I drew a deep breath, pushing against the tight embrace of the parasite in my body. Binah hopped down to the floor, and began to nose around the chair. “Why are you so confident that ritual abuse is an issue here?”
“Easily.” He sat back, spreading his hands. They were very large for his frame, like he’d never quite grown into them. “I was a victim of it.”
Short and to the point, but effective. “Is this something you are able to discuss?”
“Of course. It’s the reason I entered the ministry, after all.” Christopher worked his jaw again, brows furrowed in thought. “My family was bad soil, as Father Zach put it to me once. My father was a very violent man, an alcoholic. My mother was a house-mouse… she wasn’t a bad woman, but she was helpless against the likes of my father. I was born in the Newark projects. Ran away at seven years old.”
That all sounded familiar. I’d run away from home at eight. I listened, keeping one eye on Binah as she sniffed her way around the room.
“I was picked up downtown by a man who told me he was from a shelter for abused boys. He said his name was Thomas… he bought me dinner, got me a new warm coat, walked me to his car, then drove me out to a junkyard,” Christopher continued. Some of the light had drained from his eyes, leaving them flat and glassy. “He chained me up in an outhouse building like a dog and injected me with heroin. Then he raped me.”
The bluntness of the word and his strangely academic recitation made it all the more confronting. I said nothing – partly because what was there to say? Partly because for the grace of GOD went I.
“That went on for a while. He got me hooked, and once I was hooked, he started to sell me to others.” The pastor drew a deep breath, and sighed it out. “One night, I was taken to a warehouse where there were people getting ready for a Satanic ritual. I recognized a lot of these people. TV stars. Politicians. Police. They sacrificed a little girl and ate her heart and other organs in front of me. I wasn’t a virgin and therefore not an appropriate offering, so I wasn’t going to be killed – just used and made fun of.”
“The world is full of monsters,” I said.
He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Father Zach found me when I was sixteen. I was still hooked on heroin and prostituting myself to feed the habit, though I’d escaped Thomas by that point. I catcalled Father Zach when he walked past me late at night, actually. Can you believe it?”
“I believe there’s no such thing as coincidence.”
He smiled a wry little smile. “He turned back to me, and he said: “Young man, you don’t have anything to offer that I want. What can I offer you?” I asked him for a cigarette and a cup of coffee, because it was cold that night. He agreed… we went to a diner and got talking. I told him I’d never trust a man ever again, and he said to me: “You don’t need to trust anyone yet. What you need to do is listen to the pain of your own heart. That pain is the voice of the Lord speaking to you, telling you that you need to get help.”
“To cut a long story short, I eventually went to his ministry in Chicago, and he adopted me into the church and gave me a home, a real home. He taught me the Gospel, how to get a job, how to drive, everything. He took me in for no other reason except that the Lord spoke to him that night and told him to save this one soul. That I could be saved. He purged me of my addiction and cleansed my body. When I told Zach that I felt the call to preach, he said to me: “Well, I knew that was going to happen! That’s why God told me to save you, and not just anyone!”
There was a pregnant pause.
“Well… that’s quite a story.” I cleared my throat, shifting forward on the chair to stand. “But I think that’s all I need. Thank you for taking the time to talk to me.”
“Wait a moment, Rex. I’d like to ask you something.” Christopher held out a hand, bidding me to stay seated. “The reason I’m willing to share that story with people, even strangers, is because so many people hide their pain from others. So I ask the same question to everyone I speak to. What do you relate to about what I just told you?”
It took me a second to process the question. I frowned, and eased back down. “Well… I didn’t have a wonderful time of things, if that’s what you mean. Not quite as bad as you. The alcoholic father, I suppose.”
“You downplay how hard that can be to deal with. You say it’s ‘not as bad’ as what I went through, but that’s not what I’m seeing.” I couldn’t make sense of his expression. “What did he make you do?”
My stomach jolted with a sudden shock of adrenaline that spread all the way to my fingertips. “What? My father?”
The resemblance to Vassily was no longer apparent in his face. Christopher’s mouth was quite small and narrow. His feature were a jumble of parts now, but his mouth was smiling as he spoke. “It’s… I’ve done a lot of work with people, Rex, some very injured people. I can’t help but notice that you’re a very neat man, a very confident man, but you have the look of someone who was forced to dirty themselves at some point in their life. You seemed to really connect with my story.”
Shock turned to irritation. “I wasn’t molested, if that’s what you’re implying.”
Christopher leaned in towards me. He had remarkably clear eyes, a deep, crystalline blue. “There are many ways you can experience abuse. Just remember that’s not who you are. There’s another way.”
“Religion, I assume?” I arched an eyebrow.
“Not necessarily. It’s my job to teach people about the Gospel, not bribe them or trick them. No, I mean purification. Cleaning of the body and soul,” Christopher replied. “You wouldn’t have to wear those gloves anymore.”
My fingers twitched for a moment. “I have sensitive hands.”
“That kind of sensitivity is very common in people who experienced trauma.” He held up a finger. “Before you go, Rex, I want to give you something.”
Frowning, I watched him rise and cross to his desk. For the first time, I noticed the signs on it. ‘Pastor Christopher Kincaid’ on a bronze plate, and a black and white sign next to it that read ‘Servant Leader’. He took out a pouch from the top drawer of his desk, and from that, he took a coin. He came back and offered it to me. It was a dime, worn smooth with age.
“’Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore, glorify God with your body’,” he quoted the verses with elegant ease. “The first step to recovery is ownership of your body, learn to smile despite the presence of darkness in the world. Take this, and use it to remember your price.”
It was as if time had stopped. I was vaguely aware of the sounds of the city outside the window, but Binah broke the trance. She was meowing at the door and pawing at it, looking back at me with an expression of long-suffering impatience. Reading the faces of animals was always so much easier than trying to do the same with people.
“Well, thank you.” I took the coin and stood up, and this time, I didn’t let him stop me. “I have to get going.”
He smiled, amicable and relaxed, and rose in turn. “Not a problem. You know where to find me. I think we’d have a lot to talk about.”