Chosen (LGBT/Queer)

Prologue

Disclaimer: This chapter has extremely mature, depressive and abusive themes. These themes include molestation, suicide, self-harm and drug abuse. Any time you see "*" please be advised that a situation that may trigger you is about to be written when you see "#", note that the triggering portion of the chapter may be over. Please skim or skip these parts. Please read at your own discretion and take breaks if needed. If you struggle with depression and self-harm, and do not feel comfortable, please skip this chapter. I can always DM you a less graphic rundown. Your safety and mental wellness are the most important. Thank you for reading my content.

<3,
taylen

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ZURIEL

My first prayer was answered when I was eight years old. It was a desperate whisper through salty lips. My knees were planted on a warm, baby pink shag rug. I propped my arms on top of my bed and the palms of my hands were pressed together in prayer—just like my daddy taught me. Tears rolled down my cheeks, down my forearms and onto the white bedding. It felt like I was forming a puddle of my tears.

It was the night of Thanksgiving and after spending the whole day with my family and attendees of our Thanksgiving celebration, I felt weak. I felt burdened. I was tired of pretending that I was happy and everything was fine, as if I had the average worries and cares of an eight year old child; when in reality, I had spent the last year fighting myself to keep breathing each day.

I spent over a year in silence, however, that night, even though I was whispering, I spoke with conviction and declaration with pleading sentiments. Enough was enough. *

For the past year, I had been molested by my daddy's secondhand man: Deacon James. It started off subtle. At first, I didn't think anything of it. He suddenly became super sweet to me, always telling me to come by his office before or after Sunday service. He would give me candy or give me change to put in my piggy bank. The more I went to him, the kinder he got. He picked out candy he knew I liked personally, change became dollars, waves became hugs—hugs that became too tight, too close, too uncomfortable and too personal.

I thought he was just being a loving man of God. My parents didn't think anything of it and they trusted him, so, so did I. When no one was around, when I was in his office, he would touch inappropriate places like my thighs and butt, telling me how grown I was getting. It became a habit of his, a habit that worsened over time. He went from touching me to asking me to touch him. While my parents were busy having conversations with members of the congregation after the church, and my siblings were running around playing, I found myself alone in Deacon James office with the door locked.

His office had no windows, just plain white walls with posters about the love of God and inspirational scriptures. He told me it was normal and a private manner the way we treated each other. He said it was fun, like a game. He said I could never tell any one, not even God. He would touch me up my dress. I would touch him through his pants. It was supposed to feel good, he said. He would make noises, make sudden movements and express satisfaction. I would sit on his lap confused, uncomfortable, wondering when the weird game would end.

It happened like that for a year. The more and more it happened, the more uncomfortable I felt. The more he continued to press that I must not tell anyone, or else we would both get in trouble with God. I still remember I once asked him, "If I told my daddy, would I go to Hell?"

"You and I both," he had responded in a hoarse voice. He had always sounded like he needed a glass of water. "Hell isn't a fun place, especially for little girls. What we're doing is sacred between us, if you tell someone else, you're breaking a bond and we will both burn in the eternal fire."