( warnings: blood, religious imagery, violence, yandere behavior, sin, purity, discrimination, drugs and alcohol, addiction, unhealthy coping mechanisms, sexual assault, mentioned self harm, graphic scenes, extreme self hate. )
In general, warnings will be included at the start of every chapter if necessary. Please tell me if I leave anything out. The content inside might be sensitive to some so viewer discretion is advised.
Regarding the religious aspect, it is heavily based on Christianity, but it's written to be more of a cult than an actual religion. Only certain aspects are similar to Christianity, but the majority of it is made up and written to be slightly more diabolical.
Again, I emphasise that this book is extremely dark, darker than twisted faith. Please read the chapter warnings beforehand.
Chapter Warnings; self harm
I'm so blessed with the support you guys have shown! Comment for motivation along the way, and I'll update faster!
—
Strangely enough, Y/n had a wonderful sleep.
Or could it even be called sleep? The truth laid in the fact that Anton had drugged him; and Y/m had liked that. Loved that, even, for in a drugged state he couldn't think, he couldn't dream, he was no longer a victim to his dilapidated mind. He wasn't a prisoner of his wretchedness anymore—he was free, floating, his consciousness gone. It was a preview of what his death would be like. Liberating. Free.
Y/n cracked open an eyelid. His vision was blurry at first, disconcerting. But he could make out a figure gently holding him, hands caressing his hair, stroking it with tenderness. Anton's lap. Somehow Y/n's head was on Anton's lap. From another person's point of view perhaps this would have seemed like a sweet scene; a scene between two people heavily in love, but Y/n would have begged to differ.
"You slept for so long," Anton said after a pause, his voice soft, "I thought you had died."
I wish I had died.
Flashes of what had happened appeared on Y/n's brain. The darkness that Y/n had been thrown into, his tear stained cheeks, the feeling that he had been grappling for something; but grappling for what? Anton. He had been wanting Anton, and that realisation made Y/n's heart sink further still.
"You were the one who induced me to sleep with those lilies." Y/n accused weakly, but there was no bite in his tone. A shameful part of him was happy; thankful for the flowers. Previously he had been horrified and had lashed out at Anton, even. But now all he wanted was to be pulled to sleep once more.
"It helped, didn't it?" Anton hummed. He didn't bother to hide it; in fact, he seemed to not care about anything. Anton knew, that no matter what, he would triumph—for hie was blessed by the heavens and loved by God. His hands touched Y/n's cheek gently, and the (h/c) haired man instinctively let out a soft sigh—before he flinched. "Look how relaxed you are right now."
"...I want more of it," Y/n said after a while, closing his eyes. "That drug..."
Even his speech was getting affected. It was hard; Y/n realised: to think before he spoke. They flowed freely and swiftly.
"It will be in moderation," Anton promised lightly, before he smiled down at Y/n. His expression wasn't just one of satisfaction—Anton was pleased. Proud, even. Y/n looked at him in his weary state, before he realized that yes, the drug had worked—it had put him to sleep. But the drug had also made him needy, dependent on Anton. So in Anton's opinion, the drug had worked.
And from past experiences, Y/n knew Anton absolutely lived for that.
There was a nagging feeling in Y/n's gut. Like he was forgetting something. People's faces popped up on his brain, one after another like missing puzzle pieces, and he blinked. Late panic bloomed within his stomach and Y/n tried to sit up, but the headaches that came along with those thoughts kept him from doing so. So instead he could only look at Anton pleadingly, and the priest raised an eyebrow.
"What is it?"
"Lucas," Y/n rasped out, "and my sister...you didn't do anything to them, right?"
"No." Anton cooed. "I didn't do anything to them, darling."
Didn't do anything.
Not yet, hopefully never.
Y/n breathed in and out; trying to keep calm. They were safe. They were safe. They were safe. Anton hadn't—cleansed them yet. What was that word again—that the people used here—? Oh, right. Killing.
"I'll do anything you ask," Y/n said softly, begging him. Anton was tender with him now. Gentle with him. So it was the best time to bargain with him, of sorts. To fight for them. "So please don't touch them. I really will do whatever you say. I promise."
