Breaking The Cult

I don’t like to talk about my past often. Actually, I don’t like to talk about it at all. But, Andy says I need to find my voice and speak up for myself. So, here I am doing just that.

My name is Clover, which I hate. My mother named me that because she says I was born in a open field with open green grass and clovers all around. I hate it because my father originally picked it out. So, you can just call me Clo, or Chloe for short.

I don’t hate my father because of the many common reasons a teenager usually hates their father. He wasn’t absent. In fact, he was very much present. He didn’t cheat on my mother or hurt her. She was, and still is very submissive and supportive. He didn’t stop me from going to parties or put me on punishment for not doing homework. I was a very good child who was homeschooled and enjoy to learn anything new. I’m pretty sure by now you’re asking me, “then why do you hate your father so much?” The answer is simple.

My father is the leader of his own cult.

Obviously when growing up I didn’t know what a cult was. I had no knowledge or sense of things being wrong in the way we lived because I thought it was normal living. I take part of that back—I did feel some of our ways and traditions were questionable and I didn’t enjoy doing. But, I was a good daughter. The oldest of five. I never spoke out of turn because it was considered disrespect to our father. I didn’t leave the house because my father, the God of the house, said it was evil out there and was forbidden unless it was in our own backyard. I would bow at his feet when he came home, and I would greet him with a kiss, showing my “God” how appreciated he was. I followed all rules my mother and father gave to me because I was taught it was the right thing to do.

Well, eventually I did start going out into the world, and seen it was very different from the way I lived.

I was never supposed to leave my home. My father had forbid it. The only time we ever left was to meet his followers at an old building my father owns to do prayers and to communicate about new comers who would need shelter and food. Things of that nature. It made me feel like my parents were real heroes helping people in need of guidance and a family. Everyone seemed to love and admire them and would tell me I would grow up and be a great leader just as they had been. I liked to hear that.

My father wasn’t always sweet, though. Every now and then one of his followers would want to leave the shelter provided for them, and didn’t want to follow my father and his beliefs any longer. This would upset him greatly. I remember vividly the first time I seen him punish one of his followers for wanting to leave.

We were at the building dressed in our purple hooded robes for an emergency meeting late one night. His followers sat in the rows of benches, pulling down their hoods as my father walked through the middle aisle on his purple carpet rolled out for his arrival. No one bowed to greet him, which was unusual for his arrival. It was utterly silent and no one said a word or had a smile on their face. He didn’t acknowledge any of them either, just took his seat up on his thrown chair with his fingers to his lips in deep thought.

“Is something wrong, Momma?” I had asked her. We took our seats in the front row and removed our hoods.

“Just sit here and wait for the meeting to be over.” She ordered gently. “Any questions you have, you wait to ask me when we are home alone.”

My younger brother sat on my lap and ate his gold fish crackers. We sat and waited.

After five minutes that seemed to last an hour, my father spoke. “It has to come my attention that our family member, Paul no longer wants to be in our family.” There were a series of gasps around the room.

“Paul has been so good to our family, and we have been good to him. For years he has brought us great outstanding information in helping us remain knowledgeable in what goes on in the police department and what they know on us. It is important that we know and be warned if they try to interfere in what we are trying to achieve.

“Paul understood us. He seen our mission as necessary and needed in these times…but now all of that has changed. Instead of me repeating his foul words of filth, I will let him speak for himself.”

My father raised a finger and Uncle Robert pressed a small button on a small remote control in his hand. Then the voice of Paul was playing out of two pairs of big black speakers.

He sounded as if he was out of breath and nervous. “I don’t think I can do this much longer. Shits getting real. Realer than I thought it would’ve. His crazy ass is already talking to real serious people in real dangerous places! They are becoming allies with him, and becoming really financially invested partners in this whole agenda.” He spoke as if he had been running for miles. “He is starting to get real aggressive in moving forward. He has now made me put over five wires around the precinct and in the offices of detectives. How long until someone catches me doing that, huh?”

Another man’s voice began to speak. “Son, calm down a litt-“

“Calm down?!” Paul cut him off, “These people are fuckin’ crazy! I have a family and children to think about. I can’t risking myself, my wife, and my kids to keep feeding you information. There isn’t enough money in the world. I want a normal life, Joe. I’m out. I’m going to tell you what I know, and that’s it.” Uncle Robert cut off the recording.

Everyone remained silent. They all seemed to be in their own heads thinking their own thoughts. Most seemed to be angry with Paul, while others had looks of sympathy.

“Our brother, Paul was a traitor the entire time! He betrayed us and put all of your children, brothers, and sisters in danger of being locked up and put into foster homes with strangers. He never believed in our calling from the higher Gods! He believes all of us are crazy for putting our mission into action and taking a stand into creating the world we deserve to live!” Said my father, becoming angrier with each word he pushed out with full emotion. “We all know what must be done now.”

