Page 14 of Beneath the Dirt

Ignoring my seething demand, he takes a step closer, now wrapping the pendant and chain in his palm.

“Where did you get this?”

Two can play this game. If he refuses to let go, then I refuse to answer.

A light bulb illuminates in his small-minded head, his wheels turning in real time. “You didn’t…” He fumbles his speech a bit before clearing his throat to strengthen his words. “You didn’t go there, did you? After I forbade you!” he shouts in fear. “Witch,” his voice trembles, still loud but there’s fear there.

Knowing he’s referring to Frida and The Last Stop, I swoop in to correct him. “She’s not a witch,” I correct him. “Just because she doesn’t believe in all that you do doesn’t make her a bad person. If anything, it makes her smarter than—”

He maintains the hold on my arm with one hand, and with the other that’s been playing with my necklace, he proceeds to yank it off. With the pentagram secured under his thumb, he uses the symbol he detests to his advantage as his clammy palm makes contact with my cheek. The sting on my skin is amplified by the pentagram’s sharp edge.

“How dare you bring this into my church and on today of all days.” His voice trembles, “On the day before she was…”

“She was what?” I interject, dying to hear what brainwashed bullshit he’s about to say.

His fist clenches as it lifts upward; he wants to hit me. This time with a closed fist.

“Go ahead,” I challenge him. “Do it.” I stand my ground, but he doesn't bite. Coward.

Lowering his fist, he looks over his shoulder, remembering that we’re in a holy place, and he can’t act like the demon he is constantly pretending he’s not.

“On the day she went home to Him.” He finishes his sentence, and it’s just as delusional as I thought it’d be.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” I mutter. “She was murdered.” Slashed to death and found in a cornfield with a Petrine cross drawn on her forehead from her own blood. Last time I checked, that's the furthest thing from a welcome homeparty, but who am I but a heathen in my stepdad’s eyes? What the fuck do I know?

Phony muses of sadness break from his lips as he sighs. I know it’s fake since he rarely, if ever, brings it up anymore. It’s as if her life and death never happened to him. He’s only using it as a tool to punish me for having my own beliefs.

Just as quickly as it came on, the pretend show of emotion vanishes as he settles back into his usual angry self. “None of this witchcraft will bring her back. All you're doing is embarrassing her memory and yourself. Well, and quite frankly, all of us.”

“I never said it would, but it represents a part of her that you conveniently forget. Who she was before you poisoned her with your dick.”

His head shakes, blown away by the brutal honesty of my words.

“You little fucking…” his voice trails off. The hinges open from outside the vestibule separating the main entrance from where we stand in the sanctuary. He grumbles to himself, frustrated that it’s preventing him from going off on me the way he wants to. Another set of hinges whine, this time to the sanctuary itself. He shields me from the door, lowering his mouth to my ear. “The best thing I ever did for your mother was poison her with the truth. The real truth. Not the lies your father filled her head with. She was sick and he made her worse. At least she wasn’t as thick-headed as you. She learned real quick that my way is the best way.”

My insides twist at the mention of my birth father.

Before I have the opportunity to retort, two men dressed in all black approach us. Their long-hooded trench coats give me a rush of déjà vu to the shadowed figure’s presence from before. There’s an emblem on the right sleeve of both their coats, but I can’t make it out with how they’re standing. They are both silent, neither of them saying a word. Their presence alone is enough to make my stepdad’s jawline knot from the tension spreading. He waves to the two men, offering them a fake as fuck smile but neither returnthe gesture. If anything, they seem disgusted to be in Pastor Rainey’s presence as he looks to be in theirs.

“We aren’t done here,” he mumbles to me, keeping his eyes on the men. “I forgot I have a business dinner to attend.”

“Business dinner, huh?” I eye the men standing there. The taller of the two has his hand cupped in front of his mouth, mumbling something to the other.

“They don’t look like pastors or congregants to me,” I challenge him.

“You’re right,” he answers with an unexpected burst of vigor that contradicts the physical chokehold these two strangers visibly have on him.

“They’re here to discuss the Holy Harvest tomorrow. Which you will not be attending.”

Relief grips me and I can’t help but smile. Little does he know this punishment makes it that much easier for me to go to Heathen’s Cross, like I intended to do anyway.

“You will spend the entirety of the day and evening tomorrow in your room. Under lock and key,” he tacks on, only adding to my glee.

Though that is short-lived, and as my grin fades, one beams onto his face as he reaches for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. He takes one out, lighting it, not bothering to miss my face as he exhales. With each wisp of smoke carrying notes of tobacco and menthol, I can feel the scabs on my back start to hurt all over again. His favorite punishment for when I “sin”—using my back as a fucking ashtray. I want to run away or slap him in front of his guests, but the only reason I haven’t done either is because I want my fucking necklace back.

“Fine by me.” I inhale, trying to remain on an even keel and not give him the reaction he so pathetically craves out of me. I jut my neck forward, holding my hand out. “Necklace,” I remind him.

He exhales another stream of nicotine drenched smoke,ignoring me. “See you at home.” He moves towards the men, my necklace still in his possession, forcing me to follow after him.

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