Chapter Text
Travis stood in front of the small mirror in the bathroom, adjusting his tie—violet, in theme for the occasion—it was November 2nd, meaning that for most of his afternoon, he would be at church. It was still about an hour until mass began, Kenneth was getting ready along his children.
He had gotten home not too long ago—as whatever business he had in the ministry didn't take until night as he originally thought—looking oddly agitated for someone of his character. Before he left the house once more, this time to prepare for mass, he stood outside the bathroom, glaring at Travis, more specifically, his bruise. "If anyone questions the bruise, you will tell them," Kenneth started, only for Travis to finish his sentence, "That I fell down the stairs, father."
The latter had been looking at Kenneth through the mirror, watching his disappointed expression soften ever-so-slightly. "Very good then. I expect you and your sisters to be there no later than 6 p.m., understood?" "Yes."
Kenneth scowled, to which Travis quickly corrected himself, "Yes, father." Having to call Kenneth his father did something to Travis; having to acknowledge that he shared blood with an abuser. With the man that had murdered his mother, most likely.
It made his heart ache, nearly as much as the cuts on his wrists were throbbing against the tight cuffs of his dress shirt. The blade still sat in the back pocket of his jeans, actually. What he could not seem to put into words, not even in his journal, let alone speak, he traced with the blade. One part of him wanted to go deeper, to go onto the empty spaces on his thighs and forearms; perhaps to ground himself, as a cruel reminder that he was still alive; perhaps to prove to himself that he deserved to bleed, in a way to punish himself. He could not remember the exact reason, maybe it was both, but his memory of the event was hazy, as if he himself had not been there at all.
A similar feeling carried him all the way through the All-Saint’s mass. He hardly noticed the way he almost tripped on the way to the ministry. He barely listened to the readings, as he was fixated on a painting of Jesus by the altar. What he did not miss was its details. The blood running down from his forehead, which then mixed with the blood at his side, and then pooled at his feet. A gruesome image, to say the least.
Oddly enough, he could not find the light in his eyes, like they were life-less—well of course, he was being crucified—despite being the son of God and at the same time God himself. He was the walking, living image of life itself, so why did his gaze feel cold and unforgiving?
Before the bread and wine were blessed, someone would usually go up to the altar to ask for the well-being, recovery, or for the eternal rest of people. Whoever wanted to ask for said intention just went to the sacristy before mass to print the name of the person and what their intention was.
This afternoon it would be Travis who would be reading them, he already dreaded stepping a foot on the altar, he felt like he did not belong up there, he felt like he was pretending for everyone at the church, despite his best efforts to be the prime example of a good Christian boy.
...
“What the actual fuck is this place?!” exclaimed Larry as he took a look around him, in the level below the basement they had somehow found.
It was, for starters an extremely odd sight, light grey stone, like the one seen in castles, and some sort of red banners with yellow stripes on them decorated the walls. Todd and Larry took a couple of steps forward, but Sal stayed where he stood, almost completely still.
He felt his whole-body tense up as soon as he stepped inside the hidden temple; he felt chills run across him.
“Sal?” “Hey, you okay, man?” The other boys spoke up almost at the same time, snapping Sal out of his own mind, “Yeah… this place is just,” he paused “This place is weird as hell, I kinda just froze there.”
They kept exploring the place after Sal took a few minutes to calm down. The temple had multiple corridors, almost like it was a maze.
After about 10 minutes of running into the same corridors and finding odd rooms with a concerning amount of knifes, they found what seemed like the main area of the complex. At the center was a circle made of a different, lighter coloured, type of stone than the rest of the floor, and around it were several cross-shaped brown stains, dried up blood…
A couple of steps behind the sacrificial circle was a massive gate, with two smaller entrances at its side, which were also closed.
“Check out those bulbs.” Larry pointed at three pairs of bulbs next to some plaques on the ground on each side of the circle.
It seemed that they needed to be pressed in a certain order for one of the gates to open. It would surely take up most of their afternoon, but they were searching for Ash desperately that they wouldn't really think twice before lauching themselves to whatever challenge was placed in front of them.
…
“We pray, today, for all the souls that have left this mortal realm to be in the glory and kingdom of God.”
Travis was standing at the lectern on the altar with three papers on his hand, “And for… for,” he stuttered for a bit, nervous under the careful watch of his father, “And specially for Kaya Phelps,” he took a deep breath before looking at the other names, “For Diane Fisher, and Mr. Packerton, may their souls rest in peace.”
