The storm that hit Abelaum was unlike anything the town had ever seen. The rain poured for days, an unending torrent that flooded the streets, with wind strong enough to knock out powerlines and leave half the townspeople without electricity. The cabin was dark, but Leon lit candles and kept me wrapped in blankets. Warm, safe, and never out of his sight.
When the storm finally ended, more destruction was reported. The soaked soil had caused the White Pine mine shaft to become a massive sinkhole, caving in on itself and completely demolishing what remained of the old tunnels. St. Thaddeus still stood, but its roof had caved in completely, and town officials began to talk of having it demolished despite its historical significance.
Without Kent Hadleigh around to protest it, the decision was made: the church, too, would be destroyed.
Jeremiah’s burned body had to be identified via dental records. The event was called a tragic accident, the fire supposedly started by the lightning that had accompanied the storm. Rumors that the fire had been set on purpose swirled around campus for weeks, but nothing came of it.
Some of my professors looked at me warily, almost bitterly. I would never know for certain, but I had to wonder if any of them had been in that church, hidden behind stag skull masks as Jeremiah cut me. I would always wonder who among them had eagerly awaited my death, but I hoped that every time they saw me walk in, alive and well, it burned them up inside.
I no longer dreamed of the mine’s dark tunnels. I didn’t hear the God call my name. The bruises from Its massive limbs squeezing me faded, but the marks left by Jeremiah’s knife became scars. Leon told me that if I wanted to try medical treatments to fade them, then money wasn’t an object.
I was beginning to suspect he had piles of gold hoarded away back in Hell, but he just laughed and wouldn’t confirm if it was true. He said that would be a surprise for when I got there.
His mark on my leg scarred too, but that was one scar I didn’t want to remove. He would trace it with his fingers, kiss it with his mouth, murmur the filthiest things as he ran his tongue across it. It was his mark of ownership, one only I could give him. A willing promise.
My soul was his to take, to love, to own – forever.
