7. Res
7
Res
A s soon as I enter the room, wine bottle in hand, one of the church mothers comes up to me to offer her condolences. I don’t know who she is. Likely she became a mother after I left. That makes what I’m about to do all the more easier, not that I would have found it hard in the first place.
“Fuck your condolences,” I snap loudly at her. Loud enough for the entire room to hear it and go silent.
The church mother opens and closes her mouth in clear shock before saying, “Pardon me.”
“I said: Fuck. Your. Condolences,” I repeat.
“Belov ed ,” the woman says in a patient tone. But simply by her calling me “beloved,” I know that I’ve gone too far.
Calling a person beloved—with an emphasis on the -ed that gives the word an extra syllable—in these circles is a way of calling a person a dumb bitch or motherfucker or something along that sentiment while staying “classy.”
“Belov ed ,” I repeat mockingly. “Am I out of line? Am I being disrespectful?” I let out a laugh. “Well, too fucking bad, this whole thing is disrespectful. ”
I walk around the church mother and walk to the center of the room to make sure everyone can hear me and see me.
“All of you, crying your eyes out over a good God-fearing man and woman’s lives cut short,” I say, raising my voice. “If by God-fearing you mean a man and a woman who harbored a child sex abuser, who tried to gaslight me into thinking I was the problem when they let said abuser remain around me in the name of God and forgiveness and no judgment, all the while judging me for wanting nothing to do with him. If that’s what you mean by good and God-fearing, yep. Definitely. Makes me wonder what skeletons all you God-fearing men and women are hiding. But it can’t be worse than that. The bar for God-fearing is apparently in hell. May my parents burn in hell. Alongside my pedophile brother.”
Lyssa comes up next to me and says, “Res, I know you’re angry, but maybe now isn’t the time to—”
“If not now, when?” I snap, brushing her off. “When do I get to speak my truth? If you all can talk about how great they were, why can’t I talk about the bad? They’re dead now. Their story is written. Period. If I can’t speak my truth and judge them now, then when?”
“Res,” Lyssa tries again.
“So you’re sympathizing with pedophiles and their enablers now?” I ask.
“No!”
“Then shut up or get out,” I snap. I pause. “Actually, get out anyway. Not just you. Everyone. Bunch of fucking hypocrites. Apostates. ”
Everyone hesitates to look at each other in confusion, wondering whether or not they should do what I say.
“Did I fucking stutter?” I yell, taking a swig of my wine for emphasis. “Get the fuck out! Get out of my fucking house, right now. Before I call the police and tell them to arrest you for trespassing.” I turn to Darryl Wright, J’s piece of shit father. But even pieces of shit have uses sometimes, I guess. “Go ahead. Make them get out and arrest them if they don’t leave.”
Everyone begins to file out at my request, with Wright helping to crowd them out.
“And make sure to take all your shit,” I yell. “Because if you don’t, I’m not letting anyone back in to get it.”
When everyone has filed outside, he turns to me and says, “I understand that you have complicated feelings about your parents. But I’m going to come by and check on you anyway tomorrow. They would have wanted someone to look after their little girl. I know I’d want someone watching out for mine if I couldn’t.”
I wouldn’t trust the guy who continues to misgender his son as far as I could throw a fucking elephant to check on me. But before I can snap that, Jaxson steps between me and the sheriff.
“There’s no need for that. She’s in safe hands,” Jaxson assures.
Jaxson's steel tone leaves no room for argument, but apparent Wright misses the memo and pushes.
"I know you think you're hot stuff, but I've know Res since she was knee high. And--"
"She's in safe hands," Jaxson repeats. "Now leave. "
The sheriff nods, giving Jaxson a commiserating pat on the shoulder before leaving and closing the door.
“When I said I wanted everyone to get out, I meant you too,” I snap, taking a swig of the wine.
Jaxson pries the wine bottle out of my hands with a chuckle as he says, “You know I don’t take orders from you of all people.”
“Where’s your father’s little spy? On her way to report that I had a nervous breakdown?”
“She’s not my father’s spy,” Jaxson replies. “And you and I both know that was all an act. A good one, but an act all the same.”
“I really did want them all gone. That part wasn’t an act,” I say. Then I add, “I want you gone. Back to Chicago. With Magdalene and all your people. And tell your father he can shove his proposal up his ass.”
“That’s not what you want,” he says, taking a step toward me.
“It is.” I take a step back and another and another.
“It isn’t.” Jaxson continues to advance toward me, stalking in my every footstep.
