Peace is a river

It’s been six years since it all happened. Early this morning, the woman woke up, and, as always, she waited expectantly for the onslaught of remorse and the pervasive memories that seemed to greet her first thing in the morning; yet, today, nothing.

Strangely, she felt calm, at peace, and this startled her.

After all the years of therapy, of talking, crying, reliving, and now this morning, without notice, her insides felt quiet. Not willing to trust the empty halls of her mind, she reaches for the memory that lives behind the curtains of her eyes. A body lying on a carpet, a peaceful smile and soft hazel eyes, gazing towards heaven.

Like always, she tenses, waiting for the remorse that crawls beneath her skin, causing her to itch all over.

“Formication hallucinations”, her therapist had explained. “There’s nothing there, it’s all in your head.”

She lies still on her bed, waiting.

Nothing. Only silence.

Hadn't her therapist been telling her for years, “It’s not your fault. You’re the victim.”

~

The woman remembers the first day she went to speak to her therapist. The desperate call she had made.

“I need to book an appointment”, the woman had blurted, before the receptionist had a chance to greet.

Just earlier that day, an intense urge to scream had gripped her so violently, she had feared she would start and never stop.

Perhaps, the receptionist had heard the desperation, the plea in her voice, and had booked the next available appointment. Once the session started, unable to keep it locked up inside, she had spent an hour going through her account of what had happened. Her mind had replayed it so many times, she told the story as if she were talking about a stranger. At times, it seemed like make-believe, like she had heard a story somewhere and memorised it so well that she believed it had happened to her.

So she told her story, starting with how it all began. The therapist seemed to understand her need to purge, occasionally making notes in her notepad. The woman recited the tale of twisted ministers, guilty accomplices, and perverted doctrines. When she finished her story, she asked one question: “Do I deserve forgiveness?”

Then, she hadn't known what she wanted from the therapist, exoneration or condemnation. She had hoped that the therapist would deliver swift judgment to quieten all the arguments inside. The question had led her here; she had played her story over and over again in her head, with no clear verdict.

~

The woman sits quietly in the back row of the church. Dutiful followers swarm around her in their long dresses and stiff shirts, making her feel cramped. She leans forward, hands clasped in front of her chest. Her tongue moves around her closed mouth, as if trying to remember how it feels to pray. Old prayers float in fragments around her mind.

“Deliver us from evil”, she remembers.

Giving up on praying, she sits with her hands on her lap. Under her long white dress, her restless leg shakes, anticipating the start of the service.

Up on stage, a man readjusts his guitar strap, his fingers hovering above the strings, upset-mindedly moving in silent strumming motions, as if they too were anxious for the service to begin. He leans closer to his microphone, ‘Welcome to the Sanctuary”, he says, smiling. His hands finally start to strum a few notes, and his flock gathers and takes their seats at his feet.

His gaze moves slowly over the settling crowd, hand still softly strumming the strings. The man is in his late thirties, his white linen suit well-tailored, and the spotlight above wraps its soft, warm light over him, making him look almost ethereal. Behind him, the drummer adds tempo to the tune, and a female vocalist sways to the melody, her cerulean maxi dress swaying along.

In between strums, the man’s hand beckons, and the accustomed congregation begins to rise. All around, devout followers stretch their hands toward the stage, like moths to a flame. The man’s gaze falls on the woman, his hand still softly strumming the strings. Bright light frames his face as he turns to her fully, not intimidated by the woman’s expressionless stare. His lips twitch at the corners, a hidden smile just for her.

Finally, he looks away, and she exhales. With his hand still softly strumming, he opens his mouth and starts to sing. Heart pounding, she hurriedly walks out of the church.

~

“Repent, the ascension is coming”, she says as she hands out recruitment pamphlets. On the sidewalk, the summer sun’s fierce heat makes sweat run down her back, and her clothes cling to her skin, but she doesn't mind.

“Count it all joy!” Jeff, their leader and prophet, would say whenever her fellow recruitment ministers spoke about the challenges of recruiting. Even the pitiful looks from passersby could not deter her either. Didn't they know they were the ones who were lost, not her?

Jeff’s teachings had released her from the clutches of this materialistic world. She felt lighter and at peace now that she’d renounced her earthly possessions and followed The Way.

“How do you think it will feel to ascend?” Judy asks nervously. She looks at her best friend and smiles.

“Peaceful”. She says, hardly containing her excitement. Tonight, she’d commune with God. She would transcend her earthly limitations and would never be the same again.

Looking at Judy, she remembers how just five years ago they had been sad and depressed in their draining corporate jobs. But when she had found The Way, she had convinced her friend to come to the Sanctuary, and now they had both found peace together.

Sometimes when her mother or sister called her, she listened to their cries with resignation. Their pleas for her to come home were so frequent, she felt like a broken record explaining herself.

“Can't you see he’s taken you away from us?” her sister had said just yesterday, her voice breaking.

“Woe is he, who doesn't heed to The Way”, she had answered.

When her sister’s sniffling and whimpering didn't stop, she ended the call, saying, “See you after I ascend, sister”.

~

All the followers line up in a neat line.

Jeff stands on the stage. In his hand, a carafe of wine.

“The day of the Ascension is here. Today, we will ascend into glory.”

“To glory!”, the congregation shouts.

One by one, they approach the stage, and Jeff pours wine into their cups.

Overzealous, many gulp the elixir on stage and walk down to their seats. Before her, Judy steps up onto the stage and eagerly drinks her wine. She turns to smile at the woman, her hazel eyes glowing as she walks to find her seat.

The woman steps forward. Jeff pours her portion and gives her a gentle nod, as she lifts the cup to her lips.

<thud>

She turns at the sound. Judy lies motionless on the floor, a dreamy smile on her face as white foam comes out of her mouth.

<thud>

<thud>

As more followers join Judy in her dreamy sleep on the floor. Others look around, confused, even fearful.

She lifts her cup, ready to join her friends in their eternal peace.

<bang>

<bang>

“Freeze, it’s the police!”

~

The woman sits on her narrow hospital bed. She looks at her mother’s sleeping frame on the chair and lets out a shaky breath.

It’s been eight months since Judy died. Eight months since her sister had alerted the police about Jeff, and eight long months of conversion therapy.

Newspapers had printed story after story.

23 followers die in Suicide Cult.

Manipulation and Death in The Way

Cult Leader on the Run.

She knew now what had happened. She had trusted blindly, had been fooled into believing lies, and had recruited people to their deaths. And the most unforgivable of all, she had killed her best friend.

~

The woman leaves the church, still shaken.

She clutches her handbag and stands outside the church, waiting.

A few hours later, she walks back in.

“Good to see you again, sister”, Jeff says, smiling.

This time, she doesn’t startle. She has been searching for him for years. In this foreign country, no body knew who he was and what he was capable of. Calmly, she reaches into her bag, pulls out a handgun.

<bang>

<bang>

He lies on the floor, mouth agape, stunned brown eyes gazing above. Crimson flows and pools around the body.

She stares at him, her insides quiet, calm. A once forgotten scripture comes to mind, “that my people might have peace that flows like a river.”