock is still pulsing when reality comes crashing down. I release the offending organ as though it’s burned me and stare down at my palm, repulsed by my actions. Transgression crawls over me like a visceral thing, and I’m trembling as I wash myself all over again, this time scrubbing with an abrasive brush until my skin is raw and glows red. Only then does my pulse slow and my mind calm.

I’m still not done, though. The open wounds on my back need attention. Using a long, clean cloth, I pump a different soap on it, this one with chlorhexidine gluconate to kill any bacteria so I don’t develop an infection. There would be no explaining away the reason for my wounds if I was to land myself in the hospital, or if I was forced to seek treatment from the club’s doctor and my closest friend, Bones. Both options would open me up to questions I don’t want to answer. So, despite how badly it burns, I sling the cloth over my back and do what I have to do to keep my secret safe.

Exhaustion sets in as I towel off and pull on a pair of sweats. I glance at my phone and, as if on cue, my stomach growls, alerting me that it’s dinner time and that I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I know if I walked across the way to the clubhouse, there’d be a warm meal waiting for me, but there’d also be people—a lot of them—and that would mean I couldn’t eat in peace. I don’t have the energy for that, so instead, I take myself to bed.

As I lie on my stomach so my back can air out, my mind wanders. Tonight was bad, and I’m disappointed in myself for reacting so poorly to what Lucky confessed. It has been months since I’ve had the urge to slip into old habits. So long, in fact, I thought I had broken myself of it. Now, though, I wonder if it has more to do with the fact that I’ve become immune to my brothers’ confessions. Being a ranking member, I’m privy to potential issues and have time to prepare, but what Lucky did was personal, and I wasn’t expecting his admission.

The church leader he took out molested his girl, Tinleigh, as a child. My heart breaks for the woman who has quickly become someone important to not only Lucky, but every member of this club, including me. She’s the only one in my life who can sit with me and have hours-long discussions about life, mortality, spirituality, and the existence of God. That same church leader hurt Tinleigh’s twin, too.

Myla.

That poor girl has suffered so much in her short life. Both sisters had previously been employed at a seedy strip club with a notoriously cruel owner. Tinleigh knew this and sacrificed her own safety to keep Myla away from him. Months later, Lucky got involved and helped Tinleigh get away. This infuriated the owner, and he went after her. Unable to find her, he took the next best thing: Myla. We had no idea she was missing until we found her beaten, abased, and tossed out of a moving vehicle at the club’s gates.

Her broken bones and bruises have since healed, but her mind hasn’t. Tinleigh copes by talking through her trauma and taking comfort in the death of the men who have wronged her, but her sister is a different story. I didn’t know her before all this happened, but the Myla I know now is angry and bitter. Maybe it’s easier for Tinleigh because she has Lucky, while Myla thinks she has no one, but that’s not true. She has me.

Much to her dismay, I’ve inserted myself into her life. From what I’ve observed, Myla is a pressure cooker of rage on the verge of exploding. Eventually, it’ll become too much, and she’ll need someone to be there for her. It only makes sense for me to be that person. Unlike my brothers, I have both the time and expertise to support her. And although she’s undoubtedly beautiful, that’s not what draws me to her. There’s something deeper within her, something intrinsic, that truly captivates me.

My back smarts, reminding me of Lucky’s confession and how easy it would be to justify his actions. I’ve twisted many of the Bible’s teachings into something more palatable for the life I lead, but taking a life is my one sin I’ve never made peace with. I didn’t say as much to Lucky. Instead, I did my job. I absolved him of his sins without him ever knowing that his dark emotional load has to go somewhere; it doesn’t just disappear. I have the scars to prove it.

I bury my face in the softness of my pillow, releasing all the pent-up frustration and anger that has been building inside me. My screams are absorbed as I pound my fists onto the mattress, my throat burning and head throbbing until I have nothing left to give. The storm within me finally subsides, and I’m left with nothing but shame.

I failed myself.

I failed God.

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