“You don’t know how I’m feeling. You don’t know what I want.”
My back finally meets the wall. Jaxson runs a hand down the side of my face, and despite the fact that I want him gone, I also can’t help shivering under his touch.
“Snow White, I know all your wants, all your fears, all your desires. I’ve shattered you. And now you are mine to make into whatever image I see fit,” he reminds.
It seems like so long ago that he cornered me just like this at the most exclusive hotel in Chicago, threatening to push me over the edge of a balcony or shoot me. That he said those fateful words. That he was going to break me into a thousand pieces and be the only one that could pick up the pieces again. I was terrified, exhilarated, and in awe of the power and control that he exhibited at the time. Thrilled at the thought of the chase.
Those same feelings thrum through me now, and for a moment, just a moment, I almost succumb to it. Allow myself to be drawn back into our own little fantasy where I was a girl who escaped and survived a cult, and he was part of a cult but its politics and workings were just a storm cloud in the distance.
But I can’t. Because the storm cloud is here and raining a flood that will drown and carry this fantasy away from our grasps.
“Stop it,” I snap.
“Stop what?”
“Stop this!” I yell. “Stop acting like you have everything under control. Stop acting like nothing has changed. Stop acting like we’re still playing the same game, isolated in our own little world. Stop acting like you have everything under control. Because you don’t!”
“Lauressa.”
“Don’t tell me I’m wrong. Because I’m not,” I snap. “If I’m wrong then tell me. Tell me what you plan to do about your father. Tell me what’s the plan if you’re not going to turn me over to him to be his little sex slave.”
“That’s not for you to worry about.”
“Bullshit,” I say, managing to slip around Jaxson so I’m not between him and the wall. “It’s my life. It’s for me to worry about. I am worried about it. I just want to know that you’re worried about it too. I want you to stop putting up this… this… unflappable act when of the two of us, one of us did have an actual nervous breakdown today, and it wasn’t me!”
Jaxson says nothing, just casually observes me with that same blank, unflappable expression. But I know what he’s like when he’s really being unflappable. If he were really as in control as he pretends to be, he would have let out a longsuffering, knowing sigh and had a dry comeback prepared. Something. Not this… not this stony silence. And if this is how it’s going to be, I want no part of it.
“Get out,” I snap.
He chuckles, clearly relaxing about being in familiar territory. I, on the other hand, am not laughing.
“I will fucking stab you if you don’t leave.”
The smirk on his face tells me he doesn’t believe me, but if there’s one thing I learned from Jaxson, it’s not to threaten someone without being willing to follow through.
I stomp into the kitchen, looking around until my eyes land on the knife block. This morning, I overheard one of the mothers complaining that none of them were sharp enough and going through the process of sharpening them. Good. They’ll probably cut through skin.
I go over to pick a knife before realizing if I just storm at Jaxson with a knife, he’ll just overpower me and put the knife to my neck. So I pick up the entire block and cradle it in my left arm while pulling the long chef knife out first.
As soon as I lay eyes on him, I throw the knife forward, like a projectile, aiming to at least severely maim him, only for him to grab the fucking thing out of the air before throwing the knife into the floor.
“You’re projecting where you’re going to throw,” he says, not at all concerned that I threw a fucking knife at him.
I scream and throw another knife and another in quick succession. I keep going until I throw so chaotically that it doesn’t matter that I’m projecting. Jaxson can’t dodge or catch them all. Eventually, one just manages to graze the side of his neck before embedding itself into the floor.
I run out of knives and go to the kitchen to find something else to use as a weapon only for Jaxson to snatch me back. He forces me to the ground onto my back while he straddles me. While I’m panting for breath, his breath is steady. He didn’t even break a sweat dodging me throwing knives at him.
He stares down at me, calculating, like he’s trying to work out a puzzle. Finally, after a long, pregnant silence, during which my breath has gone back to normal, he asks, “What do you want?”
“What?” I ask without thinking.
“You say that I don’t know what you want. So tell me. What do you want?”
“I want…” I trail off.
For all that I accused him of not knowing what I want, truthfully, Jaxson has had a better idea of what that is over the past few months than I have. Loathe as I am to admit it, I don’t know what I want .
But Jaxson is here, waiting for an answer. Willing just for this moment to acquiesce control to me, willing to hear me out, when in the past the only way he’s ever done so was by me backing him into a corner. As close to admitting that maybe he doesn’t truly know what I want better than I do as he’s going to get. I can’t waste this opportunity. I have to say something.
