Deep Redemption

My eyes raked over page after page of information about the men who had founded the faith along with my uncle. Every one of them had a history of sexual violence.

My uncle had created the commune to engage in sexual acts against children. He had created it all, manufactured a past, to build a faith founded on pedophilia. Attracting fellow sexual deviants to its cause until children were born and raised in the faith.

I closed my eyes, but all my mind would show me was the Lord’s Sharing, the videos Judah had shown me of young, naked girls dancing for their prophet. When my eyes opened, I looked down at Harmony.

The Cursed . . . the most beautiful girls from the entire collective communes were sent to Prophet David’s place of residence to be kept for his use. To be ‘schooled’ by the disciple guards—in reality, raped. To be used as vehicles for the guards’ celestial cleansing.

My uncle had used the excuse of the young Cursed girls’ beauty for his own sick pleasure. He had wanted them, thus created an elaborate tale so the people of the faith would leave them alone, fear them . . . so he and his closest men could have them all to themselves. Men with desires such as his.

“Harmony,” I whispered in utter disgust and dropped my head to hers, holding her just that little bit closer. Tears of frustration slipped from my eyes as I let all that I had learned sink in. It was all false. Everything was utter bullshit . . . and I had been part of it, integral to it . . . I had promoted it.

I had killed and betrayed and caused pain for so many people for a lie.

Rage, so thick and so pure, clogged my heart. I needed to get up. Despite my wounds and aching limbs, I needed to get the fuck off this floor. I gently guided Harmony’s head off my lap and down onto the floor, supporting it with a dry towel she had not used. I pushed myself to my feet, taking the candle and file in my hands.

On weak legs, I staggered to the open door and peered outside. Light was coming from near the building’s entrance. Letting my rage carry me forward, I went looking for Brother Stephen. If the guards returned and caught me, I would welcome their attacks. Right now, with my head pounding and venom pumping around my body, I wanted to fucking draw blood. I wanted to take every cunt in this place down.

I needed to make some pedophilic pricks hurt as much as I did.

As I approached the entrance, I heard a few low murmurs and a single female voice. I blew out the candle, walked around the corner and stopped dead in shock. Brother Stephen and the dark-haired woman Harmony had called Sister Ruth were sitting with the two new guards that had guarded the cellblock of late.

The taller of the guards jumped to his feet. He held his gun in his hands, and my fists clenched at the sight. What the hell was happening? Why the hell hadn’t they come to take Harmony out of my cell?

The guard glared at me, clearly welcoming any kind of threat. But Brother Stephen got to his feet and stood between us. He held up his hands and took a step forward. “Cain,” he said placatingly.

The sound of my name coming from his mouth stopped me dead. I hated that name. “Rider,” I hissed. “My name is Rider.” Raising the file, I snarled, “Is this true? Is what’s in here fucking true?” My body swayed, still feeling the effects of today’s beating. I forced myself to stay standing. I needed to get these fucking answers more than I needed rest.

“Yes,” Brother Stephen replied. He meant it. I could see it in his dark eyes. I expelled a long breath and dropped the file to the floor.

“Shit!” I spat, shame at being part of this place surging through me.

“Rider,” Brother Stephen said and moved closer.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“I heard you telling Harmony who you were. We have never met the prophet—your twin—in the flesh; we did not know you shared the same face. Our guards did not recognize you under all the matted hair.” I turned to face the dark-haired woman who had answered my question. She was looking at me with tears in her eyes. I didn’t know why, but the way she stared made me feel awash with an indescribable sadness. It confused me more than anything else had this night.

“Sister Ruth,” I said.

She nodded her head, casting me a shy smile. “Yes.”

“So you know Judah is now the one in charge?”

“Yes,” Brother Stephen replied.

I looked at the guards. They were staring intently, listening to everything that was being said.

“You are disciple guards,” I said. “How . . . what . . . ?”

Brother Stephen held my gaze. “They are our friends.”

“Our?” I questioned.

Brother Stephen turned round and brought another chair to their makeshift circle near the guards’ desk. He held his hand out, gesturing for me to take a seat. Unable to support myself anymore, I moved to the chair and sat down. My eyes were like a hawk’s as I met the eyes of each of them, promising them without speaking that I would kill them if they tried to take me down, if this was some kind of sick ruse.

If they tried to take Harmony from my cell.

Brother Stephen sat down. The bigger of the two guards checked that the door of the building was locked, then re-took his seat, his gun held firmly in his hands.

“Speak,” I demanded, my voice displaying every morsel of the anger that was consuming me inside.

“Cain, have you ever wondered what happens to defectors of the faith?”

His question caught me off guard. “They are punished,” I said, picturing the Cursed Delilah. I winced, knowing that her treatment was all for fucking nothing. “They are made to pay in flesh or isolation for the sin they have committed. They are encouraged to repent. It’s in our scriptures.”

Brother Stephen nodded his head. “And afterwards? Where do they go? What if they do not repent?” He paused. “Have you ever noticed that the sinners rarely re-enter the commune?”

I stared at the older man in confusion. “I don’t know what the hell you mean. I was raised away from our people. I was kept away in seclusion with Judah in Utah. Up until a few months ago I had never set foot in the commune. It”—I ran my hands down my tired face—“it overwhelmed me. And Judah . . . Judah was the Prophet’s Hand. He was the inquisitor of the sinners. He doled out the punishments.” I shook my head. “What are you getting at? Who the fuck are y’all? And I want the motherfucking truth!”

I was over pussyfooting around. I needed these people to be honest with me, honest and straight to the point. I was done with trying to be polite and prophet-like in this delusional cesspit of a faith. My anger was in the driving seat right now. I had learned long ago to control it, to let the calmer Cain shine through.