Page 24 of Be My Sinner

Sweat trickles down my back, making the black, long-sleeved, high-neck, and ankle-length gown stick to my slick body like a second layer of skin. I sniggered at the black gown when Sammy first presented it to me. It looked like something one of the pilgrims of the old world would have worn, or something straight out of a Victorian age.

Sammy insisted that it was proper attire for a Sacred Daughter to wear and had, in fact, been shipped directly from the capital for me. The only bonus of the hideous gown was that it covered and disguised my curves, and every inch of my tattooed skin.

Tattoos that, as a Sacred Daughter and wife, I am not allowed to have adorning my skin. The only exception to that controlling rule is that one day, I will be expected to have my husband’s ownership inked or carved unwillingly into my flesh. I could be put to death for allowing the beautiful graphic art put on my skin by Sammy’s hand. Art that I love and cherish that carries meaning behind each and every piece. How’s that for fucked up shit?

In this new world order, only male members of the Brotherhood of the Sacrament are adorned with tattoos. Each of them receives their sigil tattooed on their skin when they reach sixteen years of age. The rest of the society, guards, maids, cooks, etc., are branded with the class they were born into at the ripe age of ten.

While some may have tattoos hidden underneath their clothing, but not visible to the eyes of the Order and their vast disapproval, most abstain. It’s funny because they said our parents’ generation before the Order took control, might have been the most tattooed populace in the existence of the world. Now, we all have to hide the evidence of a world long gone.

Sammy bears his class’s horrific molten skin mark on the palm of his left hand. A visual reminder of how they perceive him as ‘less than’. If they only knew the pleasure I garner from that rough skin touching my own soft flesh, trailing down my limbs, and gripping my throat. There is nothing ‘less than’ about my Sammy; he is greater than all of them.

I’m forced to slowly walk down the long corridor leading to the chapel with demure feminine steps. My head bowed low, and my shoulders rounded. Every few seconds, I allow the sound of sobs and sniffs to be heard escaping me from below the thick veil. The sounds of grief that the Brotherhood both want to hear and expect. In my mind, however, I am murdering all of them, one after the other.

My grief is there; it’s not a fabrication, but at this moment, it’s buried deep under the need for violence. The hate I feel for those who have repeatedly harmed my family, caused horrific abuse to women, and took control of a world that just begged for peace, only to bring it more suffering.

Sammy walks behind me, leaving a few paces between us in his navy Guard of the Order uniform. His heavy booted footsteps echoing off the stone floors are a welcome reminder that he is with me, and I’m not alone in facing the Order. His words repeat in my mind over and over again.

“Don’t show them your anger, Nightstar. Only show them your grief. Show them weakness so that when you rise up against them, they won’t suspect you of anything.”

I rub my hands together, the thick black lace gloves making them sweat and itch. How I long to remove these gloves, this veil, and this farce, and slit all their throats with the blade strapped to my thigh. How pretty their red blood would look against all the white walls and stone floors surrounding us. It would provide some solace to quell the wrath that has wound me up tightly since my brother’s passage into a heaven I don’t believe in.

I reach the chapel, and my gaze falls upon the dark wood pews adorned with red velvet cushions. It’s almost comical how the founding fathers and their offspring refuse to sit on anything less than plush comfort. Entitled bastards. A derisive snort escapes my lips at the thought.

The sound of multiple male voices in the room catches my attention, and I lift my head slightly to assess them through my thick lashes. Before me stands the Brotherhood, Founding Fathers, and their sons, all gathered for my brother’s funeral. They’re cloaked in embroidered black robes, draped over their extravagant suits. Quite the theatrical display, dramatic much?

Who amongst them is guilty of leading Gabriel to his death? For sending him to meet his maker at the ripe old age of twenty-three? The information Sammy gathered through the rebels paints a different picture than what the Brotherhood likes to tell.

My brother’s body was covered in bruises and lacerations, proving he had been recently beaten before his death. There was evidence of him being sexually assaulted, and none too gently. Who here raped my brother before tying a noose around his neck?

