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I was born and raised in a cult. When I escaped, I learned that their beliefs were real.
The decision to leave wasn’t an easy one, although it had been brewing for almost two years. I’m not going to repeat the cult’s name - they’re known to track down their dissidents and use methods, lawful or not, to take you back - but safe to say it was a big production cult, and as I’ve learned, quite a classic one at that.
We lived in a compound in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a thick forest, and our numbers were among the hundreds. I was born and raised there, a bastard child bred through the orders of the elders by two people who could barely stand each other. And I wasn’t the only one. Years before, the elders had made up couples of most of the compound’s residents during the exact same time, and now there were at least a hundred kids the exact same age, and a bunch of grumpy parents raising them. Some families worked well together. Mine didn’t.
But of course, my parents loved each other, as did everyone love everyone else. It wasn’t *love*, but a societal agreement, which shamed those who fought back; those who showed any feelings besides complacency. They called it True Love, and it permeated everything and everyone.
I was around thirteen when the first cracks started to appear. One late night my dad had smuggled booze into our house and gotten himself drunk - a serious offense, were he to be caught. I guess he didn’t care, and as he drank more and more his inhibitions melted away, and the white-hot anger that had festered inside him for years and years finally gasped for air.
He began to yell at my mom, calling her all sorts of names. Said that she’s the reason his life was so dry. That he had never truly loved her, and through the years, she’d only become smaller and uglier in his eyes. That I was a mistake. She didn’t fight back, and that doubled his anger. And then he began to hit her.
I didn’t see dad for a while after that, but the damage was done - both for me and my mom. Even after they let her out of the infirmary two weeks later, her face was dark and puffy, a handful of bloody band-aids covering the cuts on her skin. As for me, I’d seen that True Love was not real. It was not permanent. Although it might’ve had good intentions, it was merely planted. An image of the truth, plastered on the walls; a false God.
Now, you need to remember that I was *brought up* there. It’s all I ever knew. To me, that world *was* the truth. But even so, doubt chewed at the skin of my fingers, and the distinct feeling of something not being right began to take hold of me. This brought up great deals of shame and fear, but sweeping it all under the rug only made it feel worse.
From then onwards, I began to see the bickering and infighting that I used to look past and think of as a sign of normality. And how come if things were so good, our house couldn’t stay warm through the night? And why did we eat the same thing every day? And why did the elders decide everything, even though their decisions made others miserable? The idea that this was all somehow *not real* crept in, and the more I thought of it, the stronger that feeling became.
I hid it well. My parents barely cared for me. Neither of them wanted to have me, and raising me was done with minimum requirements in mind. I was just a byproduct of True Love, commanded by the elders. So, as long as I fulfilled my duties around the compound, they didn’t really care what I was doing, or how I was feeling, or what I was thinking. The rest of them were too occupied with work or their own problems to check on me.
The thought of leaving entered my mind erratically one day, and it scared me. It was one of the worst things to think. That’s how we’d been brought up, like this was heaven and the rest of the world was hell, and you’d be eternally doomed (and extremely stupid) to leave. But there it was, dangerous and sweet, and it wouldn’t let go.
As I let the thought brew, I started becoming more comfortable with it. Even though it was horrible at first, soon it became familiar, and its potency lessened each day. The thought’s sequel followed shortly thereafter: *I will leave*.
Once I’d made the decision, it was mostly a matter of pragmatics. Although I didn’t know what would be waiting for me in the outside world, I did know how the compound worked, and that’s where I decided to base my plan on. In a few months time there would be a great ritual, something of a legend that everyone had always talked about, but seemed like a fable more than anything. But it was coming either way, and seeing as everyone would attend, it was my best shot at leaving unnoticed, giving me a head start at least, while everyone was occupied.
Along the weeks following up to the ritual, we had multiple briefings for the kids about the ritual, through which I gathered enough intel to know the exact spot where I would have the least chance of being caught when crossing the fence surrounding the compound. They didn’t tell us what the ritual would be, only that we would get a fancy meal during it, and we basically just needed to show up on time.
