Chapter 2: Under His Rule: Chapter 1

Before

Everyone has their own personal hell.

Mine is a door.

A door might seem simple, but it never really is.

It’s a gateway into a place filled with memories, but it can also be a place that still echoes with screams.

They say the walls of a house hear everything, that they keep our memories safe. But I’ve never wished for anything more than for these walls to erase what happened inside them.

I wish that door—that single door I’m staring at right now—didn’t exist.

An inkling of courage settles in my veins. My feet move closer instinctively, my hand rising to grab the door handle, but the closer I get, the more my fingers shake. Until my entire body starts to tremble uncontrollably.

No. I can’t do this. I can’t face this. Not today.

So I turn around and walk away, blowing out a breath of air.

A breath of defeat.

Going into the bathroom, I peel off my clothes layer by layer, throwing them all in the basket until nothing’s left but me and myself and this mirror right in front of me staring straight into my soul. Here, everything is laid bare. There are no secrets. There’s no shame.

Just me … and my ugly, soul-crushing scar.

How can I look myself in the eyes if I can’t even enter a simple door?

I sigh and stare at the judgmental person in the mirror. The one who knows me best.

My finger slides along the line that sits on my belly. My skin no longer feels the pain, but my heart bleeds so badly the tears flow without me wanting them to, and I look away before I let things go too far.

I step under the shower and rinse away whatever emotions just came out of me, pushing back the memories further and further until they no longer exist. Because that’s what people do when they’re trying to protect themselves. When they’re trying to survive.

You bury yourself in denial until you can smile again.

No more crying. That’s a promise I made to myself, and I have to stick to it. Girl the fuck up.

So that’s what I do as I wash and then dry myself, refusing to look in the mirror while doing so. But when I leave the bathroom, that same door is right in front of me. The same door that always makes me stop in my tracks and stops the air from leaving my lungs for a second or two.

No. Look away, Natalie.

Closing my eyes, I walk to my bedroom, where I put on some fresh clothes, brush my hair, apply my makeup, and produce a fake smile. And with my head held high, I grab my bag and march out the door.

“Here you go, Ron! Hope it tastes amazing,” I say as I hand him his supper.

Ron’s here at the shelter every day. Mostly, he plays chess with one of his friends who’s always sitting by himself in the corner of the hall. For some reason, Ron can make that guy talk when none of us here behind the counter can. But I don’t mind because when I see those two smile at each other as they sit down to eat a meal, it brightens my day and warms my heart.

That’s why I do it; the kindness people show each other at this shelter is amazing, and I feel humbled to have a job here. At least for now. I don’t know if I’m going to be doing this forever, but it pays some bills, and it keeps my head above water, so I’m grateful.

When my shift ends, I grab my stuff and say bye to my coworkers for the day. On the way home, I check my cell. Nothing.

I sigh and lick my lips.

Why do I even expect anything less?

I look through my previous messages from Steve on WhatsApp, getting more and more annoyed with myself that I keep caring while he’s already forgotten about me.

“Asshole,” I mumble to myself on the way home. Tucking my phone back into my pocket, I wished I’d never checked.

When I finally get home to my tiny apartment, I throw my keys on the counter and put my bag on the floor. I’m so ready to pop open a wine bottle and chill on the couch. So I grab a glass, pop a new bottle, and pour it in, just for me. Then I settle in my little corner, and I open my laptop. As I’m scrolling through the local news as I normally do when I get home from work, something catches my eye.

I stop scrolling and glare at the picture in front of me with the headline “The Family seen in town.” But it’s not the headline that boggles my mind.

It’s the picture of a few men … and one of them, the one hiding all the way in the back, has a tattoo of a symbol on his hand.

My heart briefly stops as I stare at the tattoo.

I recognize that symbol.

I know it by heart.

Scooting my chair back, I jump up and rush to my closet, throwing out every piece of clothing until I get to the bottom where I keep the old trunk I brought with me from the orphanage. The one I never touched since I came out of there.

Opening it, I take out the scarf that’s inside.

I rush back to my laptop, leaving everything a mess. My eyes study the tattoo on his hand while holding the scarf close to my body. The scarf I’ve known as the only remnant of my childhood.

A scarf with a symbol just like his. A circle and within it a tree with long roots.

The Family.

Who are they?

What does the symbol mean?

I read the text below the headline. Something about members of the Family being in town to gain new followers for their religious cult.

Cult.

Cult.

Cult.

The word plays over and over in my mind.

They promise happiness, favorable work, free housing, and plenty of love and support. They coax people to join using a variety of methods, including speeches … and rituals of sexual nature.

I scoot back my chair as if to create distance between me and the words. Me and the man in front of me with that same symbol on my scarf.

Why do I have something with this symbol on it? Is it a coincidence? It has to be.

My eyes go from the screen to the scarf and back to the screen multiple times before I chuck it into the living room and stare it down as though it’s a beast come to eat me alive.

This last thing I have that once belonged to me is cursed.

It can’t be true.

