Page 87 of Illusionist
Because these men deserve it, they hurt the two people I?—
Oh, fuck.I'm in love with Nova and Silas. Both of them.
It's fast, it doesn't make sense, it's not sane, but damn it… It's true. I love them.
“Almost there,” Silas says from the driver's seat.
I stare at the back of his head. I'm in love with a man. And I'm having this earth-shattering realization while surrounded by his brothers and one of their abusers.Fantastic timing, Teddy.It’ll have to wait until after.
The now-familiar trailer sits at the edge of carnival property, hidden behind equipment storage and generator housing. From the outside, it looks like maintenance storage. Inside, they've recreated hell.
The walls are bare metal, painted institutional white. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting harsh shadows that make everything look sickly and wrong. In the center sits a single chair—metal, uncomfortable, designed to make its occupant feel small and vulnerable.
But it's the details that make my stomach clench. The children's drawings taped to the walls—crayon stick figures and smiling suns that feel obscene in this context. The small table set with plastic cups and plates, like a tea party setup. The speakers in the corners that will play recordings that make the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
“This is it,” Elias says quietly. “The children's room. Exactly as in our commune.”
They've rebuilt their trauma chamber. Made Malachi's weapon into their tool.
Logan and Cole secure the unconscious man to the chair while Marek sets up the audio equipment. The speakers crackle to life, filling the trailer with the sound of children singing hymns.
“He'll wake up to this,” Silas explains, his voice clinical. “The same songs he made us sing. The same room where he broke us down.”
“How long?” I ask.
“Until he confesses everything. Until he begs for forgiveness. Until he understands what he put us all through.” Elias checks his watch. “However long it takes.”
Malachi stirs as the sedative wears off, his eyes fluttering open to harsh fluorescent light and the ghostly sound of children's voices. For a moment, confusion clouds his features. Then recognition hits, and his face goes gray.
“No.” The word comes out as a whisper. “This isn't—where am I?”
“Home,” Silas says, stepping into his line of sight. “Remember this place, Father? You spent so much time here with us.”
Malachi's gaze darts around the recreated room, taking in every horrible detail. “You can't do this. I'm dying. The cancer?—”
“We know.” Elias moves to stand beside his brother. Both sons facing their father. “Poetic justice, don't you think? Dying slowly, piece by piece, just like you killed us?”
“I never killed anyone!”
“Our mothers would disagree. Zach would disagree,” Logan snarls, his scarred hands clenched into fists. “If he could still speak.”
The name visibly shakes Malachi. His mouth opens and closes, no sound emerging.
“Oh, you remember Zach,” Rowe says quietly. “Five years old. Sweet kid. Loved to draw pictures of birds.”
“The night we escaped,” Silas continues, “Zach didn't make it. Internal bleeding from what you and your Prophets did to him. Logan held him while he died.”
Tears begin streaming down Malachi's cheeks. “I never meant—the discipline was necessary?—”
“Discipline?” Cole's knife appears in his hand, the blade catching the harsh light. “Is that what you called it when you raped children?”
“I never—that's not what—we were building God's kingdom?—”
“You were building your sick fantasy.” Jonah's deep voice carries the weight of absolute judgment. “Using scripture to justify what you wanted to do anyway.”
I watch Malachi crumble as each accusation lands. This man terrorized dozens of children, created a system of abuse that lasted decades, destroyed countless lives. And now he sits here making excuses, trying to reframe his crimes as religious duty.
“The Bellmour Youth Initiative,” I say, speaking for the first time since he woke up. “How many children have disappeared from your programs?”