The hardest part was keeping myself preoccupied and inconspicuous. Every time I opened my mouth, I was scared that I would scream “I’M GOING TO ESCAPE ON THE DAY OF THE GREAT RITUAL!” but luckily, no such thing happened. Everyone was so preoccupied with getting the compound in tip-top shape for the ritual, I doubt anyone noticed me acting any different.
The night before the ritual, I packed a small leather bag with some clothes, a bottle of water, and a can of antiperspirant, and hid it under my bed. Everything was quite scarce at the compound, so it’s all I could sneak away without anyone noticing. I barely slept, the go-bag burning a hole in the bed frame, the excitement keeping a steady pulse of erratic thoughts pumping into my mind, keeping it busy, readying it for any and all situations.
The ritual was scheduled to begin after dusk, so I went about my day as normal. If I hadn’t been so tired, I’m sure someone would’ve found me out. I was that excited. And scared. Scared more than I’d ever been before.
Dusk began to settle and everyone gathered around the center of the compound. We were all grouped up in our own families with ten feet of distance to each other, forming a long and wide semicircle around a makeshift stage, kind of like we were queuing towards it. I stood there with my parents, who looked more serious than I think I’d ever seen them, and we watched the stage in silence.
It must’ve taken fifteen minutes for the elders to slog up the stage. One of them, their sort of leader, tapped the microphone, and gigantic speakers screeched in a monstrous feedback loop. Someone turned the gain down and the elder continued, his colleagues spread on the stage behind him in a semicircle of their own.
The speech was boring, much like most speeches given by the elders. Especially with my newfound ideology, their mumbo-jumbo about True Love and our strength and the One True God sounded more derivative than ever before. I quickly tuned it out and began to scout my surroundings, adrenaline beginning to seep into my veins. I was finally going to leave.
Our family was situated at the outermost line of people, so all I had to do was wait for an opening and sneak away. Some kids were already migrating around, the elders’ speech not interesting enough to hold their attention. It was weird; all the adults staring and listening so intently, and us kids being let to do as we pleased, which was something we could barely *ever* do. Something was different, but it coincided with my plan, so I didn’t really care.
I looked around, and waited for my chance, but then the elders said something and my dad turned around to face me, giving me a slight scare.
“Say goodbye to your mother,” he told me, his face twitching as if he was working more than usual to keep his signature straight face.
“Uhh, goodbye mom,” I said, turning to her, knowing that my dad’s orders were always my dad’s orders - it was best not to fight him. He had thrown me for a loop; this was unexpected, and I couldn’t really hold my focus on both the ritual *and* the escape at the same time. All the other kids were saying goodbye to their moms as well, some hugging them, even. None of us seemed to have any idea what was happening, but the parents must’ve known something, because I could hear some of the older guys crying. It wasn’t part of True Love to cry, and this threw me off further. A deep unsettling feeling made its home in my stomach, pulling me down in a dark vortex. “Shit, had I missed my chance?” I thought, hoping so very hard that I hadn’t.
“Now, open their hearts! Open their true love for our children, my brothers! Look into your mothers, children! They bless you with True Love!” the elder screamed into the microphone.
All of the women in the compound kneeled and bowed their heads. I started to hear screaming from afar. My dad interrupted me by grabbing my head and turning it to face him. A few feet away, my mother was kneeling like all the others. “You must watch this, boy,” he said, “and don’t let your eyes wander.”
Staring at me to make sure that I was watching, he approached my mom and grabbed her hair, wrapping her long ponytail around his fist. “For the One True God,” he said, and began to pull.
She screamed from the pain, and he locked his heels into the dry ground, his boot spitting dust into the air, pulling with all his weight. At first, nothing seemed to happen, but suddenly a red crack formed at the base of her skull. Quickly, it began to widen, ripping and tearing the skin in two.
Now the screams were everywhere; deafening and hellish. Once the initial crack had been achieved, my dad didn’t need to pull as hard anymore. He took a quick breath, and relaxed his arms for a moment, then returned to the pulling with newfound vigor. Her scalp began to peel off like the skin of an avocado. Bright red blood and flesh pulped from disturbed blood veins, the streams slowly revealing her skull; white-hot, like his anger had been when he’d almost beat her to death.
