Raven's Peak

The Reverend

"Reverend, you have a visitor."

He couldn't remember when the ritual had become his anchor. When penance turned from punishment to necessity. Of course, it hadn't always been like this. He remembered screaming all those years ago when first they put him in this cell; those memories were vague, though, like reflections in a dusty mirror.

"Open D4."

A buzz as the door slid open, inconsequential. The ritual was what drove him in this moment, and nothing else mattered. It was a primal need: a desperate grasp at control when everything else had been stripped away.

"Some woman. Says she needs to speak with you immediately. She says her name is Frieda."

A pause, the lash hovering in the air. The Reverend remembered that name, found it dancing in the recesses of his mind. He tried to pull himself back from the ritual, back to reality, but it was an uphill slog through knee-deep mud to reclaim those memories.

It was always difficult to focus when he was in the midst of his cleansing. All he managed to cling to was the name. Frieda. It was the name of an angel, he knew. . . or perhaps a devil.

One and the same when all was said and done.

She belonged to a past life, only the whispers of which he could recall. The ritual reclaimed him, embraced him. His memories were nothing compared to the discipline of the whip.

The lash struck down on his left shoulder blade. He clenched his teeth as the whip landed.

"Jesus," a new voice whispered from the doorway. "Does he always do that?"

"Every morning."

"You'll cuff him?"

"Why? Are you scared?"

The Reverend raised the lash into the air, poised for another strike.

"Just…man, you said he was crazy…but this…"

The lash came down. He let out a groan.

These men were meaningless, their voices only echoes amid the rest, an endless drone. He wanted them to leave him alone with his ritual. They weren't worth his time.

"I think we can spare the handcuffs this time; the last guy who tried spent a month in the hospital."

"Regulation says we have to."

"Then you do it."

The guards fell silent. The cat-o'-nine-tails became the only sound in the roughhewn cell, echoing off the granite walls. He took a rasping breath, blew it out, and cracked the lash again.

"I don't think we need to cuff him," the second guard decided.

"Good idea. Besides, the Reverend isn't going to cause us any trouble. He only hurts himself. Right, Reverend?"

The air tasted of copper. He wished he could see his back and the scars, but there were no mirrors in his cell. They removed the only one he had when he broke shards off to slice into his arms and legs. They were afraid he would kill himself.

How ironic was that?

"Right, Reverend?"

Mirrors were dangerous things, he remembered from that past life. They called the other side, the darker side. An imperfect reflection stared back, threatening to steal pieces of the soul away forever.

"Reverend? Can you hear me?"

The guard reached out to tap the Reverend on the shoulder. Just a tap, no danger at all, but his hand never even came close. Honed reflexes reacted before anyone could possibly understand what was happening.

Suddenly the Reverend was standing. He hovered above the guard who was down on his knees. The man let out a sharp cry, his left shoulder twisted up at an uncomfortable angle by the Reverend's iron grip.

The lash hung in the air, ready to strike at its new prey.

The Reverend looked curiously at the man, seeing him for the first time. He recognized him as one of the first guardsmen he'd ever spoken with when placed in this cell. A nice European chap with a wife and two young children. A little overweight and balding, but well-intentioned.

Most of him didn't want to hurt this man, but there was a part—a hungry, needful part—that did. That part wanted to hurt this man in ways neither of them could even imagine. One twist would snap his arm. Two would shatter the bone.