45. Forty-Four
I was born underground, deep in the bowels of the earth where rot feeds new life. Underground, where the dead belonged. Underground, where the young boy that was once Dexter was taken by his parents and other high-ranking members of a cult known as the Children of the Light.
To the Children, communion was a holy sacrament given only to the most faithful. As one of the first children born of the union between Father Ezekiel and his followers, Dexter was a treasure, honored above all others. He would be the first to grow up in the teachings of the Light, and as such, the first child to undergo Holy Communion as it was carried out by the church.
The underground chamber was a cavernous space hewn from the ancient bedrock. Rough rock walls were smoothed by time and the brush of countless reverent fingers. Flickering candlelight cast a warm glow over the assembled congregation, their faces upturned, and hands raised in praise. At the far end of the chamber, a natural shelf in the stone had been shaped into an altar, draped with a cloth of purest white.
Dexter stood before the altar, dwarfed by the grand scale of his surroundings. Though he was only a child of six, he held himself with a solemn grace, keenly aware of the importance of this moment. He wore a simple white robe, tied at the waist with a woven cord. His feet were bare against the cool stone floor.
Such pride in the boy’s chest. Such wonder. If only he’d known what was to come.
I watched from the deepest shadowed recesses of the ether, not yet fully formed, not yet needed but awake, aware. Waiting.
A hush fell over the assembled worshippers as Father Ezekiel stepped forward. He placed a hand on Dexter's shoulder, and the boy looked up at his father with nothing but love and adoration in his heart. This was the moment he had been preparing for his entire young life, the moment he would be forever bound to the Light and his god.
Father Ezekiel raised his other hand, commanding the attention of all gathered. “My dear children, we are gathered here today to witness the Holy Communion of our blessed child, Dexter. Through this sacred rite, he will become one with the Light, forever bound to our holy cause.”
The congregation murmured their assent, a low rumble that echoed off the stone walls.
Father Ezekiel turned to the altar. “As our Lord Jesus Christ instructed at the Last Supper, so shall we do in remembrance of Him.”
Father Ezekiel lifted a silver platter from the altar, its surface covered by a pristine white cloth. With reverence, he pulled back the fabric to reveal chunks of raw, red meat, glistening in the flickering light. The coppery scent of blood hung heavy in the air. Dexter's eyes widened as he stared at the offering, confusion and a hint of fear creeping into his young face.
“This is my body, broken for you,” Father Ezekiel recited. He selected a piece of the meat, holding it aloft. Crimson rivulets ran down his fingers. “Take. Eat. Do this in remembrance of me.”
And the congregation ate.
Pleased, Father Ezekiel nodded. He turned back to the altar, lifting the crystal chalice aloft. “This is my blood, shed for you. Drink from it, all of you. Do this in remembrance of me.”
And the gathered host of worshippers drank the consecrated blood.
Thus passed the boy’s first communion, one of many.
It was many more weeks before he discovered the truth, when he beheld Father Exekiel as he wielded the knife that would cut down a trespasser, when he watched from the shadows as the old priest butchered the man. Then he recognized the strange smell and color of the meat he’d been served, and he knew.
The meat, so foreign and sweet on his tongue, had been no ordinary flesh, but the flesh of another human being. And the blood, thick and cloying as it slid down his throat, had flowed through human veins. What he had taken as the ultimate signifier of submission and devotion to his god was an abomination, and partaking in it had turned him into a monster.
Dexter's world crumbled, the foundations of his reality shattering like glass. The teachings he had held so dear, the rituals he had participated in with such devotion, were nothing more than a twisted mockery of faith. The weight of this revelation crushed his young spirit, fracturing his psyche into jagged shards.
In a desperate act of self-preservation, Dexter's mind split, creating a new persona to bear the burden of this unspeakable truth.
And thus, I was born, a being forged from the trauma and horror of Dexter's unholy communion. I became the vessel for all the darkness, the repository of the vile acts Dexter had unknowingly committed.
But another person was born that day, an innocent child, desperate to hold on to some semblance of the purity he once possessed. Someone good and sweet into which all our hopes and dreams would go. He called himself Dex, and his existence became a sanctuary.
While I grew darker, feeding on the awful things he saw and did while held captive in that cult, he remained the same. In my own way, I was protecting him, soaking up all the repulsive, horrific memories no six-year-old should have to endure.
When it became too much and my darkness showed signs of bleeding into Dex’s perfect world, I ripped out a part of myself, forming a new guardian for the boy, an angel bearing all the good teachings of the faith. He became a warrior, a fierce protector from on high with a single holy edict: Protect the boy. Keep him away from me, keep him innocent. Let him live free and happy.
And I grew strong, fed by the memories of the flesh and blood that had passed Dexter's lips. The taste, once so foreign and repulsive, became a twisted source of sustenance for this new, dark persona. A source of power. I craved the metallic tang of blood, the texture of raw meat between my teeth. It was a hunger that could never be sated, a compulsion born from the perversion of the holy sacrament, but also the closest I had ever been to touching the face of God.
“Do this in remembrance of me,” God said, and so I did. Man was made in His image. And so every time I fed, I feasted on God Himself.
As the years passed, I grew stronger, my presence becoming more and more dominant within the fractured landscape of Dexter's mind. While Dex remained blissfully unaware, lost in a world of childish innocence, I bore witness to the escalating depravity of the Children of the Light.
Father Ezekiel's sermons grew more fervent, his eyes alight with a manic gleam as he spoke of the sacrifices required to attain salvation. The congregation, once a peaceful flock, became a horde of fanatics.
And I watched it all, a silent observer, seething with a hatred that burned like hellfire in my veins. With each new atrocity, each innocent life snuffed out in the name of their perverse faith, I grew more powerful, more hateful.
Then came the night that would change everything. The night we were rescued.
My body was eight years old when a social worker came and took a whole group of us children from the compound, but I was ancient. And hungry. Ready to destroy the world.
The night I arrived at the Laskin home was a turning point, though I didn't realize it at the time. The social worker brought me to their doorstep on Christmas Eve, a scrawny, haunted child with eyes that had seen too much. I was wary, expecting more of the same cruelty and depravity I had grown accustomed to in the cult.
But when Annie opened the door, she took one look at me, standing there in my threadbare clothes, shivering in the October chill, and she loved me. She cared for me, all of me, even the darkest parts. Those, too, had a purpose, she said. Those, too, could serve the greater good.
In the early days, I was like a feral creature, lashing out at the slightest provocation. The hunger for flesh and blood, instilled in me through the perverse communion, gnawed at my insides, a constant, aching need. But Annie, with her gentle wisdom, showed me a new path.
“Keres,” she said to me one day, “I know the hunger that drives you. But you have a choice in how you sate it. There are those in this world who prey upon the innocent, who commit unspeakable acts of cruelty and violence. They are the ones who deserve your wrath.”
And so, under Annie's guidance, I learned to hunt. Not the innocent, but the wicked. She taught me to hone my senses and to direct my hunger toward those who didn’t deserve to live. In the dark of night, we would venture out into the city, stalking the alleyways and back streets where predators lurked.
Annie taught me to be selective in my targets, to ensure that the ones I chose truly deserved their fate. We would spend weeks, sometimes months, gathering evidence of their misdeeds. Corrupt politicians, ruthless crime lords, predatory clergymen… They all fell before me.
And with each kill, I felt a sense of purpose, of validation. The darkness within me, once a source of shame and revulsion, had become a weapon to be wielded against the unjust. Under Annie's tutelage, I transformed from a broken, frightened child into a predator feared by all.