Dad grunted as he worked, and once the top of mom’s skull was completely bare, he tugged one last time, ripping the skin completely off her head. The edges of her skin drooped over her ears and face. I looked around, and saw the exact same process being done to all of the other women. Some were already finished, some still inbetween, the men grunting and flailing and kicking the ground to force the skin off the skull, the women screaming in agony. And us children, we couldn’t help but watch. Frozen in place. Too scared to do anything.
I started to hear a blunt tapping sound, followed by an egg-like cracking. I looked back at my parents. I barely recognized them. Mom was covered in blood, sobbing quietly. Dad stood over her with a hammer in his hand, tapping it on her exposed skull. He had to hold her head with one hand to keep it steady. After each careful swing, he’d use his fingers to pry her head, picking up small pieces of skull bone and throwing them on the ground beside me. He was sweating profusely, his eyes wide and fixated, determined to finish the job.
After a large chunk of bone hit the ground, he took a step back and contemplated his work, like a sculptor zooming out and taking in the whole. Seemingly satisfied, he called my name and ordered me beside him. Although being near him was the absolute last thing I wanted to do, I knew that not obeying his orders would ruin any sliver of escape I might still have. I powered through, like I always had, and walked up to him.
He handed me a silver spoon, engraved with odd, janky symbols. I had never seen such a fancy spoon before; usually we just ate with stainless steel sporks that had been in use for all my life. I stared at its eloquent contours and its strange symbols, but then he interrupted me by grabbing my wrist and saying “Eat.”
“What?” I asked him.
“I have given you so much, and your mother is giving you the last of her. Now eat,” he replied.
It was an order, and orders were followed. Although I was still unsure what I was supposed to do, I lifted the spoon up and looked at him inquisitively, hoping that he wouldn’t be angry. He groaned and took me by the shoulders, leading me to stand above mom.
“Eat!” he yelled, frustration flaking off his voice.
I looked down and saw the hole he had dug. Coarse, sharp edges of skull formed a pot, with wormy strands of brain inside, faintly pulsating, streaks of blood pouring in different directions.
“Mom?” I asked, leaning my head to have a look at her face.
“She’s gone already. Now eat, before it’s too late,” dad said, lifting my head back up.
I stabbed the spoon gently between a crack in the brain’s surface, and tried to scoop out as small of a piece as I could. Mom began to scream again, but she stood still, managing her agony. My dad hadn’t yelled at me yet, so I knew I was doing what he wanted me to do. It took considerable force, but I managed to free a slug-sized bite of mom’s brain. As I looked at the piece, faintly jiggling in the middle of the spoon, I wondered which memories and ideas it held; which part of mom was I about to eat?
“Eat it! Right now!” dad screamed, seriously angry by then.
I put the spoon into my mouth and tried to immediately swallow, but the piece got stuck in my throat. A gag followed by a small puddle of vomit dislodged it, though, but that meant that I had to swallow my own vomit alongside the brain piece. A quick glance at the fury in my dad’s eyes forced me to do it; I knew that he was reaching that same point he had that night with my mom. I wondered if his anger was as potent when he was sober; if he hit with more or less precision.
“Good. Continue,” he said approvingly as I gulped down the contents of my mouth.
I chipped off more pieces, initially trying to salvage something of her, which quickly proved futile. She no longer screamed, and with each bite, she became more limp, her body swaying lazily as I gobbled down all that she was and ever had been in tough, wet bites, that made my jaws sore from the chewing. Mucus and blood trailed down my chin, and I noticed that mom had begun to drool. She was still alive, but whatever she had been was forever gone. Looking down became unbearable, so as I chewed each bite, I glanced at the others.
Most of the screaming had stopped, and the noise reminded me of the chow hall during lunch hour, although without the droning chatter of conversation. All of the other kids were eating as well. Some of the women had already fallen down on the ground, limp and unmoving, but we kept eating, each father making sure that their kid sank their spoon into the mind of their mother. I could hear gagging, munching, and a scrunchy churning all around as the children devoured the fancy meal the elders had promised.
