Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 141464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
It doesn’t matter. She’s free now and not my problem.
I grab two more shoeboxes and carry them into the office.
Cain’s standing right outside the door, still staring at me with those wide, blank eyes.
I shift the boxes to one arm and gently ruff my hand over the top of his head. “You go to school, little man?”
He nods slowly.
Still watching him, I drop my armload on the desk. “You like it?”
He shrugs, then nods again.
“You know how to talk?”
His serious little face screws into a scowl. He’s got some Killgore fire in him after all. “Yes.”
“Good.” I return to the vault and pull two of the metal boxes off the shelves. I dump the papers on the desk and transfer the cash into one of the sturdier boxes. Then stack everything for Ruth on the corner of the desk.
Footsteps pound over the floor above me and I glance up. Hope that means people are moving their asses and packing their shit, not grabbing their guns and coming for me.
No. Ruth wouldn’t have left her son here if she planned to get the whole compound to take me out.
Outside a car engine rumbles to life.
I blow out a sigh of relief.
I search every drawer of my father’s desk—Bibles, keys, coins, scraps of paper with half-written verses or angry, ranting sermon notes. Most of it, I toss aside.
The bottom drawer sticks.
I yank harder. It gives with a light squeak, revealing several stacks of small, black leather-bound notebooks. Each one identical in size and thickness. The only difference is the year marked on each spine.
Intrigued, I set them on top of the desk and open the oldest notebook.
Rows and rows of neatly written names, numbers, infractions, and punishments.
A ledger of my father’s brutality.
Most of my childhood memories are fuzzy but he must have started keeping this notebook the year after we moved here.
The earliest entries are deceptively mild.
Joshua—talked back to mother—two hours of silence.
Gideon—disobeyed father—write ten commandments ten times.
Jensen—neglected chores—Memorize and recite Romans 6:23.
Elizabeth—denied husband—10 lashes with belt.
Even my mother didn’t escape his punishments. My throat tightens. The implications of her entry turn my stomach.
I continue flipping pages. On and on the lists go.
After a while, other names pop up—people who must’ve stayed at the farm from time to time.
Sarah—refused to share with the community—stripped of bedding and warmth for three days.
Eli—coveted Sarah—three days of fasting and prayer. No contact with women for a week.
Lydia—questioned headship—Copy Ephesians 5:22 one hundred times.
Naomi—seen alone with Eli—confined to room. Hair cut to shoulder length.
Eli—whipped five times—Confined to barn for three nights.
The entries are cruel. Clinical. My father’s devotion to God twisted into justification for torturing people. I pick up another notebook and the insane ledger continues.
Thomas—stole bread—twenty lashes. Public apology before breakfast.
Leah—skipped chores—Forced to walk barefoot through fields.
Jensen—talked back—ruler to knuckles.
Gideon—interfered with Jensen’s correction. Must repent for idolizing family above God—seven lashes, two days of solitude.
My brother tried to protect me?
I glance down at my hands. Why can’t I remember that incident?
Joshua—caught sneaking bread to Gideon—fourteen lashes, confined to barn for two nights.
And my other brother tried to feed Gideon.
Jensen—failed to complete Psalm assignment—kneel on stones for four hours. No supper.
Christ, I can still feel the ache of those stones digging into my tender knees. Forcing myself to be still and not cry or he’d make me stay there even longer.
Gideon—caught sneaking bread to Jensen—ten lashes, four days of solitude.
I blink, my eyes burning. My brother still tried to feed me even after he’d been punished for trying to protect me before.
Not long after that entry Gideon and Joshua’s names disappear from the notebook entirely.
No final notation about what led to their departure. Did they actually escape? Or did he kill them?
I should have tortured him longer.
Until he gave me an answer.
I don’t have time to relive the horrors contained in these books, but I can’t seem to stop.
Jensen—disruptive in school—no supper, sleep on floor.
Jezebel—disobeyed mother. Sang during nap time—confined to room. No supper.
Jensen—interfered with Jezebel’s punishment—four lashes. No breakfast.
Jezebel—cried during morning worship—placed in silent pen. No contact with other children for one day.
Some of these memories return. Fuzzy and jumbled. Jezzie was so little. I didn’t understand how she could be expected to follow our father’s insane rules. But at least he never physically punished her.
I toss the book on the desk in disgust and pick up another one. I want to burn the whole stack. Another part of me wants them as a sick keepsake.
And maybe to use in my defense if I’m ever arrested for the death of my father.
A soft knock breaks the silence. I snap the book shut and lift my head. Ruth eases the door open, shoulders hunched like she expects me to throw a Bible at her.
Cain, now quietly sitting by the vault door, glances at her but the stoic expression on his little face doesn’t change.