Every person began to agree and nod their heads. Some yelling out “punish him, My Lord!” And others saying, “Cleanse him from his evil!” They were getting hyped up without my father having to do or say much more. I didn’t know what “cleanse him from his evil” meant for Paul. I did know what the word punish meant, and knew it wasn’t looking good for him. I began to feel sorry for him immediately. I have heard of people dying from their punishments from my father, although I never had to witness any of them for myself. This would be a new experience for me in understanding my parents.

My father yelled, “Bring him out!” The side doors that led to the back of the building swung open with two men wearing black hooded robes never showing their face. None of us ever wore black robes. But, never mind that. The guy who had to be Paul was kicking and tugging wildly to get free of the men’s strong grip. His mouth was biting on a black cloth that was tied tightly around his mouth. My father stood as Paul was dropped to his knees in front of his thrown. My mother then stood up next, “Stay right here with your brother and sisters.” She ordered me. Then taking her place next to my father.

“You will have to be punished for the dishonesty and disloyalty you have brought upon yourself.” She stated with a firm authoritative tone. “You cannot be forgiven for presenting a false identity to us all, who have been nothing but brutally honest and caring for you. You do not see the purpose of our journey and mission we are trying to accomplish, so therefore you are an enemy to us all.” My words must have shook Paul, because he was no longer fighting off the men holding him down. My mother had that effect on people. When she spoke, you listened. When she ordered you to do something, you did it right away. She was respected the same way my father was.

The two men stood Paul back onto his feet, while my uncle grabbed a wooden chair and placed it in front of them. They turned Paul around and tied his ankles and wrists to the chair, also tying his back to the back of the chair so he couldn’t move his body much. Paul was facing me and the crowd now. All of us anticipating and anxious to know what kind of punishment he would get that involved his entire body to be restrained. “He’s in for it now.” I heard an older woman say from behind me.

My father nodded to the men, and one of them untied the black cloth tying Paul’s mouth shut. Then both men dressed in black robes stood along the far wall, faces still being covered by the oversized hoods.

“You like to talk a lot. It’s a shame you’ve used your gift to speak from the Gods to spill out information to the enemy. Now the Gods will not protect you. They’ve told me that you don’t deserve to have the gift of speech any longer.”

“Wait, just let me explain…” Paul tried to plead upon deaf ears. My father never changes his mind once his decision is made. How is he going to keep a man from talking? I asked myself.

My mother handed my father a medium sized slim silver knife and my heart began to pound from seeing Paul begin to panic again. What’s going on…

My uncle held Paul’s head to keep him from jerking, while my mother used a metal instrument to keep his mouth wide open. I was too young to think of the name of it, but I was familiar with it from seeing my dentist use it on one of his patients before me. The man back then in my memory didn’t have the same fear as Paul here did.

My father then used a pair of tongs to hold his tongue out and still as he began slicing aggressively through it. Not caring about making a perfect cut or doing it quick and swiftly. I could tell my father wanted it to purposely cause the most excruciating pain and agony onto Paul. Taking his time while he sliced layer after layer through his tongue and Paul screaming at the top of his lungs. My father was unfazed by the blood pouring out from his mouth or his cries and tears of pain from the torture. I had never seen anything like it. Never seen my father act in such a cruel way, but so calmly about it. Same with my mother. She stood there and watched intently as his tongue was halfway cut through, with most of it hanging from the tongs now lifeless.

I myself on the other hand couldn’t stomach the horrific scene much longer. I was not fascinated like everyone else in the benches cheering my father on for his actions. My hands were covering my brothers eyes, and thankfully my twin sisters were young and in their car seats, so I just had to turn them around. I felt my stomach begin to turn and couldn’t hold back the puke from leaving my mouth after seeing my father shove the cut tongue back into his mouth forcing him to eat it and watching him spit it back out onto the floor.

I felt my mother grab my arm and guided me to the back of the building where the bathroom stalls were. I puked as she held my hair back from my face and listened as she told me it was okay. I had wanted to blurt out many things and ask many questions, but remembered her telling me to wait until I was home and alone with her, so I did. Plus, I could not look at my mother and without questions about her myself. Questions I would’ve never thought to ask. Questions I would’ve never considered to come out of my mouth. The first of all is what I asked myself, to myself alone. Is this the way we are supposed to be living?

Thank you for reading!! I do plan on making this story a novel, adding it to my collection of publishes I wish to succeed in. Please like a like, a tip, ANYTHING to acknowledge that you enjoyed reading my story. Once again, thank you. Stay tuned for more of this story(as well as others)to come.