Was it those cowards who called him their best friend? Was it their fathers or another member of the Brotherhood who sought to end my brother’s life, and hold on to power?

The rebellion confirmed that my brother, despite his age, was growing in power and influence. The sons and heirs of the Founding Fathers could relate to him better than the older members. His voice was gaining support for changes to come. Changes where my brother sought for more freedom and better treatment of, not only Sacred Wives, but of the serving class. Someone wanted to end that. Someone went out of their way to ensure he could speak on it no longer. The question is, who?

One of the maids who worked in my brother’s house was a mole for the rebellion. She was present when my mother found my brother hanging naked from the wood beam in his office. She stated he had been having many recent arguments with his best friends, Abraham and Ezekiel. They would be locked in the office for hours, and you could often hear the sounds of violence and things breaking. That when they reemerged, they would all be bleeding or disheveled and angry with each other.

She stated that neither of his best friends since childhood seemed to support his radical thoughts on change. They did not support him and even outwardly opposed him at Order meetings. The relationship between the three of them became more strained in the months before his death. I was often the topic of angry, loud conversations that would lead to violent arguments. The staff could hear the furious shouts through the walls.

She told the rebellion that my mother often pleaded with my brother to keep me safe. To not allow the Brotherhood to take me and force me into the servitude of a Sacred Wife. She begged him to help me escape, to make me disappear. She could not bear to know I’d suffer the same fate she had to endure when my father was alive.

“Ah, there she is, my goddaughter.” The voice accompanying the words makes my skin crawl. How long has it been since I had to endure it in my ears? Two or three years since he last attempted to visit me in my prison?

It didn’t go well for him then; I threw a vase at his head and tried to bite his face and neck. I screamed profanities, and thrashed in Sammy’s tight restraining hold. Some of it was part of my act of being insane and unhinged; most of it, however, was my truthful reaction to his disgusting presence.

Black shoes and fine fabric slacks with the thick, open velvet robe of the Order, trimmed in red, are the first things that greet my sight. A shiver of disgust runs down the length of my body, causing all the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck to stand. I do my best to disguise my unease at being so close to him, the scent of his strong cologne invading my nose and causing my stomach to turn. I refuse to raise my chin and look at him. I know what I will see when I do.

The green eyes of a monster, the boyish smirk of an evil but charming man. One who used to bring me sweets as a small child, and then one day forced me to watch as my mother was repeatedly and brutally gangbanged against her will. Effectively ending my childhood, innocence, and belief in God, all in one fell swoop.

“My dear, it will be alright. Gabriel is with his righteous and benevolent Lord and Savior. He is seated at the Father’s right hand, awaiting a day when he can return with trumpets blaring to usher us all into the kingdom of heaven.”

I want to roll my eyes at his proclamation; what a fucking asshole. Nothing will ever be alright again. No one is coming to save us, and if there was a God, no way would he allow any of these men into his kingdom. He would smite them all on the spot for using his name to abuse others.

I don’t acknowledge his words with my own, only slightly nodding and assuring my hands are neatly intertwined in reflection. I hold tightly to the gold and black rosary in my grip. I want them to see me as a good girl, weak and devoted to her God, when nothing could be further from the truth.

I could strangle him with this beaded leash with just one quick movement, tying me to his God. I could end his life with one of the tools he uses to profess his false faith. My fingers tingle with anticipation, and a throat clearing behind me loudly makes me release the breath I’m holding. Fucking Sammy is a killjoy; it’s almost like he can read my mind.

Harsh, loud cries sound from before me and have me sidestepping Noah’s form, and moving further down the aisle toward the haunting and anguished sound. My brother’s casket is laid at the end of the aisle. The frame finished in a shiny high gloss black, with red and white roses cascading down its sides. White candles surround every available surface, making it seem to glow within the chapel. The thick smell of frankincense and roses fills the air, and helps to hide the smell of decay.

Everything about the sight in front of me is hideous and wrong to me. I shouldn’t be here. Gabriel shouldn’t be in that box. He hated roses and called them old lady flowers. Why did they cover him with something he hated?

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