Something.
I want…
I want to trust him?
No. That’s not what I want.
I want…
“I just want to know that you’ll be here with me. That you won’t take away the one thing I have left, that you’ve allowed me to have left. That plan or no plan, you won’t shut me out, and you’ll let me help you figure this out. That no matter how long it takes, you’ll keep chasing me, keep stalking me, that I can know you’re there with me, lurking in the shadows even when I can’t see you there,” I declare.
Jaxson laughs, blood pouring down the cut on his neck and onto my face. A lot more blood than one would think possible from a cut that only just grazed him.
“You think I’d give you up so easily?” he asks.
“If it were between me and the Sovereignty, yes,” I admit, looking away from him. “Wouldn’t be much different from everyone else in my life. Me or my brother. Me or Loving Eden. Me or their stupid biblical doctrine. Me or the future of the boy I tempted into sin.”
His hand finds my neck, right under my chin. He forcefully turns my head to look at him. His expression is fierce. Protective. Possessive. His gaze sharper than the knives I was just flinging at him. Something I said clearly triggered him .
“Don’t you ever compare me to those low lives who erroneously decided you were worthless. I will burn everything, the entire goddamn Sovereignty, to the fucking ground, Altar by fucking Altar, Sovereign by Sovereign. Annihilate every man, woman, and child who gets in my way. No question. No option. Just you,” he declares.
He means every word of his declaration. And that’s terrifying. That he would rain hellfire and scorch the earth for me. That, like the God I was raised to worship, like the Supreme Force he was raised to worship, he would not discriminate in his wrath. That no mitigating circumstances would stop him from waging his own Armageddon for and causing a rapture intended just to keep me with him.
It's also the reassurance I needed.
“Then don’t push me away. Don’t shut me out. Let me be useful. I can help.”
“I don’t need you to be useful to me. You’re mine.”
“Exactly. Yours. Your power,” I remind, determined. “Wield me. Let me be your secret weapon. Because your dad damn sure has quite a few, and he’s willing to use them.”
A long silence follows my plea. So long that if I didn’t know Jaxson, I’d think he was contemplating my offer. But Jaxson already knows what his answer is going to be. What he’s contemplating is how that’s going to fit into my broader plan.
“Fine,” he finally answers.
I can’t help the grin that starts to spread across my face.
“But first, you sliced my neck open with a knife,” he says, a sinister look in his eye that makes my heart skip a beat in terror .
“Jaxson…” I say as my heart races. “I…”
“You were so eager earlier,” he says as he gets up to collect the first knife, the chef’s knife, I threw at him off the floor, so sharp that it went into the floor all the way to the hilt.
Jaxson makes his way to the kitchen, clearly expecting me to get up and follow. I’m not in the mood for whatever torment he has in store for me. But if I try to run, he’ll just chase me. Not only will that just be me delaying the inevitable because Jaxson doesn’t forget slights against him, even—or maybe especially—when it’s me. But also, it’ll give him more time to come up with something much more heinous and creative than he could think of on the fly, which is likely creative enough as it is.
I get up off the floor and head to the kitchen where Jaxson is waiting, tossing the knife in the air and catching it with one hand and with his belt in the other. He’s also found a hammer and nails, left over from some task or another that the church mothers did to prepare the house for the repast. I hadn’t been paying attention.
He sets the knife down and says, “Come here.”
I know better by now than to argue with him and approach him. Once I’m standing in front of him, he puts the knife down on the counter next to us. Then, he takes my wrists and ties them together with the belt, forcing the prong through a part of the leather that doesn’t have a hole in such a way that I can’t escape it.
Next, he grabs an old dishrag, walks behind me, and blindfolds me with it.
My heart skyrockets in anxious and excited anticipation. Anxious because now that I’m blindfolded, I can’t brace myself for what to expect. Can’t see what Jaxson’s doing and won’t know what he’s doing until he does. Excited because I do have a bit of a rebellious kink. I like to break the rules and expectations and call the bluff of those who think they have power over me. When they do nothing, I like the feeling of superiority and power that rushes through me, knowing they’re only posturing. But it starts to get boring. Starts to feel more like tormenting a belligerent child than an actual win.
But even more than that, I like the thrilling horror I feel when I realize they aren’t bluffing. That their bluff, the threat of their power was a real warning. Something about knowing that I’m in over my head exhilarates me. Maybe it’s the part of me that was raised to believe in God’s eventual judgment of the world. The part that was disappointed and betrayed upon the realization that it was fake and never coming, which is why the goalposts for what to do to avoid it always moved. Whatever the reason, that part of me relishes that there is someone willing to punish me. That there is someone who I can fight back against to justify my rebellion.
