Page 16 of Dark Rapture
I didn’t know it was whiskey back then, of course. I know now. The first time I smelled it, I was at a bar. I vomited all over my date.
Everything burned. That spot down there, the places his lips touched my skin, and my hands where he forced me to touch him too.
“Oh, honeybee. That’s it. You’re my good little girl.”
I was dying, only my heart wouldn’t stop beating. I just went through the death process every time he hurt me.
Numb to the core, I come back to myself.
My eyes fall on the old church at the end of the street, towering proudly in the darkness. There are dim lights sitting behind the baroque stained glass of the windows, guiding my way.
Surely a house of God is as safe a place as any.
Maybe the flashbacks won’t follow me there, maybe there are angels there willing to help keep them at bay.
I sprint until my feet hit the first step leading up to the imposing, ornate wooden doors. My lungs ache and burn from the exertion, my vision blurry and my muscles fatigued.
I slow down enough to walk up the stairs, flinching at the sound of something shuffling loudly overhead. My eyes lift, and I’m met with the vision of a massive owl perched above the impressive, carved doors.
The same owl I saw at my parents house the day of Dad’s birthday dinner.
The raptor spreads its massive, dark wings. The white speckles along its dark feathers remind me of stars in the night sky. The creature’s face is unnerving. Its large black eyes are like voids in that stark, pale face.
The bird of prey lets loose one long, loud screech, and the noise startles me out of my shock in seeing it here now.
I hit the top of the stairs and reach for one of the heavy doors, grateful when it opens with a tug. Slipping inside, I let the door close behind me and wait for my eyes to adjust.
The interior of the church is warm and welcoming, with dark wood furniture and an intricate carpet in shades of tan and dark red. There is a strip of solid red carpet leading from the entrance of the building, down the wide center aisle and up to the large altar at the front of the room.
The walls are made of wood and stone, with sophisticated archways nearly everywhere. The design is classic for an older church, and beautiful as they often are.
The electric lights along the walls are turned off, the bright moonlight filtering in through the stained glass windows to mingle with the candles littered around the sanctuary.
There are so many candles, the pale wax pillars sitting in transparent red glass holders. There are three at every substantial window, and one at the end of each pew.
The pews are long and sturdy, the wood lighter than the darker accents around the anterior chamber, the backs of each row fully stocked with well worn bibles and prayer cards.
I glance at the candles, most of them burned halfway down, as I wander slowly down the center of the church.
I’m still fighting to regulate my breathing as I move deeper into the house of God, walking through until I reach the front pew. I sit down on the cold wood, glancing behind me to make sure I’m still alone, before closing my eyes and dropping my head into my hands.
My body feels weak from both the lack of sleep and the effort it took to run here from home. It is only when my breathing evens out that the numbness dissipates, and my hands and feet begin to ache from the beating they endured getting here.
When I lift my head from my hands, my vision is blurred from tears. I smell a hint of blood, and look down at my hands to take stock of the angry scrapes and ghosting of bruises on my palms and fingertips.
I wipe my eyes on the backs of my hands, before settling them tentatively over my knees. I take several deep breaths, blinking the blurriness away until the altar ahead of me comes into clear view.
Above and beyond, a massive cross depicting Jesus looms. The white marble cross holds his holy image cast in polished iron. The ornament is obviously expensive and sacred to this congregation. There are candles at the base of the cross, too, driving the shadows away from the church’s holy symbol.
My mind empties as I zone out, watching the flames of the flickering candles dance along the polished surface of the beautiful cross, until the creaking of a heavy door startles me out of it.
I turn my head towards the doors I entered earlier as I stand up from the pew, my aching feet uncomfortable on the rough carpet as I pivot to face the direction of the sound.
No one is there, the only movement to be seen comes from the way the candles flicker and dance, scattered around my field of vision. My eyes wander to every dark corner, fully expecting to find someone lurking somewhere there.
I can’t shake the feeling that someone is here. With a sigh, I lift my arms and cross them over my chest so I can rub the chill from my arms.
The temperature in the room, once warm and inviting, drops significantly in the blink of an eye. I shiver against the sudden cold, taking note of my frosty breath which I can now see with every exhale.