Our feast was interrupted by a loud gong sounding in the distance. All of the men leaped to the ground, putting their faces down and holding the backs of their heads, like a bomb was going to go off. “This is my chance,” I thought, hoping that this was nothing but a lucky surprise. I glanced around, and shot for our building, keeping my steps quiet while moving at a jogging pace. Nobody followed me. The men were silent, the women braindead, and the children began to murmur.
I got inside and grabbed my go-bag. My heart pumped so hard it felt like it was about to burst, and suddenly a violent gag emerged from my throat, followed by a stream of mother-vomit that spewed all over the floors. It looked a bit like that cheap grocery store mac and cheese, which I’d had a couple times.
Once I got back outside and began to head for the fence, I saw something in the distance, which stopped me in my tracks and begged for me to look. I should’ve run. I should not have looked.
On the other side of the compound, behind the fence, something was emerging from the thick forest. It looked like an animal, except it was taller than any of the buildings we had, almost as tall as the trees. Gigantic, tendril-like arms protruded from its muscular body, and it almost looked like it was held up by hooved legs, sort of like a horse.
An ear-shattering screech sounded, silencing all other sounds around me, and I knew that it was that *thing*. It launched towards the compound and jumped the fence, and I began to run in the opposite direction. I thought that it must’ve seen me, but looking behind me it had stopped near the stage. It walked slowly among the crowd of people, like it was trying to find something.
I quickly reached the fence and found the exact spot where the wires were split, giving just enough room for me to wriggle myself out. I ran towards the treeline, and once I reached it, turned back to give one final look at the compound.
In the distance, the creature stood between the children and the felled women. Its eyes were dark red, big as the moon, and I could feel it stare at me. I don’t know how it could see me from such a distance, and maybe it didn’t, but its gaze turned my legs into butter and a loud fear surged through my spine. It wanted me. I could feel it. And that’s when I realized what it was.
The One True God.
The decision to leave wasn’t an easy one, although it had been brewing for almost two years. I’m not going to repeat the cult’s name - they’re known to track down their dissidents and use methods, lawful or not, to take you back - but safe to say it was a big production cult, and as I’ve learned, quite a classic one at that.
We lived in a compound in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a thick forest, and our numbers were among the hundreds. I was born and raised there, a bastard child bred through the orders of the elders by two people who could barely stand each other. And I wasn’t the only one. Years before, the elders had made up couples of most of the compound’s residents during the exact same time, and now there were at least a hundred kids the exact same age, and a bunch of grumpy parents raising them. Some families worked well together. Mine didn’t.
But of course, my parents loved each other, as did everyone love everyone else. It wasn’t *love*, but a societal agreement, which shamed those who fought back; those who showed any feelings besides complacency. They called it True Love, and it permeated everything and everyone.
I was around thirteen when the first cracks started to appear. One late night my dad had smuggled booze into our house and gotten himself drunk - a serious offense, were he to be caught. I guess he didn’t care, and as he drank more and more his inhibitions melted away, and the white-hot anger that had festered inside him for years and years finally gasped for air.
He began to yell at my mom, calling her all sorts of names. Said that she’s the reason his life was so dry. That he had never truly loved her, and through the years, she’d only become smaller and uglier in his eyes. That I was a mistake. She didn’t fight back, and that doubled his anger. And then he began to hit her.
I didn’t see dad for a while after that, but the damage was done - both for me and my mom. Even after they let her out of the infirmary two weeks later, her face was dark and puffy, a handful of bloody band-aids covering the cuts on her skin. As for me, I’d seen that True Love was not real. It was not permanent. Although it might’ve had good intentions, it was merely planted. An image of the truth, plastered on the walls; a false God.
Now, you need to remember that I was *brought up* there. It’s all I ever knew. To me, that world *was* the truth. But even so, doubt chewed at the skin of my fingers, and the distinct feeling of something not being right began to take hold of me. This brought up great deals of shame and fear, but sweeping it all under the rug only made it feel worse.
