Page 128 of That Sik Luv

They broke my nose, among other things, while I was blacked out. My wrist lay limp in the cuffs, the feeling gone from my fingers entirely. I must’ve been out for a while.

“Thought we lost you there for a second,” the boisterous voice of the one and only Alastor Abbott fills my ears. He slaps my shoulder abruptly, sending a sharp, shooting pain down to my arm. “We need to see the despair in your dead eyes in order for this to work. Happy to see you’re back just in time for your surprise.”

I groan, but the belt in my mouth they’ve tied around the back of my head prevents me from retorting with the rage my soul aches to release.

Saint sits on the edge of the couch adjacent to me, his eyes wandering over even though he appears as if he can barely stomach my appearance. He may not be as vicious as the likes of his father, Alastor, or even Bishop Caldwell, but his reluctance to stand up for what’s right was always his downfall.

If he’s here, then she can’t be too far.

Bishop Caldwell walks from the table, carrying something in his hands.

I attempt to blink the blood out of my only usable eye.

“And if one is ill, let him call The Elders of the church, and let them pray over him and anoint him with the oil in the name of Our Lord,” he professes, stirring the familiar glass vessel in his hand with a white cloth wrapped around it. “And the prayer offered in faith will restore the one who is sick. The Lord will raise him up. If he has sinned, he will be forgiven...”

It’s the sanctum chrism. The consecrated oil used for sacraments and ecclesiastical functions. But the glass is filled with condensation, meaning only one thing.

“That’s what you are, right, son? Ill?” He nods to the man behind me, and the belt in my mouth loosens before being tossed to the floor beneath us.

Alastor chuckles with Callum to the left of me, enjoying the sick and twisted torture as I rotate my painful jaw.

Caldwell bends down before me, still donning his cassock over his disgustingly rounded belly, expecting some sort of answer.

“Are you ill, my child?”

The endearment floods my system with chaos and an inherent need for destruction as my blood runs hot through my veins.

“Don’t be afraid to answer. The Lord is here.” He smiles, peering around the room. “He’s here to hear your pleas for forgiveness. To hear you beg for your mercy at my hand.”

Memories tear through me of the boy who was endlessly subjected to this torment for years. The boy who fought tirelessly on his own to avenge my mother and hers. The boy who’s allowed this man to continuously take and take. My freedom. My pleasure. My hopes for a future that contained any version of love.

“I’m sicker than I’ve ever been,” I gloat with my steady glare before spitting in his face.

He reaches for the handkerchief that Callum hands him, disappointment littering his smug, round face. My hard gaze connects with Saint’s on the couch, and I hold on to it for a moment before the burning of my flesh begins.

A strangled moan leaves my throat and I grit my teeth to ward off the pain. Hot, searing oil slowly slides its way down my torso, burning a trail of flesh as it settles. The urge to wipe it off comes over me, to escape the pain, but my mind fights the overwhelming pain signals.

Breathe through your nose.

See her gentle and caring eyes before you.

Smell the crisp scent of apple in her luscious, freshly washed hair.

Feel her velvety, warm flesh beneath your fingertips as they graze her curves.

Hear her soft, gentle hums of relaxation.

Another pour of the oil graces my chest, and my body tenses before running through my meditative process for survival yet again.

I hear the door open, then slowly creak closed to the left of me as the shuffling footsteps of another man enter the room.

“They’re both still there,” Nox mutters to someone behind me.

“Good,” Cal replies. “Shouldn’t be much longer here.”

I feel another pour of the hot oil tear into my flesh, and a frustrated sigh leaves Caldwell’s chest.

“Come on now, son. Cry out for me like you used to. Stop holding it all in.” His free hand sweeps some of my hair off my forehead before he cups my cheek, bending forward until we’re face to face. “I used to get so hard for those sweet little whimpers,” he whispers in a disturbingly calm tone.

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