Chapter 35 Elliot
ELLIOT
The basement reeks of mold and disinfectant. I’ve lost track of time since they locked me here since the single window is covered with heavy black fabric. Hours have passed, maybe a full day. My wrists burn from the rope, and thirst scratches at my throat.
The door creaks open. Pastor Williams enters, Mother following him like a dutiful disciple. He carries his worn Bible, its pages marked with dozens of colored tabs.
Mother nods, her eyes gleaming with a fervor I’ve never seen before. She looks... satisfied as though my suffering brings her joy.
“Your soul is in grave peril, son.” Pastor Williams leans forward, his breath hot on my face. “The homosexual lifestyle is Satan’s most clever deception. He has blinded you to natural order.”
“I’m not deceived,” I croak, my voice raw from earlier screaming. “This is who I am.”
Mother’s face hardens. “That man has poisoned your mind. You were normal before him.”
“Indeed,” Pastor Williams nods. “Romans 1:27: ‘The men abandoned natural relations with women and were inflamed with lust for one another.’”
They take turns, a grotesque tag team. The pastor quotes scripture about fire and brimstone while Mother describes the eternal torment awaiting me.
“Your soul will burn forever,” she whispers, almost lovingly. “Is that what you want, Elliot? To suffer eternally for temporary worldly pleasure?”
Pastor Williams places his hand on my forehead, pressing painfully. “The devil has his claws in you, but we will cast him out!”
As he prays loudly, Mother watches me with cold eyes that hold no maternal love—only the satisfaction of righteousness. Her lips curve slightly upward as I flinch from the pastor’s increasingly aggressive touch.
“We have days ahead for your cleansing,” Pastor Williams says. “Satan will not win this battle.”
Hours pass with their relentless prayers. My throat burns from thirst, my stomach twisting with hunger. When Pastor Williams finally stops mid-verse, I allow myself to hope they’ve given up.
I’m wrong.
“Prayer alone won’t cleanse such deep corruption,” he says, nodding to Mother. She wheels in a small TV on a metal cart. “You need to see the truth about this lifestyle you’ve chosen.”
The screen flickers to life with grainy footage. Men with lesions covering their faces. Hospital beds. Emaciated bodies. Funeral homes stacked with coffins.
“This is the homosexual reality,” Pastor Williams narrates as Mother stands with her arms crossed, watching my reactions. “Disease. Suffering. Early death.”
I close my eyes, but Mother slaps me hard across the face.
“You will watch,” she hisses. “Every minute of it.”
The images grow more graphic—doctored photos of gay nightlife showing depravity that I know is manufactured, interviews with ex-gays claiming they found happiness through conversion.
My stomach cramps violently. “Water,” I rasp. “Please.”
Mother’s eyes flick to Pastor Williams, who shakes his head. “Fasting purifies the body to receive God’s truth.”
When my head begins to droop from exhaustion, they blast gospel music through portable speakers. When that stops working, Mother dumps ice water over my head.
“No sleep until you reject sin,” Pastor Williams explains. “Sleep allows Satan to whisper to you.”
The hours blur. Day becomes night becomes day. The fluorescent lights never switch off, drilling into my skull. The videos loop endlessly—the same awful propaganda cycling through as I drift in and out of consciousness.
The room spins. My lips crack and bleed. I’ve soiled myself at some point, the stench mixing with the basement’s mildew. I can’t remember the last time I had water.
“Just say you’ll change,” Mother whispers during one of Pastor Williams’ breaks. “Just say it, and this stops.”
Julian’s face flashes in my mind. The way he looked at me. The way he made me feel seen.
“No,” I manage through cracked lips.
The lights burn brighter. The speakers blare louder. Another video begins.
The endless cycle of videos pauses. Pastor Williams steps out, muttering about needing to prepare communion elements for the cleansing ritual. Mother remains, pacing the concrete floor with erratic steps.
“Cleanse the demon, free the child,” she suddenly sings, her voice unnaturally high and melodic. “Cleanse the demon, free the child.” Her fingers trail along the wall as she circles me.
“Mother,” I whisper, “please stop this.”
She whirls around, face contorted with fury. “Don’t call me that! No son of mine would choose sin!” She screams.
Then, like a switch flipped, her expression softens. She kneels beside me, stroking my hair with gentle fingers. “My sweet boy,” she coos. “We’ll make you better. We’ll burn the evil away.”
I flinch at her touch, which makes her eyes harden again.
“It’s squirming inside you,” she hisses, digging her nails into my scalp. “I can feel it moving under your skin!”
Mother stands abruptly, grabbing the empty water pitcher. “The demon needs to be drowned,” she declares, her voice once again singsong. “Water cleanses all sins.”
She slams the plastic pitcher against the edge of the cart until it shatters, sending jagged shards flying. Her eyes gleam with frightening purpose.
“We’ll let the demon bleed out,” she whispers, lunging toward me with the makeshift weapon aimed at my throat.
Heavy footsteps thunder down the stairs as Pastor Williams bursts in, grabbing her wrist. “Margaret! This isn’t God’s way!”
“Let me go!” she shrieks, struggling against him. “The demon speaks with my son’s voice! It must be destroyed!”
As they struggle, I see her eyes—vacant, unfocused, pupils dilated to pinpoints. This isn’t hatred. This is something far worse, far deeper than religious conviction.
My mother is truly insane.
Pastor Williams wrestles the shard from her grasp, his expression showing shock at her violence. “Sister Chambers, compose yourself!”
The truth crashes over me with terrible clarity. She didn’t burn my gallery out of righteous anger—she did it because she’s dangerously unstable.
Pastor Williams eventually calms Mother, leading her to a corner where they whisper urgently. I catch fragments about “not being ready” and “escalating the treatment.” My parched throat burns, my head pounds from dehydration, and my wrists are raw beneath the ropes.
After what feels like hours, Pastor Williams approaches with a paper cup.
“Drink,” he commands. “We can’t have you meeting your Savior in a weakened state.”
The lukewarm water barely touches my thirst. Mother watches from a distance, her eyes vacant yet somehow calculating.
“A short rest,” Pastor Williams announces, “then we begin the cleansing ceremony.”
They leave me alone briefly. I try to flex my fingers, fighting the numbness spreading through my limbs. The silence is almost worse than their voices—it gives my mind space to imagine what comes next.
When they return, Pastor Williams wears a white stole over his shirt. Mother follows with a small bottle of oil. Their faces are set with grim determination.
“The demon of homosexuality has a strong hold,” Pastor Williams intones, dabbing oil on my forehead. “But God’s power is stronger!”
He places his hands on my head, shouting prayers while Mother circles us, mumbling her own incantations. The pressure of his fingers increases until pain shoots through my skull.
“I cast you out, unclean spirit!” he bellows. “Release this child of God!”
Mother joins in, pressing her hands against my chest. “Burn away the sin! Cleanse him!”
Something inside me snaps. Twenty years of suppression, of hiding, of shame—all of it crystallizes into pure, defiant rage.
“I’d rather die as who I am!” I scream, my voice tearing from my throat. “I’d rather die gay than live as the empty shell you want!”
Pastor Williams stumbles backward, but Mother lunges forward. Her open palm connects with my cheek, then again, and again.
“How dare you!” she shrieks, her face contorted. “After everything I sacrificed! After raising you alone!” Each word punctuated by another slap. “I failed! I failed as a mother! The devil took root because I wasn’t vigilant enough!”
Her screams become incoherent, spittle flying from her lips as Pastor Williams tries to pull her away.