From then onwards, I began to see the bickering and infighting that I used to look past and think of as a sign of normality. And how come if things were so good, our house couldn’t stay warm through the night? And why did we eat the same thing every day? And why did the elders decide everything, even though their decisions made others miserable? The idea that this was all somehow *not real* crept in, and the more I thought of it, the stronger that feeling became.
I hid it well. My parents barely cared for me. Neither of them wanted to have me, and raising me was done with minimum requirements in mind. I was just a byproduct of True Love, commanded by the elders. So, as long as I fulfilled my duties around the compound, they didn’t really care what I was doing, or how I was feeling, or what I was thinking. The rest of them were too occupied with work or their own problems to check on me.
The thought of leaving entered my mind erratically one day, and it scared me. It was one of the worst things to think. That’s how we’d been brought up, like this was heaven and the rest of the world was hell, and you’d be eternally doomed (and extremely stupid) to leave. But there it was, dangerous and sweet, and it wouldn’t let go.
As I let the thought brew, I started becoming more comfortable with it. Even though it was horrible at first, soon it became familiar, and its potency lessened each day. The thought’s sequel followed shortly thereafter: *I will leave*.
Once I’d made the decision, it was mostly a matter of pragmatics. Although I didn’t know what would be waiting for me in the outside world, I did know how the compound worked, and that’s where I decided to base my plan on. In a few months time there would be a great ritual, something of a legend that everyone had always talked about, but seemed like a fable more than anything. But it was coming either way, and seeing as everyone would attend, it was my best shot at leaving unnoticed, giving me a head start at least, while everyone was occupied.
Along the weeks following up to the ritual, we had multiple briefings for the kids about the ritual, through which I gathered enough intel to know the exact spot where I would have the least chance of being caught when crossing the fence surrounding the compound. They didn’t tell us what the ritual would be, only that we would get a fancy meal during it, and we basically just needed to show up on time.
The hardest part was keeping myself preoccupied and inconspicuous. Every time I opened my mouth, I was scared that I would scream “I’M GOING TO ESCAPE ON THE DAY OF THE GREAT RITUAL!” but luckily, no such thing happened. Everyone was so preoccupied with getting the compound in tip-top shape for the ritual, I doubt anyone noticed me acting any different.
The night before the ritual, I packed a small leather bag with some clothes, a bottle of water, and a can of antiperspirant, and hid it under my bed. Everything was quite scarce at the compound, so it’s all I could sneak away without anyone noticing. I barely slept, the go-bag burning a hole in the bed frame, the excitement keeping a steady pulse of erratic thoughts pumping into my mind, keeping it busy, readying it for any and all situations.
The ritual was scheduled to begin after dusk, so I went about my day as normal. If I hadn’t been so tired, I’m sure someone would’ve found me out. I was that excited. And scared. Scared more than I’d ever been before.
Dusk began to settle and everyone gathered around the center of the compound. We were all grouped up in our own families with ten feet of distance to each other, forming a long and wide semicircle around a makeshift stage, kind of like we were queuing towards it. I stood there with my parents, who looked more serious than I think I’d ever seen them, and we watched the stage in silence.
It must’ve taken fifteen minutes for the elders to slog up the stage. One of them, their sort of leader, tapped the microphone, and gigantic speakers screeched in a monstrous feedback loop. Someone turned the gain down and the elder continued, his colleagues spread on the stage behind him in a semicircle of their own.
The speech was boring, much like most speeches given by the elders. Especially with my newfound ideology, their mumbo-jumbo about True Love and our strength and the One True God sounded more derivative than ever before. I quickly tuned it out and began to scout my surroundings, adrenaline beginning to seep into my veins. I was finally going to leave.
Our family was situated at the outermost line of people, so all I had to do was wait for an opening and sneak away. Some kids were already migrating around, the elders’ speech not interesting enough to hold their attention. It was weird; all the adults staring and listening so intently, and us kids being let to do as we pleased, which was something we could barely *ever* do. Something was different, but it coincided with my plan, so I didn’t really care.