Because rebellion only means anything when there are meaningful consequences for doing it.
Once the blindfold is secured, I hear the hammer and the box of nails slide off the counter and then the pull of the belt on my wrists. I take that as a signal to walk while Jaxson guides me through the kitchen like he has me captive in my own house.
We stop, and the next thing I hear is the sound of the hammer against the wall. I jump at first, not sure what Jaxson is doing. Is this some kind of torture before Jaxson hits me with it? Bludgeons my head with it? He promised not to push me away. To let me help. But for a man as intelligent and evil as Jaxson can be, I realize that I don’t necessarily have to be alive to do that.
Jaxson continues to hit the wall with the hammer. Not enough to make a hole, but enough that I can hear it. Until finally, he stops, pauses, hits the hammer on one part of the wall, and then hits the wall again in quick succession.
I realize that he’s looking for the stud in the wall just as I’m tugged forward by my wrist and my arms are pulled slightly upward. Shortly after, the steady sound of Jaxson hammering a nail into the wall follows. Pauses. Then starts pounding again.
“Pull,” Jaxson orders.
I pull, finding resistance once I run out of give.
“Harder,” he instructs.
I pull and tug again, stopping once I realize the futility of doing so. Jaxson has nailed his belt, and thus me, to the wall.
“Good,” he says.
Then Jaxson walks behind me, lifts the hem of my funeral dress all the way to my waist, and wrenches my panties and stockings down to my ankles, leaving my bare ass and pussy exposed to the air.
Silence follows. For what feels like minutes. Hours even. But I know that’s just the anxiety and anticipation of exactly what Jaxson’s going to do. The silence draws out so long that if I couldn’t sense Jaxson still in the room somehow, I’d think he’d left.
I hear the clicking of the gas stove followed by the flare of the fire lighting, then, other than the sound of the burner, more silence follows .
How is Jaxson managing to be so silent? I didn’t hear him move all the way back over to the stove. I didn’t even feel the subtle creaks and vibrations of the house. He’s like a ghost.
The sound of the stove is the only thing I hear for another few moments. It feels so long that I start to convince myself that it has been hours. That despite his declaration earlier, he has left me. Blindfolded, half-naked, nailed to a wall with no one to come to my rescue.
My anxious anticipation turns into full-blown fear as my heartbeat gets even faster at the idea that I’ve been abandoned. I begin to urgently tug on the belt, trying to get down. My wrists begin to ache from the force. But I don’t care. I just can’t be here. Alone. Isolated. Tra—
I let out a literal yowl as I feel something hot and sharp slice against my ass. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. But also—
Jaxson’s hand wraps around the back of my neck, pushing me down as far as the belt will allow, making my wrists ache more.
“I’m going to make forty marks on you with this knife,” he says. “And you’re going to be silent the entire time. And for every time that you break that silence, every scream, every moan, every grunt, I’m going to start over. You understand?”
I open my mouth, but before I can say anything, the hot knife slices into my ass again, and I can’t help but say in protest through gritted teeth, “Jaxson.”
“And now,” he says, “I have to start over. At this rate, I’m going to have to heat the knife back up again. Quiet, Snow White. Do you understand? ”
I inhale. Exhale. Then set my jaw and nod my head.
“Good girl,” he says, and then slices into my ass with the knife again.
This time, I’m prepared for it, though. As the heat of the hot knife sears my skin open, I press my lips together and take it.
One, two, three, four. All the way up to ten.
Jaxson stops after that, his hand disappearing from my neck, but I don’t dare open my mouth to ask if he’s still there. I don’t dare even move from where I’m bent over, even though my wrists desperately ache. He has to be. There’s no other option. So I wait for what feels like hours as my heart races and sweat puddles at the edge of my hairline. Starts to slowly fall down my skin.
After what feels like hours, the knife returns to my skin, this time to my other ass cheek. Even though I’m expecting it, even though I know it’s coming, I’m taken by surprise and stop breathing with the effort to not make a sound. It’s worse now after Jaxson has given me a break.
“Lauressa. Breathe,” Jaxson commands.
I can’t. Not yet. Not—
"Lauressa. Breathe. Breathe. Right. Now."
I wait a beat and then manage to exhale without making a sound.
Jaxson continues to slice into my ass. I’m so focused on not making a sound through the torment that I lose count of Jaxson’s cuts.