It can’t.

I refuse to believe it.

But my eyes can’t stop searching for more, more clues, more information. Who is this man? What is this cult? Who are they looking for? What is their purpose?

Is this where I came from?

A shiver runs up and down my spine.

For my entire life, I’ve known nothing but solitude. No immediate family. Brought up in an orphanage because no one would take me. I was too old, not a baby anymore, so I grew out of the system, but the system never left me. I’m still that frail little girl I once was who had very few memories of who she was before, who hungered for a family.

And there it is. Right in front of me.

But this can’t be what I’m looking for.

These people are religious fanatics. They don’t just try to spread their religion; they invade people’s minds. They consume them and convert them until nothing’s left of their identity or who they once were.

I don’t want to be a part of that.

Yet I can’t help but search for more.

Where are they now? Are they holding another meeting? Are they inviting new people? Can I look and watch without being found?

So many questions run through my head because all I’ve ever wondered is where that scarf came from. Was it given to me by a member of the Family?

I swallow away the lump in my throat.

I won’t get any answers sitting here behind my computer.

I have to find out for myself.

So I get up, then grab my keys, bag, and the scarf, and I storm out the door.

With my phone in my hand, I find my way to the underground bar where they were supposed to be. But as I tread down the steps, my whole body starts to shiver, and I meet a closed door. I pull at the handle, but it doesn’t budge.

“Password?”

Password? I don’t know. I don’t have one. What am I supposed to say?

“I … I …”

I search through my phone, trying to find clues or anything I can use, and see an ad that has their name on it as well as several messages on a forum board. Somewhere on the bottom, there’s a guy who mentions their slogan. God’s Love Is Life.

“God’s love is life,” I say.

The silence that follows is deafening. I can practically hear my own breath against the door while I try to listen.

Suddenly, the metal moves away from me, and I take a step back.

There’s a big, bearded man standing in front of me, glaring down at me as though I’m lost or something. Was it not the right word? Shit. I should go. What am I even doing here?

He suddenly grabs my arm and pulls me inside.

Just like that … I’m in.

I look around for a second at the grimy enclosure, which looks more like the inside of a cell in a prison than a bar where a gathering is taking place.

A sudden loud bang makes me jolt, and I turn to see the door has been slammed shut by that same burly man. He grunts at me and looks as though he might chew my head off if I say anything about it, so I don’t.

Instead, I continue walking. Is there another exit? I have to find one before things get out of control. Because who knows what’s going to happen at a meeting like this.

“Keep walking,” the burly man growls.

I smile gently at him, trying not to be so obvious in my ignorance.

I wonder if I’m the first one who got inside without an invitation. If I’m the only one who stumbled into this mess.

When I get to the main area, I think I have my answer.

My jaw drops as I look around at the hundreds of people watching a few people on stage talk about religion. Many of them look like regular folks such as me, who probably got in just like I did because they were curious about what went on in here.

But unlike me, they probably want to know why they should join.

All I want is to find that man; the one with the symbol on his hand.

There must be a reason he has that tattoo and why I’m wearing a scarf with that same symbol on it. It can’t be a coincidence, right?

I move through the crowd, listening to the speaker on the stage.

“God is within us all. You must understand he watches over everything you do. God is not right or wrong, God is everything and both. God is all around us. He created every living being and the world. He created us exactly as we are. With love. With compassion. With needs. With all our inhibitions and flaws. And he loves us all. There is no reason you should prohibit yourself from your natural instincts. Why should you punish yourself for doing exactly what God intended? What you were made of.”

“What about sex then?” someone in the crowd asks.

The speaker, an older, gray-haired man with a beard as big as the burly man in front of the door, licks his lips. A tepid smile inches through the cracks, fading as quickly as it came. “God … God’s love is unending. Were you not born without your clothes? Were you not born with love in your heart? Were you not born with needs and wants? Only adults refer to this idea that love must only be given to those who deserve it. But this idea doesn’t stem from God; it stems from fear. It stems from the human inability to understand emotions. To understand that it is natural to feel and have needs. Sex is only a natural part of that.”

“So you’re saying God wants us to have sex?” someone says. “With like everyone?”

Some people burst out into laughter and giggles.

The speaker nods. “Under certain circumstances … yes.”

The serious tone in his voice completely stops the laughter.

“Awesome, I think I’ll join then,” one guy in the crowd comments. More snorts ensue among his buddies along with obscene gestures meant to rile up the ladies standing next to them.

The speaker clears his throat. “We will start the applicant process but be aware that only the worthy will be accepted. What that means is entirely up to the Family’s protocol as outlined in our statute, which you can read once you’ve made it through the initial screening.”

“Screening? No one said we’d go through that,” the same guy boldly states, trying to get his friends to agree.

The speaker looks up and blinks once, controlled. “No one said you were going to.”

The guy seems confused. Then, out of nowhere, three other burly men appear and walk over to him, threatening him with their physical size as they force him toward the exit.

“Hey, I didn’t do shit. What do you want?”