I looked around, and waited for my chance, but then the elders said something and my dad turned around to face me, giving me a slight scare.
“Say goodbye to your mother,” he told me, his face twitching as if he was working more than usual to keep his signature straight face.
“Uhh, goodbye mom,” I said, turning to her, knowing that my dad’s orders were always my dad’s orders - it was best not to fight him. He had thrown me for a loop; this was unexpected, and I couldn’t really hold my focus on both the ritual *and* the escape at the same time. All the other kids were saying goodbye to their moms as well, some hugging them, even. None of us seemed to have any idea what was happening, but the parents must’ve known something, because I could hear some of the older guys crying. It wasn’t part of True Love to cry, and this threw me off further. A deep unsettling feeling made its home in my stomach, pulling me down in a dark vortex. “Shit, had I missed my chance?” I thought, hoping so very hard that I hadn’t.
“Now, open their hearts! Open their true love for our children, my brothers! Look into your mothers, children! They bless you with True Love!” the elder screamed into the microphone.
All of the women in the compound kneeled and bowed their heads. I started to hear screaming from afar. My dad interrupted me by grabbing my head and turning it to face him. A few feet away, my mother was kneeling like all the others. “You must watch this, boy,” he said, “and don’t let your eyes wander.”
Staring at me to make sure that I was watching, he approached my mom and grabbed her hair, wrapping her long ponytail around his fist. “For the One True God,” he said, and began to pull.
She screamed from the pain, and he locked his heels into the dry ground, his boot spitting dust into the air, pulling with all his weight. At first, nothing seemed to happen, but suddenly a red crack formed at the base of her skull. Quickly, it began to widen, ripping and tearing the skin in two.
Now the screams were everywhere; deafening and hellish. Once the initial crack had been achieved, my dad didn’t need to pull as hard anymore. He took a quick breath, and relaxed his arms for a moment, then returned to the pulling with newfound vigor. Her scalp began to peel off like the skin of an avocado. Bright red blood and flesh pulped from disturbed blood veins, the streams slowly revealing her skull; white-hot, like his anger had been when he’d almost beat her to death.
Dad grunted as he worked, and once the top of mom’s skull was completely bare, he tugged one last time, ripping the skin completely off her head. The edges of her skin drooped over her ears and face. I looked around, and saw the exact same process being done to all of the other women. Some were already finished, some still inbetween, the men grunting and flailing and kicking the ground to force the skin off the skull, the women screaming in agony. And us children, we couldn’t help but watch. Frozen in place. Too scared to do anything.
I started to hear a blunt tapping sound, followed by an egg-like cracking. I looked back at my parents. I barely recognized them. Mom was covered in blood, sobbing quietly. Dad stood over her with a hammer in his hand, tapping it on her exposed skull. He had to hold her head with one hand to keep it steady. After each careful swing, he’d use his fingers to pry her head, picking up small pieces of skull bone and throwing them on the ground beside me. He was sweating profusely, his eyes wide and fixated, determined to finish the job.
After a large chunk of bone hit the ground, he took a step back and contemplated his work, like a sculptor zooming out and taking in the whole. Seemingly satisfied, he called my name and ordered me beside him. Although being near him was the absolute last thing I wanted to do, I knew that not obeying his orders would ruin any sliver of escape I might still have. I powered through, like I always had, and walked up to him.
He handed me a silver spoon, engraved with odd, janky symbols. I had never seen such a fancy spoon before; usually we just ate with stainless steel sporks that had been in use for all my life. I stared at its eloquent contours and its strange symbols, but then he interrupted me by grabbing my wrist and saying “Eat.”
“What?” I asked him.
“I have given you so much, and your mother is giving you the last of her. Now eat,” he replied.
It was an order, and orders were followed. Although I was still unsure what I was supposed to do, I lifted the spoon up and looked at him inquisitively, hoping that he wouldn’t be angry. He groaned and took me by the shoulders, leading me to stand above mom.
“Eat!” he yelled, frustration flaking off his voice.
