The Ceremony

This is the continuation of the story "January 17th". The cult I grew up in got me pregnant that first time in 1996 on purpose, to sacrifice my unborn child. Several weeks after the abortion had been preformed in a clinic, this ceremony was conducted at a local church, a church I had before and have since attended and sung in many times. Please be kind in regards to spelling and grammatical errors. This was written by Lisa, one of my alters who was born on the night of abortion, in one shot, and I have not edited it at all.

Please read with caution. The following is graphic and true.



It's dark.

And I'm waiting..

The baby is gone, sputtered from my womb like diarrhea. They gave me ten minutes to clean my self up, redress and get back outside. Ten minutes wasn't enough.

Six weeks later and I'm waiting in white, somewhere in the bowels of the church. Fuck, I hate it here at night. It's so spooky. I can feel the darkness of this closet pressing in against me. Where were they now? The few who had noticed the cuts on my arms? How sick I was every morning? I know they couldn't know; I didn't even miss one day of school; it was forbidden. But still, they had bugged me with insipid questions when I was trying hard not to throw up right on them, the morning sickness was so bad, and now when I was stuck, where were they? Safe, that's where. Tears came again.

NO NO NO!! There was NO way I was doing it that way; not tonight.

I rehearsed my part over and over in my head to keep the tears at bay. As the air in the closet became stale and still, I had to fight crying even harder as I knew it would use up my air more quickly. If they came for me and found me passed out this time, there'd be real Hell to pay.

BONG!

The church bell rang once. I jumped in the pitch black and hit my head on something. God knows what else was in this closet with me. I just hoped it wasn't someBODY else.

CLANG. Two. I held my breath.

Silence. It would be tonight.

The door flung open and a Red Sir stood there. Shit! RED?! This was really going to happen tonight. I needed no command or hand to lead me, not that he would have touched me anyway and defiled himself in his holy relics. I stepped out, my face uncovered for once and relished the fresher air, though relief was fleeting to say the least. I held the lillies in front of me, like a wedding bouquet. My hair was pulled back; my dress was white. Blood shows up better on the white. I followed the Red, and as I stepped out, a barrage of Blacks folded in behind me, moving, as they always did, as one, like liquid, like something gelatinous. I was puzzled at this; no brothers ever patrolled me; I was obedient; there was much more than freedom from physical pain riding on it. Red's sparkly symbols reflected even the dim lights and hurt my eyes.

We passed the giant organ, looming like a monster in the darkness, seeming to breathe, to be almost alive. I shuddered, remembering times behind and underneath it. Pleading with it silently. You have seen this, You know where we are going. DO something. But it loomed large and soulless. Another enemy. Of the more common kind. Not the kind that hurt me. The kind that sat and watched.

The organ was, however, a landmark and now I knew where we were. Down the staircase and past the bathrooms, pitch flooding from under the doors. I am sweating now, passing those rooms. Remembering having to wash my mouth in the urinal. What my breasts sound like slapping against the cold wall.

Just

Keep

Walking

As we near the sanctuary, I realize the need for the black escort behind me. It is full. Every seat. Every pew. Black hooded figures sit straight and still among the candlelight. I can't tell if they are people or trash bags. Either way, I give up then and there. It is all of them. This is it. If I don't die on that alter tonight...

As we near the glass double doors, the Red on the chancel raises his arms and the chanting begins. Loud. Unusually loud. And it grows as the doors are thrown open before me. By the time I somehow get myself to the chancel they are yelling.

Then it gets unbearably fast.

Hands everywhere. Must be the Blacks; the Reds cannot touch me tonight (thank God) for I am unclean. My underwear are yanked to my knees, the white veil torn off of my head; I hear it rip. My dress is lifted to my stomach and I am flat on my back.


Lifted

Onto


The Altar


The Holy Place


To die


It is silent. I hadn't known they would all be here. This is not our group; not our small cult.


It hits me.

She is the sacrifice for them all. For the sect; for the larger cult.


I close my eyes. Have on last tremor rip through my body and know that the drugs have completely worn off. As usual. Their timing is impeccable.

I am completely terrified and aware now. Sweat is everywhere. It runs down my legs and between my breasts, which still ache and feel stretched. Calm down! I tell them. There is no baby to feed anymore. Don't you get it?


But I don't. Not tonight. Tonight she is back. I can hear them hollering at me in the car through the drug haze.

“You are still pregnant, you whore. You only thought you killed her in the clinic. You will really give her to us tonight. In our church.”


I feel the blackness coming, but awaken just enough to hear the last words as one of them not yet hooded yanks my hair.

“And you'd better scream like it's real.”


The silence continues. Time crawls again, my worst enemy. I hold the lillies on my chest and breath shallowly. I keep my eyes closed, not pinched, but peaceful. As instructed.

There are words bellowed out by the Red. I jump again but quickly compose myself. I will pay for that small movement. I am supposed to be dead.


The words continue, but I can't hear. The ringing in my ears has started. Then it turns to fizzing. Blackness even blacker than closed eyes fills my sight and I know I must stay conscious. Passing out is not an option tonight. I breath as slowly and deeply as I can without giving away my liveliness. It works. The strong smell of the lillies fill my senses. All of them. The fizziness fades and I can hear him. The Priest Red. Whom I have come to realize is my grandfather.

“In her death, we shall live!” A yell from the crowd.


“We shall gather her life force to our sigma. We will carry it with us. We will have obeyed and will be rewarded.” Another cheer. Then silence.

I feel them moving around me. My heart races and I fight passing out again. He is beside me, at my head.


“Open your eyes.”

I see the hooded faces around me, but only on three sides. The audience has to see this time. No holy circle. Presentation is more important tonight.


He leans down and gets his lips as close as he can without touching my left ear.

“Give her.”


My whole body shudders.

“Give her.”


Another tremor, not caused by drugs, but my body's feeble attempt to fight back and hold onto something that had been taken six weeks before. My uterus clamps down and spasms, looking for her, trying to hold her in. It hadn't worked against the saline. And it wouldn't work tonight.

The spasms continue as the men surrounding me start their groaning. Some cannot even resist touching themselves, they are so aroused at what is going on.


They grow stronger and are soon thrusting my hips upward and then back down so that my bare backside slaps the hard wood of the altar. Sound finally escapes my lips as the internal cramps build and my back becomes sore.

He raises his hand. The groaning and self pleasuring cease, but my gyrating takes a moment to still and finally even a Black hand on my abdomen. I lay panting and swallowing hard, trying to stop moaning with the pain.


“Take her.”

That one wasn't for me. The privileged Black moves toward me, syringe in hand.


“No!” I cannot help it. I know it is only cow's blood to squirt into my vagina and make it look like the abortion had happened here in front of all of them, but the last time a needle was plunged into me, I delivered my firstborn. Dead. And in pieces.

He chuckles and inserts in into me. I feel the oily blood going in and know it is time.


“Now. Now! NOW!” He raises his arms to the heavens and screams. Laughs that unnatural laugh. The blood begins to trickle back out.

The small groan I meant to give to placate them grows into a scream. Then another that doesn't seem to end. It doesn't seem to need breath behind it. It just goes and goes. My father shows himself to me by speaking. He holds me in a sitting position and snarls in my right ear, “Push, bitch.”


I give up. One more raspy breath in from the screaming and I push. Feel the blood coming out, pooling around my thighs. The men dip their fingers in it and smear it on my chest, my face, in my mouth.

The buzzing in my ears is back and I can't fight it this time. I scream her name and black out.