Saint Sadist by Lucas Mangum

Author:Lucas Mangum [Mangum, Lucas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781941918456
Publisher: Grindhouse Press
Published: 2019-03-15T21:00:00+00:00

4

MARLEY COMES TO VISIT ME at midday. The sound of her approaching footsteps draws me out of a semiconscious state. I can’t lift my head all the way up, but I can move my eyes so I can get a look at her. My skin feels hot, I’m sure I’ve been sunburned. I’m thirsty as hell again. Hungry, too. If they don’t plan on letting me die, they better take me down from here soon.

“I’m not supposed to come see you, but I had to,” Marley says. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

I can’t respond. Too tired.

“I didn’t intend for us to get caught. I . . . really do have feelings for you.”

She pauses and waits for a response. She glances around. I want to cry for her help. I want to ask her to help me get down. Most of all, I want to ask her if they punished her at all. It’s not that I want to see her suffer like me. It’s just if she does suffer for our deed, it would mean she’s an ally. If she remains unscathed, then it’s safe to assume she’s more invested in this cult than I thought.

“I hope you’ll forgive me.”

Her eyes get shifty. Then she turns and starts to walk away. I gather up all the strength I have and croak out something I’m dying to know.

“Did you . . .” She stops walking. She turns back to me. “Did you break?”

She gives me a wry smile. It’s the saddest expression I’ve ever seen, even worse than my mother’s on the night I left.

“Everybody does. Eventually. You will, too.” She lowers her gaze, then adds: “I really am sorry.”

“Why are you here?”

“With you? I told you—”

“No, this place. Why are you here? Why did you stay?”

She crosses her arms and glances off to the side. A muscle works in her jaw. Her eyes are dark. She doesn’t speak for a long time. When she faces me again, it’s as if she’s staring inside of me, examining every nook and cranny of my soul for any indication I’ll judge her. I let her look and don’t speak. She’ll see what she needs to see. There’s no need for me to guide her, and I lack the strength to do so. Finally, she nods and her expression softens. Her arms fall limp to her sides.

“My father died when I was two years old,” she said. Her mouth twitched into a grimace. “Suicide. I guess he had depression or something, but whatever the reason, I think he just couldn’t handle taking care of someone other than himself. Not because he was selfish or bad, just broken in some way that made caring for himself alone tremendously difficult, and adding a family on top of it was just too much. Overwhelming.” She lifted one shoulder. “So, he took his own life. Stuck a Beretta in his mouth and . . . well, you get the picture.”

I try to shift my weight and wince, which she mistakes for me being uncomfortable with her story.

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