Jaxson stops again, and the next sensation I feel is him putting his hands on my ass, smearing the blood from the bleeding cuts with his hand. I guess he only heated up the knife enough to make it hurt, not to cauterize the cuts .
He pulls my cheeks apart, smearing the blood between them. Up and down. Up and down. Until finally, he focuses on my asshole.
I almost stop breathing again in anticipation as he slicks up the outside, knowing what’s coming next. Yet, it’s not enough for me to brace myself for the intrusion of one of his fingers poking into my hole.
It doesn’t hurt. In fact, it feels good compared to him slicing my ass open. And that’s the problem.
My breath grows labored, and my legs begin to shake while I fight to hold back making any noise for an entirely different reason as Jaxson adds a second finger. It’s a tight fit, but it feels so good. So good. So—
Jaxson makes another cut on my ass, and it takes everything I don’t have left in me to not make a sound. I hold my breath again, only letting myself breathe again when he’s made a series of five more cuts, using the new blood to stretch my ass open even more as he adds a third finger.
“Ten more to go. Can you take it? Can you have faith in me? Can you trust me even when it feels like your torment won’t end?”
I don’t make a sound, simply grit my teeth again.
“Nod for me, Snow White. I need to know that you can take what’s coming. If you can take this, you can take anything,” he says, working his fingers in me.
The significance of the number forty suddenly dawns on me. Forty days and forty nights it rained, causing the world to flood. Forty years the Children of Israel wandered the wilderness. Forty days Jesus fasted. Forty days Jesus taught his disciples after the resurrection. Forty. The number of trial. Testing. Preparation. Patience.
I’m tempted to break my silence and point out that for someone who doesn’t believe in any of this stuff, Jaxson sure does seem to appreciate the symbolism and uses any chance he gets to use it for his sick, twisted purposes.
But I’ve gotten this far. I’m not letting him break me now.
I let out a breath and nod as Jaxson slices me open again. The sound of the fire still going on the stove is the soundtrack to my torment as the stench of sweat and my arousal fills the air. Sweat and arousal mixing with the blood from the cuts as it drips down my thighs. As Jaxson continues to work me with his fingers.
“Five,” Jaxson says as he slices into me, working my ass harder with his fingers. “Four.” Slice. Thrust. “Three.” Slice. Thrust. “Two.” Slice. Thrust. “One.”
A final slice. A final thrust. But I don’t dare to make one sound. I don’t dare. I don’t dare to—
“That’s my good girl. My chief disciple. My forbidden fruit. You did it. You can let it all out now. Go ahead. Let go,” he says.
He punctuates this with a thrust of his fingers at just the right angle. An orgasm overtakes me so shattering that my legs give out on me and Jaxson’s fingers slip out of my ass.
The sound I let out is loud. Gut-wrenching. Relieved tears stream down my face as sobs burst from my throat.
Jaxson gets on his knees and twists me around so that I’m facing him. Grabs my chin in his hand and forces me to look at him.
I let out a pathetic hiccup as he says, “Don’t you ever doubt my devotion to you again. I don’t care what you heard me say. What anyone else says. What you thought you saw. What someone else tells you they saw. I am your benevolent Lord. You are my servant. And even when you’re not faithful, I will look out for you. I will protect you. I will provide for you. Even if it looks like I’m not. Because that’s always my will. You understand.”
If this were anyone else, I’d roll my eyes. Because this is textbook cult brainwashing—that even in the face of evidence to the contrary, everything done against you is ultimately for you. Because God tries his servants to make sure they are true. Especially his most favored and faithful. Lost your job? God’s trial. Death in the family? God’s trial. Life falling apart and nothing going right? God’s trial. Like Job. Never mind that it’s only a trial if you’re a faithful servant. If you’re not, all of those things become a punishment—God’s judgment—meant to get your attention and make you be faithful again before He’ll bless you.
But I don’t have anything else to believe in. Everything else in my life has failed or abandoned me. But Jaxson, he’s still here. Even when I can’t see him. I have to believe him. I need to believe him.
“Do you. Under. Stand?” Jaxson demands again.
“Yes,” I choke. “Yes.”
Jaxson nods in satisfaction before picking me up in one arm and using the hammer to pry the nails out of the wall with the other. My arms fall heavy and tired in front of me.
Jaxson then puts the hammer down and, with his other hand free, switches to hold me bridal style.
“Now, you’ve had a long day,” he says soothingly. “Let’s get you cleaned up and to bed.”