Arranged love

CROSS

Thirteen years old . . .

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SON,” my mother says softly to me while we stand at the entrance of Oak Grove, my father’s church.

I hate being here after hours. It gives me the creeps. The walls creak, and the wind always makes the old, stained windows rattle. It gives me a feeling so deep down in my bones that I’m cold for hours after I leave. I can’t explain it, but it feels like evil is inside these walls. Which is stupid since this is a place of worship where people come to heal-God’s house. My father says it has power, but I have yet to see that. I have never witnessed a miracle that couldn’t be explained by science.

I step back from her, forcing her hands off my shoulders, and take a quick look around the empty structure. “Why are we here?” I ask, my hands shaking nervously. It’s past midnight and officially my thirteenth birthday. She woke me from my bed and said we had to go for a drive.

Lowering her eyes, she sighs deeply, forcing my heart rate to speed up. “Mom …?”

“Son,” my father’s voice booms behind me, and I spin around to see him walking our way. He’s dressed in his business attire-a black button-down shirt with black slacks and a matching suit jacket. His dark hair is slicked back, and his face is freshly shaved. You wouldn’t know just by looking at him that he’s worth billions of dollars.

He comes to a stop and removes his hands from his front pockets, crossing them in front of him. The black ring in the shape of a crown on his right ring finger tells the world that he’s a member of the Three Wisemen. It’s a reminder that my father may play the martyr, but he does the work of the devil.

He and his two best friends started Kingdom-the largest, most corrupt hotel and casino here in Sin City. They each play their part outside their gilded cage. The only difference is they asked for their prison sentence. My father likes to pretend he’s a disciple of God. That he does his work of ridding the world of evil. When the truth is, he creates it. He takes whatever the sinners have to offer and promises redemption, but instead, he feeds it to the devil as an offering.

Their sins are his currency. Knowledge makes you rich and powerful.

I take a step back from him, needing the space, and bump into my mother. Sidestepping quickly, I move to where I can see them both at the same time, whipping my head back and forth. “I wanna go home,” I manage to get out, trying to calm my nerves when I want to scream. Why am I here? My father makes me attend church on Sundays when the congregation is present. That way, he can show off his perfect family along with the other Three Wisemen and their families. Appearance is everything in this city. Without a kingdom, there is no need for a King to rule.

“It’s time,” he states, walking over to me.

“For what?” I ask. My voice squeaks, and I want to punch myself for acting like such a little bitch.Têxt © NôvelDrama.Org.

Placing his hand on my back, he ushers me through the double doors and down the aisle. “The Lord forgives all sins until we reach the age of thirteen.”

I look over my shoulder to see if my mother has followed us, and she has. She stands at the back in front of the double doors, just staring at us. “Yes, Father.” But I’ve been saved since I was three. He reminds me every day that I’m a son of the Lord.

He looks down at me, giving me a kind smile, but it doesn’t ease my fear. His green eyes look even brighter from the candlelight. I got his eyes, and I hate it. I wonder what he sold in order to get a son-an heir to continue his legacy once he’s passed. His death can’t come soon enough if you ask me. “Today, you have reached that age-age of accountability.”

I have done a little research on this, but as far as I can find, there is no such thing in the Bible that states we must be saved by the age of thirteen. But I will never tell him that. No one argues with my father. His word is as strong as God’s. “Yes, Father,” I agree once again.

“You must repent for your sins.”

My body begins to tremble at his choice of words, and I pray that he doesn’t notice. Sins? What have I done? He is the one who pretends. I hear the stories around town. The way kids look at me and my friends at school. Evil doesn’t just walk among us. It also lives in our houses. It intertwines itself in our everyday life so you can’t break free. We’re being trained, conditioned to take it over one day. We don’t have a choice. We will be the Kings. The question is, what will we do with it?

My eyes go back to the scene before us. I’ve seen it before. The first time I was nine. I shiver from the memory of that night and the scar that reminds me of it.

We come to a stop, and he reaches up, grabbing the chain around his neck and removes the silver cross that my mother got him when he became a priest as if that was supposed to mean something. It might have once, but it no longer does. Not to me. It’s his weapon of choice.

He hasn’t always been a religious man. He and my mother weren’t this way when I was born. The Three Wisemen took an oath and must do whatever it takes to uphold it.

“You must allow the Heavenly Father into your soul, son.”

“I have, Father.” My voice shakes, and I cross my arms over my chest, trying to shield my body. Not again. Why tonight? Why this birthday?

He sighs heavily, clearly not happy with my answer. “Remove your shirt.”

I swallow the lump that forms in my throat. “Dad …?”

“Remove your shirt, son,” he demands. The echo in his voice bounces off the walls and cathedral ceiling.

I grip the white fabric and slowly pull it over my head. He reaches out for one of the candles. “But why …?”

“Shh.” He shushes me. “I’m going to save you, my child.”

He runs the candle along the back of the silver cross. The flame licks the precious metal. Without looking down at me, he speaks. “Down on your knees.”

My heart pounds, and blood begins to rush in my ears. There’s no stopping what’s to come. Either I will willingly do as I’m told, or he will force me, which will just make it worse. With shaky knees, I slowly lower myself to the cold floor.

“Place your chest to your thighs and reach your hands out in front of you.”

Tears begin to blur my vision, but I blink them away, refusing to cry or look weak. To him, weakness is a tool. Something useful. I heard him once say, “A man must willingly sacrifice himself with dignity.”

I hear him set the candle back and my body shakes as he places his hand flat on my back, holding me down while kneeling beside me.

“Dad-” My voice breaks as I try to catch my breath.

He interrupts me. “Bless him, Father, for he does not know what he does.” Then he places the burning metal against my back, and I bite down on my tongue, refusing to scream into the silent church. The smell of burning flesh hits my nose while blood slips between my lips and onto the floor under me. Every muscle in my body is taut while I hold my breath. “But he will. Being a King has a price that very few are willing to pay.”

Sucking in a breath through gritted teeth, he removes the hot cross, and I sag to the floor.

“You must learn to endure pain, son,” my father says, pulling me to my feet.

I sniff and quickly rub the back of my hand under my nose to catch the snot. When I swallow, I taste the lingering blood.

“People don’t understand what it takes to be us.” He goes on, and I look at my shoes, unable to meet his eyes. The shame I feel right now is too much.

My back is on fire from the branding he just gave me. As if a fucking cross is going to guarantee me a trip to heaven.

“You will see, son.” He taps my shoulder, and I pull away from him.

He turns and walks away, leaving me standing alone at the front of the church. Moments later, I hear my mother’s heels clap on the floor as she makes her way to me.

“He is teaching you to be better,” she states, coming to stand next to me.

Lifting my head, I glare up at her, hating her for marrying him and for having me. Why would anyone want this life? Why would anyone want to hurt the innocent?

“Happy Birthday,” she says once again. Reaching into the pocket of her jacket, she pulls out a small rectangular box.

I just stare at it.

“Go ahead and open it.” She holds it out to me.

I take it from her hand and gently unwrap the white paper and see it’s a black Zippo. A lighter? My birthday present is a lighter?

“We all have a cross to bear,” she reads what’s engraved on the back. “Fire is a symbol of the Holy Spirit.” She goes on to explain. “Fire can bring warmth, but it can also be uncontrollably dangerous.” I look up at her. “You’ve always been fascinated by fire, Cross. Just like your father.” I flinch at that thought. I hate being like him. “This is your faith. Your redemption. A reminder that we must all do what needs to be done.” With those words, she takes my hand and guides me back down the aisle of the church.