Page 32 of Decimation

I’ve been trained for this moment, conditioned to perfection.

I will not fail him, because failure is not a punishment, it is an absence.

To fail is to become nothing, to have the warmth of his golden gaze withdrawn and be left in a cold so absolute it feels like death, and I would rather be hurt than be nothing.

“You know why you’re here,” he says, and it sends a shiver down my spine that is not pleasure, but a primal warning my body has forgotten how to heed.

“Yes, Prophet,” I whisper, my voice trembling. The air around him shimmers with gold, a sign of his divine approval, but right now it looks like the glint of a predator’s eye. “To prove myself worthy.”

He nods slowly, his expression unreadable. His aura flares, a burst of red that makes my breath catch, not with awe but with the instinctive panic of a prey animal scenting their own blood. “You will answer as my true bride would. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Prophet.”

I’ve studied his ways, his expectations, his every desire. I’ve moulded myself into the perfect vessel for his will, hollowing out every secret corner of my soul to make room for him.

I am ready, I am empty. I am his.

He begins his questions, each one a scalpel peeling back a layer of myself. His aura shifts with each word, red and gold intertwining like flames licking at a funeral pyre. “What does the scripture say about obedience?”

“Obedience is the highest virtue,” I answer without hesitation. The truth is a soft blue, steady and unwavering but I feel it now as a cold, clinical light illuminating the cage I have willingly walked into. “A bride must submit fully to her prophet, body and soul.”

“And what does it say about pain?”

“Pain is a gift,” I say, my voice steady but inside, a small, buried part of me screams. The blue remains, pure and untainted, a horrible, holy truth. “It purifies the soul and brings us closer to divinity.”

Closer to him. Pain is the only intimacy he truly offers.

Ezekiel’s lips twitch, almost imperceptibly. His aura flares again, a burst of gold that I interpret as approval but right now I can see the jagged edges of it, the way it consumes the red rather than mingles with it.

He asks more questions, each one more personal, more invasive, peeling back my skin to peer at the trembling thing beneath. I answer them all perfectly, my voice unwavering even as I feel a silent, internal haemorrhage of the self I once was.

I am ready I am a creature dressed in obedience.

I am his, I am no longer my own.

When he finishes he steps closer, his shadow falling over me like a shroud. His aura engulfs me in reds and golds that swirl like fire, and I feel the heat of it, a promise of the burning to come.

“Good,” he says, and the word sends a rush of warmth through me that is indistinguishable from the flush of a fever. “Now, pick up the knife.”

My breath catches in my throat, a sob that I swallow whole. I know what is coming, what is expected of me, but I don’t hesitate. I rise to my feet, my hands trembling as I reach for the blade. The cold metal feels heavy, not just with weight, but with meaning. Because this knife is an instrument of his will, an extension of his love. I grip it tightly, my palm slick with sweat, ready to do his bidding. Ready to carve my devotion into my own flesh.

“Cut your arm,” he commands, his voice low and guttural, a sound that vibrates in the base of my skull.

I press the blade to my flesh, the sharp edge biting into my skin. The first sting is a cold, bright shock, a moment of clarity before the deeper pain blooms. I wince, a tear escaping the corner of my eye, but I don’t stop. I drag the knife across my arm, watching as the blood wells up, slow and thick, then drips onto the stone floor. The pain is sharp, but it is not delicious. It is a violation, and I tell myself the violation is a sign of his love. I must believe it, because the alternative, that this is just cruelty and I am just a body being broken, is a chasm I cannot look into without falling.

“Good,” he says, his voice thick with a satisfaction that makes my skin crawl even as I lean into it. “Now, fuck yourself with it.”

I hesitate. For one eternal, crystalline moment, my body rebels. My heart pounds a desperate, ragged rhythm, a frantic SOS from a part of me that still wants to live. But I know I must obey. My hesitation is a sin, and I bury it back down so quickly I hope no one sees it.

My hands tremble violently as I guide the knife between my legs. The cold metal presses against my entrance and I gasp, a choked, animal sound as I push it inside. The pain is not excruciating; it is so much more than that, it’s a tearing, a rending of the most intimate part of me. I thrust the knife deeper, feeling the sharp edge cut into my flesh, and I feel a hot gush of blood that is not just physical; it is the death of the girl who dreamed of gentle hands.

When I pull it out, it’s covered in blood, like a grotesque parody of my arousal.

“Lick it clean,” he growls, his eyes dark with a desire that has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with his own reflection in my suffering.

I bring the blade to my lips, my tongue flicking out to taste the metallic tang of my own blood. It coats my tongue, thick and warm and I lick the blade clean, savouring the taste because I have been told it is a sign of my submission. But my stomach heaves, and I feel a profound, soul-deep nausea.

I am consuming my own violation, and calling it communion.