Page 81 of Doesn't Count

“Pull up right there.” The same voice orders.

The car comes to halt, the ignition turning off. The bang, bang, bang of my heart drumming inside my chest overwhelms the sounds of the two men shuffling out. I can barely make out what they’re saying, my mind racing, trying to find ways to escape. Only, I can’t see, my hands are tied, and I have no idea where I am.

Fingers wrap tightly around my bicep, yanking me up and out of the vehicle. I stumble, my knees sinking into mud before being righted onto my feet.

“No! Stop! Let me go!” My growl is high pitch, of a pubescent boy rather than a fierce man.

Fear slithers like snakes down my throat and into my gut, squeezing my insides so violently I just might die like this – a coward.

Neither one of the men acknowledge me, just pull me forward by my arm, dragging me up a flight of steps. I trip over each one, not on purpose, but it doesn’t hurt that it delays whatever they have in store for me.

“Move!” The second, younger voice demands in my ear.

He must be the one gripping my arm, suffocating my blood flow.

I stumble forward on a brutal shove, falling to my knees. I can feel my bones crack as they collide with the cold tile beneath me, the thud echoing loudly. Tears threaten to spill, but I refuse to cry.

“My child.” A third voice, laced with grandeur, fills the room.

“Father, I’ve completed my quest and brought you an offering. A new recruit.” The younger man says with pride.

“Let’s see him.” says the so-calledFather.

The string around my neck is untied allowing the burlap sack to be ripped off my head. I suck in fresh oxygen, but all that fills my lungs is corruption, malice, and darkness. The air is so ripe with evil that I nearly choke on it.

With wide, frightened eyes I take in my surroundings. Between me and an altar is an older, skinny man with long, greying hair tied low in the back of his head. He’s draped in a red cloak, a thin black rope holding it closed. His beady eyes assess his gift, sunken in dark, wrinkled sockets making him look like his soul has been suctioned out of him. He lifts his hand, his boney fingers resting on the top of my head. My instinct is to flinch and back away, but I’m paralyzed with fear.

There’s very little light in this church, casting shadows along every broken statue. A large cross stands tall at the north of the room. Nailed to the wooden post is a battered replica of Jesus, a goat's head replacing his own. Its horns protrude from behind the ears and those black marble eyes bore into me, watching my fate play out. I wasn’t brought up religious, but even I know the sight of anyone’s God disfigured and showcased is downright sick. Black paint coats what would have been beautiful stained-glass windows, Satan’s mark tainting the stories they tell.

Dizziness causes the room to spin, the other two men on either side of me blurring.

“He looks young.”Fatherstates, tipping my head back to get a good look at my face.

My eyes squeeze shut, refusing to acknowledge the monster in front of me.

“How old are you, boy?” He asks.

Those fingers like the devil’s talons grip the sides of my face, pinching when my response doesn’t come quick enough.

“You’re going to want to answer me.” He leans forward, his breath like rotten roadkill. “By the looks of your fresh face,I doubt it’s ever seen a lick of pain and my apprentice, Bordeaux here, has a penchant for rough housing.” He twists my head towards the bigger of the two men beside me, the one with the deeper voice, forcing me to cower before the sight.

Bordeaux looks exactly like the beast he is, taller than any normal man I’ve ever seen with thick, meaty body parts that shine with a layer of grease. His thinning strands of dark hair are slicked back across his scalp as if he’s trying to hide the fact that he’s aging. He’s not fooling anyone, but I don’t think now is the time to enlighten him. His fat upper lip lifts in a snarl, revealing crooked, yellow teeth and the nostrils on his bulbous nose flare, the long hairs sticking out. I can tell he’s the type to shave daily, not a hint of a shadow across his jaw. The thought baffles me considering he practices no other forms of hygiene. Even his wife-beater and jeans are worse than those of a mechanic working twelve-hour days.

“Thirteen.” I manage to squeeze past my squished lips.

The cloaked man whips my face back towards him, my neck muscles straining with the forced movement. Letting go, he stands, clasping his hands behind his back. His gaze never leaves mine as he addresses the younger man.

“You chose the easiest path, preying on the youth.” He accuses, the man shriveling inside himself. “How do you propose we convert such an innocent soul? We welcome those who have been accused of sinning against their own God, showing them that they still belong in this world, that they have a family when everyone else has shunned them.”

“I-I-”

“However, an innocent soul is easily corrupted, molded into the perfect follower.”Fathermurmurs, speaking his thoughts out loud. “Fair enough, I’ll allow it.”

A relieving breath rattles out of the man, his shouldersrelaxing. He’s dismissed with a wave of his hand, leaving behind a life destroyed.

“Just a child.” He leans back down, sniffing deeply. “Young, innocent, so... malleable.” Boney fingers rub white stubble in thought. “I’ll need time to think on this, Bordeaux. I’ve never come across a potential convert at such a young age.” Turning to me he asks, “Boy, will you accept Satan as your master? Will you worship alongside the family and praise humanity in all its unholy forms?”

A bushy eyebrow quirks in wait. My throat is so dry, words catch in my esophagus.

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