Page 92 of Pray for Scars
I smile at his stupidity. He actually had to drag me here, because walking seems to be beyond my level of functioning.
But thenhesmiles, looking ahead of him, away from me, and my stomach churns.
He nods his head toward the altar. “Something you might wanna say goodbye to up there.”
I grip the fabric of the pew so hard my hands shake, digging my nails in. I’m staring down at my dirty grey sweats, not wanting to see. Not wanting to know.
And then a piano starts to play from somewhere, something mournful that makes my skin crawl, my throat tightening.
The guard squats down, grips my face in his hand, jerks my head up so I’m looking in his eyes.
“Look, you fucking cunt.”
He turns my head, so I have to see.
So I’m forced to.
Jeremiah.
My brother.
Cold fear slides through my veins, making me shiver. My mouth falls open, and I’m not breathing.
There’s a long, dark wooden table on the altar, candles surrounding it on the floor, their flames dancing beneath the shadow of the table.
And my brother is there, strapped down on his back, his head hanging off at a strange angle, the vein in his throat prominent, his eyes rolled back in his head, blood pouring from a wound on his brow.
He’s wearing a thin, white tunic that goes to his knees, his feet turned to the side.
Beneath him is a white candle, the rest surrounding the altar are red.
I see his blood drip from his head onto the flame, causing it to stutter, but it doesn’t go out. Instead, the drop of blood oozes down the side of the white wax.
“See that?” the guard asks me, shoving my face away from him. “Get a good look at it. Your death won’t be so kind.”
No.
No.
I grab onto the guard’s hand, scratching at his skin. “No,” I say, my voice hoarse as I force myself to look away from my beautiful brother. “What is—what’s wrong with him?”
My lungs burn with every breath, my throat tight.
“What is wrong with him?!” I scream at the guard, still clawing at his hand as he tries to pull away from me.
“Let go, you fucking bitch,” he yells at me, and then he reaches for his gun, and before I can think, before I can say another word, he slams the barrel across the side of my face and my head spins to the side, stars popping behind my eyes.
My face is on fire, and I drop his hand, bringing my own up to my cheek, pressing against it to relieve the pain.
Silence rings out in the church, the piano music over.
I get to my feet, drop my hands, my ears ringing with the hit, but I don’t care. I take a step toward the altar, my toes digging into the red carpet, my eyes on Jeremiah’s limp body.
But a hand grabs my arm, pinching my skin. I try to shrug it off, try to pull away, reaching for my brother.
“Sid Rain,” a voice I don’t recognize says quietly. “We’ll make it quick if you don’t cause a scene.”
I spin around, feeling suddenly dizzy, swaying in the grasp of whoever is holding me.