“Amen.” Echoed through the church as Travis stepped back and headed to his spot next to Mary and Madeline
His mother’s name felt heavy on his tongue, he could not even remember her very well; he remembered that she wore her hair in a braid most of the time, and that he had some sort of resemblance to her, as he was often reminded of that by Kenneth during their fights.
The time to take the communion came not long after. Most people stepped forward from the pews, forming two lines, one in front of Kenneth, and another one in front of a minister helping Kenneth with the mass. Travis, however, did not step forward.
It had been a while since he step foot in the confession booth. He was too much of a coward to spill out his sins with his father listening on the other side. Even if he lied, or hid details out of his confession, Kenneth would know, he always knew; he recognised Travis’ unsure tone from the other side either way.
Part of him, however, wanted his dad to know—maybe not exactly his dad, he wanted God to know—about certain desires that he had trouble with. A desire to be with another boy, to love and to be loved by another boy. He loathed himself for not being able to confess about his sin.
For not being able to push the urges away. He stilled prayed, almost daily, that one morning he would somehow wake up being different. Fixed.
“You don’t know what’s waiting for you at home, Travis.” Kenneth’s voice was so loud from the confessional booth that you could have probably heard his voice all the way from the altar. “I- I’m… I’m willing to take it, father…” “Very well then, son.”
It was now the end of mass, most people were either leaving, or heading to the graveyard behind the ministry. Travis stayed behind for confession, he had made up his mind. It had most definitely earned him a beating from Kenneth, but, through the tears that began to cloud his eyes as he stepped out of the confessional booth, he felt oddly relieved, like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.
At least momentarily.
…
“Ash!” Larry shouted out as they finally solved that odd puzzle, finding Ash laying atop a pile of bones… rough landing… “We are so, so, so glad you’re okay.” Sal jumped up to hug Ash and was joined by Larry and Todd afterwards. “Hey. I’m fine, no broken bones at least.”
The reunion was however interrupted abruptly by 2 voices on the other side of the gate—where the group was solving the slate-puzzle before—speaking about… the ‘chosen one’…? Weird cult stuff apparently.
“No, no. I’m telling you,” A high-pitched, feminine voice spoke, “He’s been telling us that the boy is in this town.” A second voice, slightly deeper interrupted the first cultist enthusiastically, “So we can finally start the ritual!” “Be quiet, and we’re still not sure if we can proceed, but we do have a chance to.”
After some time, the two cultists left, somehow not noticing the missing lightbulb and the sunken slates… as soon as the coast was clear, the group ran and didn’t look back until they fund their way back to the apartments.
"Oh my God, I know I didn't really belive you about the ghosts and the cult but, oh my God." Ash said while she shook off any remaining dust, "Wait you didn't belive anything we've told you so far?" Larry was dumbfounded at this new piece of information.
"Well until now, I didn't. At least about the ghosts, a cult was more believable. Maybe it's the same one this so-called Megan told you about."
After that, the group went back to their respective apartments, and Ash waiting outside the building to be picked up by her mother.
...
Kenneth being so... 'merciful', decided to give Travis some time before he made it home. He should be there no later than 7:15 p.m.
He wandered off to the graveyard behind the ministry, seeing a family or two leaving flowers on their loved one's grave. Travis headed to the far end, where his mother's grave was. He sat down in front of it, observing the dates on her tombstone, right below the "beloved daughter, wife, and mother". She was in her mid 40s when she died. When Kenneth killed her.
Although Travis had no proof of that fact, he was almost entirely sure it was his father's doing. She could not have just disappeared randomly one night and be miraculously found 3 days later; the police, of course, framed it as a case of suicide.
She had been found with a knife at her side, covered in her blood only (allegedly) with apparently no signs of struggle. Travis didn't buy that story. He was convinced his father had intervened with the police—at the very least—so the real story didn't come to the light, ever.
He was planning to sit for a few minutes to clear his head, maybe write some words in his journal; he was really just counting down the minutes until he had to go home, to, most likely, a beating from Kenneth.
He deseved it, he thought. It was God's way of punishing him. There couldn't be any other possible reason why his father hated him so much... why he was beaten... could it?
Again, he started counting down the minutes, during his walk back home, until Kenneth would lay hid hands on him again.