“Out,” one of the burly men says, pointing at the open door.

“What the hell? You fuckers make no sense. Whatever,” the guy says, throwing up his hands before shrugging the burly men off and sauntering off toward the door I came through.

Everyone looks at him as though he’s a black sheep.

The unwanted one.

And more and more people start to flock toward the speaker.

“That is what happens when you don’t take God seriously. Only the devout are able to see the light.”

People hang on his every word, and I’m left questioning whose lead I should follow … the crowd or the man who just got kicked out. The smart thing to do would be to leave, but I can’t until I have what I came here for.

Taking a few steps closer, I watch the crowd disperse when a man on the side of the stage sets up a table and a seat down below, placing a few stacks of papers on top. I glance around the room as people peek over each other’s shoulders, trying to get a view of the documents. But all I see are the men on the stage and a few beside it, barely hiding behind a curtain as though they want to remain unseen. But I see them.

One in particular … with a tattoo on his hand.

It’s him.

My eyes home in on the man and his clean-shaven, handsome face, which isn’t at all a face I’d expect on a man who belongs to this group. With his hair casually thrown to one side and his strong jaw and prominent chin, he looks more like a sexy mobster than a Family man. Still, I can’t stop looking at him, at the way he moves his hand to his thin lips and chews on his nails, or how he scans the room as though he’s looking for something … like I did when I found him.

And now … he’s found me.

When our eyes connect, I freeze.

He captures my full attention away from the busy room and crowd of mumbling people. I am solely focused on him, even when I don’t want to be. I can’t pull my eyes away, and neither can he.

But in his eyes, I don’t see kindness or the gentleness of a Family man.

All I see is a bitter frenzy … directed straight at me.

Noah

There she is.

Right there in the crowd.

The moment our eyes connect, I know it’s her … the girl I’ve been looking for.

Her pretty red hair cascades down her shoulders and onto the scarf she wears around her neck, but those luscious locks don’t distract me. It’s her eyes … those hauntingly beautiful eyes. I don’t need anything other than her staring straight back at me to know that I’ve found the one I’m going to take. The one who’ll be mine.

With a flick of my fingers, one of our devoted elders for the day comes toward me. “Her.”

I narrow my eyes at the girl, and his follow suit.

“Now?”

“Now,” I reply.

He nods and walks off the stage, going straight toward her in the crowd. Dread fills her eyes the longer she looks at me. I can’t stop staring because I know, deep down, she can see straight through me … straight into my wicked, stained soul.

A wretched smile forms on my lips. I didn’t think it would be that easy, that simple, but it is.

By the time she noticed my man approaching her, it’s already too late to flee. He grabs her arm and talks to her, then pulls her away into a separate room.

He knows what he has to do.

Natalie

Within seconds of spotting the man with the tattoo, someone has his hands on me. I sputter some words but don’t know what to say as the unknown man drags me away to a room in the back. I don’t know what he wants or why his boss sent him to grab me.

“Stop, wait, I didn’t sign a form,” I manage to mutter. The people in the crowd were about to line up for a document, but I never got my eyes on a single piece of paper. And still, I’m pushed into a room and locked in against my will.

I bang on the doors, but no one answers.

“Let me out!” I scream.

Seconds later, it rattles, and I step back, hoping they’ll let me out and tell me it was all a mistake. I didn’t sign up to become one of them. They have no right to hold me.

But one look at his hands makes my eyes widen and my heart stop.

A bag.

And it’s pulled over my head and cinched tightly at the base.

I scream, but the bag muffles the sound. Someone snips holes in the bag where my nose is, but I still struggle for air. I squeal and try to shove them away, but I miss. Oh God, oh God, oh God, what did I do? What did I get myself into?

I have to get out. I have to escape.

In a panicked frenzy, I run toward anything and everything I can find, bumping into walls, tables, chairs, then falling to the floor only to get back up and try again.

Suddenly, two arms wrap around my waist. “Hold her, goddammit,” a voice growls.

A sharp object punctures my skin. I squeal, but my voice feels weak. Fainting. Just like me.

My whole body goes numb as my muscles refuse to listen to my commands, and I sink to the floor while my eyes slowly close.

I can’t let them do this … I can’t let these people take me … Can’t …

Too. Late.

Noah

On my lap lies an angel. A pretty girl with beautiful, long red-painted hair with streaks of auburn hidden underneath. A girl with the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen before she closed them tight. Right now, she’s blissfully unaware of what’s going on around her, of how I’ve taken her from that joint and put her in my car, and that she’s coming with me.

The drugs to subdue her were easy to administer, but it won’t be easy on either of us once they wear off.

My fingers caress her hair and cheeks softly, and I wish I could keep her right here with me. But I need to win her trust first, so this needs to be the final time I touch her … for now.

I murmur into her ear, “I can’t wait for you to become mine.”

She’s breathing so softly that it’s almost as if she’s sleeping. But we both know that isn’t true.

When she wakes up, she’ll learn exactly what it means to be owned.