Page 96 of Ashes of Saints

Who the hell are you Mary-Anne Whitlock?

Not knowing how noisy it might be, I push the door until it almost clicks shut, but not completely, and turn back to the goddamn button.

I stare at it, considering what could happen if I push it. If it’s an alarm or has one attached to it, then I guess I’m fucked and will have some explaining to do.

If not...

Fuck it.

I press it. A low buzzing noise sounds as the entire goddamn fucking wall and shelves start to move.

“Jesus Christ.”

I stand back, although it’s not necessary, and watch as a doorway appears leading to a dark room beyond. A dim light automatically turns on.

“What the fuck?” I feel like I’m in a movie or being punked.

This cannot be real

Wiping my forehead, I step in, wishing I was dressed in more than a pair of briefs. When my eyes adjust, I feel sick, like I’ve known since I saw that button exactly what this is. I just don’t want to admit it.

My shoulders tighten as I take in the sofa and video-player set up on a small cabinet with a TV screen.

I press a hand to my abs and draw in a breath as I take in the large bookcase-lined walls with what appear to be hundreds of VHS tapes and CDs.

Old school.

Meaning, this has been going on for a long time.

“Fuck me.” I walk to them, bile rising in my throat as I study the words on the spine.

Not words.

Names. Or what appears to be names, but also numbers. Like a code.

I grab one, the feel of it in my hands is evil. I know what’s on these and while I’d like to pretend that they are Aurora’s ballet dance performances or birthday parties, I know they aren’t.

This room wasn’t created to have friends and family over to watch Mary-Anne’s daughter dancing. This feels like a private space she comes to for...

Fuck.

I need to know for sure. So that I never question what I’m looking at. These tapes hold the evidence I’ve been looking for, I know they do.

I push the TV button and power on the video machine. I barely know how to work it, but I slide the tape in and it seems to start automatically.

Taking a couple of steps back, I wait for it to flicker onto the screen and play the video.

“Oh god.” I cover my mouth as the room—the room—appears on the screen.

Then I crouch. Don’t ask me why—it’s like I need to be as small as the little boy I once was—then lean my elbow on my knee and watch the evil of my past play out.

My body is shaking.

I see a small body, naked, from behind, with an adult thrusting behind him, but his head is down. Is it me? I can’t tell. Perhaps I don’t want to look.

I’m both the boy and the man as I turn my face away, wrapping my arm over my head, unable to watch anymore as my stomach churns.

This is what I have been searching for.

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