Authors: Naomi Canale
His Dark Ways (18 page)
The inside of the prison smells of bleach, sweat, and cold bars of steel. My body is broken; I limp with a permanently wounded right leg as I move along. As I barely scuffle along because of chains and my pathetic limp, I watch as all the women bang their steel bars with their palms and holler out to me. How am I going to survive?
As we draw closer to the cells, segregation suddenly doesn’t seem that segregated. Prisoners try to make their voices known as I step into sight onto a metal bridge that keeps me distanced from them. “It’s demon girl,” they shout.
“I heard you killed kids, bitch,” yells another.
Their voices grow louder. They must think I’m like them, but I’m not; I’m innocent, in a way. But their judgmental glares and remarks make me think different. I doubt my innocence as the devil still plays with my mind—he is the biggest accuser after all. But as my palm grows sweaty around the Bible my heart grows steady and doubts crumble quickly like a sweet pastry upon famished lips.
I made the news as another troubled youth, out to take revenge on the innocent. It’s like these girls want to test me because they’re bored and want to see what I’m made of. But I don’t want to fight fire with fire, I want to hold onto everything Dad taught me and live out the plan God gave him, which I helped cut short.
I know I’m not going to be allowed to talk to anyone for a while. I’ve already been told what my first few months of my new life in prison are going to be like. Before I’m left a long time without being able to talk to anyone, I try to speak the word of Jesus into the two holding onto me. “I’m really not crazy. But demons really do exist—God exists. And even though I’ve been to hell and back, God’s son, Jesus Christ, saved me.”
Sandy grasps onto my elbow more firmly. She laughs and rolls her eyes while looking at her counterpart. I continue, not only to console myself with scripture, but to possibly be the one to help her believe, like Dad wanted me to all those years.
“The fruit of the spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self control.”
“Fuckin’ crazies,” she says so quietly that not even her believing counterpart can hear.
But it’s true, I want to cry. But it probably won’t do any good. She’ll most likely chuckle more and put in a request for me to have more visits with my psychologist.
For a moment, I stare at my feet and mumble, “The fruit of the spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self control.”
I attempt to shut out my new world as we stand outside of my cell—C2, I repeat the verse as she gestures me into my tiny home.
Sandy’s irritated with me. She holds onto her belt and straightens it out as she shuts the gate of my cell and locks it. “Let me tell you something, honey,” her brown eyes narrow in on me, “you want to survive in here? Listen to me closely. Rule number one: you don’t talk to the guards. Number two: respect other inmates. Number three: do not get involved with a gang. Number four: don’t do drugs. Number five: don’t have sex—you’ll most likely get AIDS. Number six: don’t gamble. Number seven: keep yourself busy with positive activities—idleness is this devil you believe in, it’s his playground. And number eight: consider yourself lucky that I just told you all that.”
The other woman walking away with her appears to be less than impressed with her co-worker. I wonder if that officer and I will get to know each other? Even though she seems like she’s afraid of me, she’s one of the nicest ones I’ve met thus far.
“Goodbye, dreams,” I say to myself as I look around a dark grey room that’s damp and gives off the vibes that suicides happened in here at one time. There’s no mat on the beds here, just a white flat surface with a blanket. I take a seat.
Satan tempted Jesus in the desert and just like Jesus I was tempted in an eerily similar way, but I was feeble, Jesus wasn’t. I guess that’s a big difference between being mortal and immortal. But he won’t ever tempt me again.
Regrets start to collect.
For just a moment when Daniel breathed over me—whispered to me that night in jail—pain, misery, and the best time of my life all blended into one. And then he moved on as if I was a faint memory of someone he might recall. He probably laughs at the flash backs (if he even has any) of our embrace, our kiss, and the way it felt when he held me so close that he stole my heart—took my soul.
That lonely look of emptiness that covered his face stays with me. I took him in like a sick puppy full of hope swelling in his eyes praying I could help make him well—alive. But like a brown speck on an apple he quickly rotted me whole. From the outside in, he devoured me and left me to decompose on the cold, still, hard ground.
