Page 54 of The Preachers' Promise
You can’t make me quiet with a few daring words. Your soul will pay for these offenses. You ought to be careful, little sinner. You weren’t built for eternal torment.
“You don’t scare me anymore.” I say the words with determination. “You’re nothing but a figment of the past. You’re pathetic.”
To my shock, there’s no retort. No comeback. Wow, maybe all it takes is me telling him to shut the hell up? If he’s not real, and he’s part of my mind, then losing my fear of him is the biggest way to silence him for good.
If this version of him is real … well, we’ve all got bigger problems than me losing my marbles. If his voice is real, and he somehow makes me hear his thoughts, he holds more power than any man known to science.
It’s how I know, deep down, that he’s a product of my sick mind, but that scares me more than the idea of him having supernatural powers. Because if I’m the one creating him, then I must be the one to make him go away, and I don’t know if I’m strong enough. It’s one thing doing it now, briefly, but being able to continue that level of bravery seems overwhelming.
Bringing my thoughts back to Roman, I continue my search.
I peer into every room, and there’s no sign of him, and with every empty room, my anxiety increases a notch. My heart picks up speed and my palms grow clammy. Has he gone? The panic that hits me at the idea is jarring. If one of them leaves, then this might all fall apart. I need them. I need them all, Roman included.
I pass through the kitchen. Ahead, another door is slightly ajar. It’s one I’ve not noticed before, and there’s a light on inside. Opening it fully, I peer down a flight of stairs leading to what looks like a basement space. I take the stairs, praying he’s not down here seriously hurt or something.
“Roman?” I say his name, but there’s no answer.
When I step off the stairs and into the basement space, I blink at the brightness of the light. It’s a large room, and it houses a swanky, fully kitted-out home gym. There are mirrors lining one wall, and in front of those are blue mats.
A choked cry forces its way out of my throat as I fully take in the sight in front of me. Roman is curled on his side, on the mats, and his back is a horrible mess of welts. There are bruises forming, and some blood crusting on patches of broken skin.
Oh, Lord, please let him be okay.
I race to him, falling to my knees beside him. I take in the map of pain crisscrossing his skin, and tears well in my eyes. The rope on the floor beside him tells me Roman did this to himself.
But why?
“Roman?” My voice is shaky and cracks a little on the end of the word.
He doesn’t answer, but he’s breathing, deep and regular. So, I can cross off worrying he’s dead, at least. I’m faint with shock at what he’s done, and what it means about his psyche, but I can’t fall apart. Not now. This time, one of the men who has supported and helped me, needs me, and I won’t let him down.
“Roman.” I shake him gently on the shoulder, taking care to avoid the skin of his back.
“Hhhmm.” He makes a sleepy sound and stretches a little.
“Roman.” I shake him again. I’m growing fearful that he took some meds or something. Why is he hurting himself like this? Does he want to die?
I think of a day back at the college when he and I were talking about the violence that Cain and Malachi had faced in their childhood. I had asked Roman if he’d faced the same, and he’d said no, that some things were worse than violence. I’d understood immediately what he meant, and my heart had broken for him.
It breaks now, all over again.
God, look what they did to you.
“Please wake up.” I beg.
Roman moves onto his back and instantly jolts fully awake. His lips part, and breath rushes out of his mouth in a low, pained moan. He sits, his skin a sheen of sweat, and his breathing ragged as he visibly struggles not to cry out at the pain.
He just rolled over onto his bleeding, welt-covered back. It must hurt a whole lot. I sit down heavily on the mats, facing him, and hope he doesn’t scream at me to get out.
This is private for him.
Our gazes lock, and his is haunted with shame. His body language changes, his bare shoulders curling inward, his chin dipping to his chest. He’s mortified that I found him like this.
I don’t ask himwhy. I believe I already know. I understand. The shame he feels for what happened to him as a child must be overwhelming, even though it wasn’t his fault, and the only way to silence that burning pain inside is to make the outside hurt more. For some reason, I touch the scar on my own face. I didn’t make the scar, and most of the time I hate it, but some days—on those really bad days—I like it because I think it is my penance for whatever sins I committed. I know that’s fucked up, but it gives me some insight into what Roman might be feeling right now.
Instead of asking him what’s going on inside, I focus on something easier to talk about initially. The mess he’s made of his outside.
“Will you let me dress some of those wounds?” I ask softly. “I don’t want them to get infected.”