I looked down and saw the hole he had dug. Coarse, sharp edges of skull formed a pot, with wormy strands of brain inside, faintly pulsating, streaks of blood pouring in different directions.
“Mom?” I asked, leaning my head to have a look at her face.
“She’s gone already. Now eat, before it’s too late,” dad said, lifting my head back up.
I stabbed the spoon gently between a crack in the brain’s surface, and tried to scoop out as small of a piece as I could. Mom began to scream again, but she stood still, managing her agony. My dad hadn’t yelled at me yet, so I knew I was doing what he wanted me to do. It took considerable force, but I managed to free a slug-sized bite of mom’s brain. As I looked at the piece, faintly jiggling in the middle of the spoon, I wondered which memories and ideas it held; which part of mom was I about to eat?
“Eat it! Right now!” dad screamed, seriously angry by then.
I put the spoon into my mouth and tried to immediately swallow, but the piece got stuck in my throat. A gag followed by a small puddle of vomit dislodged it, though, but that meant that I had to swallow my own vomit alongside the brain piece. A quick glance at the fury in my dad’s eyes forced me to do it; I knew that he was reaching that same point he had that night with my mom. I wondered if his anger was as potent when he was sober; if he hit with more or less precision.
“Good. Continue,” he said approvingly as I gulped down the contents of my mouth.
I chipped off more pieces, initially trying to salvage something of her, which quickly proved futile. She no longer screamed, and with each bite, she became more limp, her body swaying lazily as I gobbled down all that she was and ever had been in tough, wet bites, that made my jaws sore from the chewing. Mucus and blood trailed down my chin, and I noticed that mom had begun to drool. She was still alive, but whatever she had been was forever gone. Looking down became unbearable, so as I chewed each bite, I glanced at the others.
Most of the screaming had stopped, and the noise reminded me of the chow hall during lunch hour, although without the droning chatter of conversation. All of the other kids were eating as well. Some of the women had already fallen down on the ground, limp and unmoving, but we kept eating, each father making sure that their kid sank their spoon into the mind of their mother. I could hear gagging, munching, and a scrunchy churning all around as the children devoured the fancy meal the elders had promised.
Our feast was interrupted by a loud gong sounding in the distance. All of the men leaped to the ground, putting their faces down and holding the backs of their heads, like a bomb was going to go off. “This is my chance,” I thought, hoping that this was nothing but a lucky surprise. I glanced around, and shot for our building, keeping my steps quiet while moving at a jogging pace. Nobody followed me. The men were silent, the women braindead, and the children began to murmur.
I got inside and grabbed my go-bag. My heart pumped so hard it felt like it was about to burst, and suddenly a violent gag emerged from my throat, followed by a stream of mother-vomit that spewed all over the floors. It looked a bit like that cheap grocery store mac and cheese, which I’d had a couple times.
Once I got back outside and began to head for the fence, I saw something in the distance, which stopped me in my tracks and begged for me to look. I should’ve run. I should not have looked.
On the other side of the compound, behind the fence, something was emerging from the thick forest. It looked like an animal, except it was taller than any of the buildings we had, almost as tall as the trees. Gigantic, tendril-like arms protruded from its muscular body, and it almost looked like it was held up by hooved legs, sort of like a horse.
An ear-shattering screech sounded, silencing all other sounds around me, and I knew that it was that *thing*. It launched towards the compound and jumped the fence, and I began to run in the opposite direction. I thought that it must’ve seen me, but looking behind me it had stopped near the stage. It walked slowly among the crowd of people, like it was trying to find something.
I quickly reached the fence and found the exact spot where the wires were split, giving just enough room for me to wriggle myself out. I ran towards the treeline, and once I reached it, turned back to give one final look at the compound.
In the distance, the creature stood between the children and the felled women. Its eyes were dark red, big as the moon, and I could feel it stare at me. I don’t know how it could see me from such a distance, and maybe it didn’t, but its gaze turned my legs into butter and a loud fear surged through my spine. It wanted me. I could feel it. And that’s when I realized what it was.
The One True God.
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