I’ve had a lot of time to think and I’ve tried hard to not think of the demons, but after everything I’ve been through it’s nearly impossible. I’ve grown scared—scared of the idea that demons play with your deepest fears.
Lucky feared the monsters and maybe for me—I feared love.
They still seem to whisper to me in the middle of the night, I always tell them they can’t have me and to go away, but it seems to only make them mad and anxious to do it more. Maybe because my body is burned on the inside out from Daniel and it’s noticeable. I’ve learned that the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick; I can’t even begin to understand it.
The verses I read to Detective Johnson stay with me—they’ve brought me comfort because all I’ve been told is how I’m a murderer, a religious crazy who finally snapped. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one possession has happened to. I clutch onto my Bible. It’s been happening before and during the time Christ walked the earth. I’ve been memorizing chunks of the Bible daily, especially the creepy parts to help deal with the pain. I’m not sure why but the scariest verses seem to bring me the most comfort.
Dad would be proud though, it’s only a matter of time before pages filled with verses become worn—frazzled, like his were.
There’s an urge to stand to my feet and observe my new surroundings. I should just get it over with. I’m going to have to face the fact that my home is now cold concrete with roommates who like to pick fights.
A girl with skin the same color as Daniel’s eyes tilts her head at me and smiles. Her cell is far from mine, but I can tell she’s beautiful and there’s something different about her.
As I smile back, her lips lower. “Daniel will always love you,” she says, lip syncing through the empty space within the bars.
I grip onto cold metal, swallow my fear—I hadn’t told anyone his name.
“What?” I reply.
She’s silent a moment, but suddenly I know the answer to my own question. I can see the demon that’s latched onto her as she begins to giggle so hard that spit sprays the air. “Daniel, loves you,” she shouts.
It’s a faint echo, but I hear her words and watch as snot clings to a metal bar as she sways around—almost dancing.
Another one of her chuckles dives deep into my chest and penetrates my heart with a sickness—a sadness. She slowly speaks to me again so I can understand each word. “He moved into those dying bodies to feel their salvation sucked from their lifeless veins.”
She stops and strokes the bar.
I notice scars on her face—they’re like mine. “I’m your worst nightmare, Jesus freak, your worst nightmare.”
Acknowledgements
First I want to thank God, without Him, I would have never found my way out of the darkness I was lost in so long ago. I love you.
I’m continually grateful for all who stood by my side, cheered, and mentored me as I wrote this book…
For Daniel, my husband, you have always told me I
can
when I say I can’t. You are the light of my life. To my boys, Coby, Jesse, and Asher—you have opened my eyes to true happiness and joy, thank you. My mom and dad, your guidance and love led me to where I am today. I couldn’t ask for better parents. To my brother Ben, your intelligence has always astounded me. I’m so proud of you. Thank you for your insight into this book. And for my sister, Alisa, your fighting spirit has always amazed me. You will overcome this battle, I believe in you.
Thanks to Lia Keyes for her editorial expertise and unwavering support. To Ellen Hopkins, Susan Lindquist, Jay Asher, Heather Petty, and Jacqueline Garlick-Pynaert, I’m in debt to you for the amount of time and love you have given me as I’ve grown in the craft. You are more than authors. You pour out your hearts and souls to others. Thank you for being extraordinary examples.
For my agent Pam van Hylckama Vlieg. Thank you for always believing in me.
A huge thank you to my beta readers Sara Jo Johnson and Traci Kattelman. Your enthusiasm for this book kept me writing late into the nights with a smile on my face. Thanks to Trenton Johnson for the hours spent helping me see through the eyes of a detective. My crime scenes would be stale without you. To Jeanette Maxwell-Santiago, your art and faith inspire me daily. Thank you for the beautiful pieces you created for this book. And thank you to all the Starbucks baristas who brewed me hundreds of cups of coffee and tea so I could write this book. You guys rock!
I would also like to credit Robin Ludwig Design Inc. for the gorgeous cover on this book and Kendall Berry for my author photo. You both have such talent. Thank you!
Table of Contents
Chapter 10 Fear of What Can Take Your Soul
Chapter 17 Unquenchable Thirst
Chapter 21 The Horror in Your Eyes