Ｂｕｒｎｅｄ - ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴀʜʀᴇɴʜᴇɪᴛ ᴄʜʀᴏɴɪᴄʟᴇꜱ (Under Construction)

Chpt.2: Puppeteer

Cold concrete chilled my back though what remained of my ruined sweater as I leaned against the wall of the cellar, my eyes slipping closed for a split second at a time before I forced them open again.

I wondered, how many times I could do this before they wouldn't open again? How long could I hold out?

Before I could follow that thought to the dark place it would inevitably lead me, I started as I heard the door to the cellar groan open.

I was surprised to see light casting my father's silhouette from the doorway, he almost never came here in the daytime, unless... It was a Sunday, it must be. That was the only time he felt he had the power of God on his side and thus protected from my sorcery.

I watched as, step by creaking wooden step, my father descended into the cellar. His hair was oily, showing me that he'd drenched himself in holy oil before coming in here.

He steps did not echo, but rather sloshed as he waded through the good three inches of water he'd filled the basement with to kill my fire and render me powerless.

"Ego discipulus erat Deus. Et si ambulavero in valle umbrae mortis, non timebo mala, quoniam tu mecum." Father made the sign of the cross over his chest before bringing a crucifix to his lips and kissing it.

'Protegas me virgam tuam, et pastoris virga transeunt.' I completed the psalm in my head, knowing it by heart. He spoke it every time he entered the cellar.

I felt my head turn with the force of a slap from my father, the stinging in my cheek throbbing, but not terrible. The sound echoed in the cellar as he pulled out his bible and began the recite whatever passage he thought appropriate.

I tuned him out, finding myself slightly more awake from the slap, but still exhausted as his voice droned on and on. Instead, I focused on the open cellar door and the light I so rarely saw.

It must've been morning when the sun was at just the right angle to pour into the house, and the light was more white than golden. It was a beautiful time of day.

Suddenly my father stopped when a ringing sound echoed into the house, making both of us look up to where we knew the front door was.

I felt my heartbeat pick up, fear for whoever had stumbled across this terrible place spiking in my chest.

My father looked down at me, slowly walking to stand over my form as I kept my eyes fixed on the pipes above me.

I only looked away when I felt my father step on my left leg, slowly applying his weight to the already injured limb.

I opened my mouth in a silent cry of pain and squeezed my eyes shut as if it would make the world go away. If I could, I would be screaming, but my vocal cords had been badly damaged a few weeks ago.

"Cum redeo, si invenies te movetur tu quoque porta scelus." My father threatened in a quiet voice so whoever was at the front door wouldn't hear. Later I would learn how ironic and useless his efforts were.

I said nothing, only gasping in a pained relief when his weight removed itself from my leg as he walked up the stairs out of the cellar and shut the door behind him, the sound of the final heavy lock clicking shut and trapping me once more.

I grabbed my legs, pulling my knees close to my chest as I breathed through the pain, much more awake than I had been as I listened to my father's footsteps thudding over my head.

Another knock made his steps speed up before he opened the front door. I frowned when I noticed he didn't open it fully before I realized why. He was still drenched in oil.