Page 27 of Be My Sinner

“Sacred Daughters, the Lord said to her, I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.”

His words echo in the chapel space, which is so silent that not even a breath can be heard. His palm is warm, heavy, and almost comforting on my scalp. For a moment, the words flow through me; they tease at my mind and senses, and bring forth feelings of comfort, love, and warmth. My heartbeat slows, my tense muscles relax, and my eyes flutter closed of their own volition.

What is happening to me? Why is my body reacting in this way? He is just a man. A false prophet filled with corruption. One who brought further suffering to the world with the promise of unity and peace. The tone of his voice is so soothing, the timbre not thick or light, but somewhere in between. It even has a musical tonality to it, one that, given the opportunity, I might sit and listen to for hours.

“May the Lord bless and praise you. The Brotherhood honors you and keeps you sacred, beloved daughters of our sacred Father. Find peace in his arms and know that you are loved.”

His words fill me with peace and warmth; gone are the moments of suffering. Gone is the insurmountable grief that I feel at losing my brother, at everything my family has endured at the hands of the Order. Even the rage that lives within every cell of my body seems to cool, and be gentled with his words.

“It is right to give thanks to the Lord, my God, and to the Brotherhood which keeps its order,” my mother and I utter in complete unison, transfixed by the Holy Father before us.

Is it witchcraft? Superpowers? What the fuck is happening to me? What now, do we believe in the supernatural? My brain snarks back at me. The question helps to pull me out of the soothing and calming fog I seem to have found myself in. The need to shake my head of the fog is present, but I restrain myself.

The Holy Father steps away from us and faces the casket, raising his hand in the air and demonstrating the sign of his faith. I miss the feeling and warmth of his touch immediately. It’s a loss that hits me deep inside, reaching into my heart and squeezing it. He mumbles a few words in Latin, bowing his head to the casket before moving forward to stand at the pulpit.

My eyes settle on my brother’s face. His eyes are closed, his long dark lashes still across his high cheekbones, and his features in eternal rest. His naturally pale skin is almost luminous in the lights from the chapel. They have him wearing his Brotherhood robes in the casket, and a ribbon is draped with the seal of our family across his chest. Pain lashes at me, digging deep at my loss. My best friend. My protector. My brother who is now gone.

“Brothers, we are joined here in this solemn occasion to usher the body of one of our fallen brothers back into the hands of the Father. May he find the peace he sought here on earth while surrounded by our Lord’s angels.”

Deep voices rise in unison, chanting. “The Lord is mercy. We serve the most high. The Lord is peace. We serve the Brotherhood. The Lord is forgiveness from sins. We serve with glad hearts.” Over and over, they chant the words, their voices rising until they practically shout them.

From the corner of my eye, I notice that neither Abraham nor Ezekiel participates in the chanting. They both stand there stiff as marble statues, eyes directed at the Holy Father and not bowed in prayer.

For a brief moment, I admire their insubordination, their lack of desire to even pretend to be sheep like the rest of these men. Then Noah elbows Ezekiel in the back quietly and with a warning glare from below his lashes, Ezekiel lowers his head, followed by Abraham.

Interesting. Neither of them seems to be true believers. Not only that, but they didn’t seem to be under the same thrall that even I found myself in. Now that I have pulled my gaze away from the Holy Father, I can breathe and think again. I don’t know how he was able to control the crowd, to control me, but he was.

“Gabriel John Camrose, we send you back to the kingdom of heaven, where our Lord will welcome you with open arms. Your sins are forgiven and discarded. They will perish with your earthly flesh, and you will be reborn in our God’s image. The sound of trumpets welcomes you home and into the waiting arms of our most merciful Father. May the Lord bless those you leave behind. May the Lord find praise for the sacred females you leave in our trust. May the Brotherhood continue on the path you have been called from.”

“It is right to give thanks to the Lord, my God, and to the Brotherhood which keeps its order.” All of our voices combine in response, filling the room with sound. A sound that now sharpens my senses further. My mother has stopped shaking next to me. In fact, she is sitting up straight, her body filled with purpose.

“Come forth, Sacred Daughter and Sacred Mother, and bestow upon this son of the Brotherhood your last kiss, sending him to his final destination with our blessing and peace.”

“It is right to give thanks to the Lord, my God, and to the Brotherhood which keeps its order.”

My mother and I rise from our seats, heads bowed, and walk towards my brother’s casket. I can feel various pairs of eyes on my back; they cause me to feel itchy and irritated. My mother moves to the head of the open casket, sniffles and sobs making their way through her veil. She stops and lifts her veil, pushing the black fabric above the crown of her head and giving me my first real unobstructed look at her face in six years.

She has aged significantly; her pain and suffering are etched into her pale skin’s deep lines and grooves. Her bright blue eyes, with just a hint of gray, are filled with tears that slip down her wrinkled and blotchy skin. Her lips are dry, chapped, and bleeding. I watch as she bites down hard on her bottom lip until a drop of blood rises on its surface.

Her hand rises, and her fingers touch my brother’s face gently and reverently, the face that I am now forced to stare at. His pale skin, which I thought was luminous, now that I am closer, actually appears ashen—his closed eyes and a false peace glare back at me. Calling my name in a voice I will never hear again.

I watch her fingers caress his cheek, the bridge of his nose, over his eyelids, and across his forehead. She leans forward, pressing her chapped and bloody lips onto his forehead. Her whole body is flush against the side of the casket, and for a moment, I’m afraid she might fall inside; she seems so frail.

She pulls back, and I see the drop of blood now smeared on my brother’s pale forehead. The sight of her bright, red blood against his cold and pale skin causing me to want to recoil instead of moving forward.

Someone clears their throat in the crowd at my momentary hesitation, and I have no choice but to take a step toward my mother. I inhale a deep breath and take another step, but she shifts away from the casket before I can reach her side.

Her body shakes like a leaf as it brushes against the casket’s side, causing some of the roses to drop their thick red petals onto the ground. The sight is macabre, making me think of huge red blood drops hitting the stone floor. A sense of foreboding fills me, and my stomach clenches with dread.

Something in my gut tells me to keep my eyes focused on her. I watch with horror as her arm slowly rises towards her head, her hand gripping tightly to a black gun she must have had concealed in her dress. Her eyes, identical to mine, are large, panicked, and unhinged. Her teeth are gripped onto her bottom lip again. A blush color rises up her thin neck and into her cheekbones. Bloody drops begin to well on her lip and trail down her chin. Making her seem like a creature straight out of a nightmare.

There are shouts from all around us, and movement, but I can’t look away from the vision before me. The vision of my mother, broken and lost in her grief, lost in her pain and fractured sanity.

“Mother, please.” My voice comes out too soft, too low, as I plead with her. I let her see into my eyes, into my very soul, that I don’t want her to do this. That she will leave me an orphan with no family left to call my own. “Please put down the gun.”

There is shouting happening all around us. Brotherhood members leave their pews and scurry like rats as far away from us as possible. I can hear orders being issued in the background, but it’s all nothing but brown noise to me. My focus is solely on the woman who has suffered so much, and for so long, at the hands of the men in this room.

“You have taken everything from me! You are demons, not holy men! You have taken my life, that of my son, and even my worthless husband! You corrupt everything you touch! There is no goodness in any of you! I will not watch as you destroy my last child!” She screams as tears pour down her face.

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