Anton softened. "That can be arranged." He said sweetly, pressing a kiss onto his forehead. "Good job, my sweet."
Good job; for listening to me—was what Anton was saying. Good boy. Good lamb.
The priest wasn't just happy now, he was positively relishing in this. It scared Y/n, to see how torturing the priest's actions were—but then there would be a switch, and he could be gentle and sweet and calm and kind and everything Y/n longed for. See, even when he threw Y/n into the attic, even when Anton had abandoned him there, for some sort of revenge, to show Y/n what it was like to be abandoned—his words were still said in a comforting manner.
Anton could have told him plainly that he wanted him dead, and it would still be in that horribly serene voice. I'll rip you from head to toe, darling, I'll make your life a living hell. I'll torture and kill you, my sweet. He could have said such unpleasantries and still Y/n would have found comfort in his tone.
"Ally doesn't know who you are," Y/n struggled to speak. His voice felt like sandpaper. "She doesn't..."
"...Remember. Yes, I know. She's not Sara in this world. Similar to the fact that Nora isn't Helen in this world. But Lucas has always been Lucas, and you, Y/n, have always been Y/n. It's normal for their brain and their body to hold different memories since they are of separate identities."
"She's going to question me," Y/b said at last. "She's going to wonder why a child and a man have appeared."
"That can be easily settled."
"What?"
Anton gestured to his head, tapping his forehead. "Every person has a brain. And it can be easily tweaked."
"You—!" Now there was enough energy for Y/n to finally jolt up, but he was still caught in Anton's arms, unable to move. "You just said you wouldn't touch them. Are you saying you'll...what, you'll alter her brain? So she sees you as someone she knows? Don't make her memories return. Please."
"I will do it as a measure if things escalate." Anton was unfazed by Y/n's rising panic, and laughed with amusement. "But fortunately so, your sister is gullible. Was it not in the previous world where she died by my hands, after being talked to? It was easy, too easy."
.
.
"Brother. I don't want to die..."
.
.
Nausea filled within Y/n. Suddenly, all over again he felt the overwhelming urge to peel his skin from him, to lay it out and stamp on it. This isn't me, this isn't me. I promise this monster isn't me. This isn't me. He would cry those words out to anyone who would listen. I am not someone who caused his sister to—!
I'm not like Anton.
"You're crying now." Anton said sorrowfully, giving a soft sigh. "Don't cry, Y/n."
What? Was he? Y/n reached out to his face and to his horror he realized he was. The kindness of the drug he had felt had now dissipated and it left raw, primal pain thudding in his head, like a twenty pound sledgehammer. Anton must have noticed his change for his grip grew tighter and firmer still, bordering on bruising.
"Please promise me," Y/n whispered. "Promise me that you won't touch them. Please."
"I promise." Anton said swiftly, pressing a kiss on Y/n's cheek, grazing his skin. "And in return you will do I that I promise you, darling."
Y/n was admittedly, sick of sacrificing himself for others. Part of him feared that this was a martyr act: that he was performing, and this actions weren't genuine.
To God be the glory. To God be the glory. To God be—God, help me, please.
But it was a show that he was still human. That he had compassion, that he wasn't anything like Anton. Horrifyingly enough Y/n cared more of Lucas than Ally—Lucas was his child, after all, and at times Ally felt like a burden to him; all the scars on his body inflicted by his parents because he was assuming the role of the dear, big brother: it was all...
See, he was shifting the blame to others. Yet Y/n couldn't help but think of the people who depicted his fate; who spun such a miserable fate for him. They had chewed him out, spit him out, yet they were still hungry—now looking towards the people he held dear to his heart.
"Don't kill Lucas," Y/n said in a strangled voice. "Just...don't."
You never deserved that child, and neither do I, but please, please, please, do not let him die.
"...I won't," Anton sighed. "You worry too much, Y/n." Then he tipped Y/n's chin up and kissed him, firm and yet tender. Anton was smart—intelligent in a sense he knew just when to inject the right amount of warmth for Y/n to slowly let down his guard, before he would destroy, tear him down, and the cycle would continue once more. Y/n stayed still; he didn't move, and he did not dare to resist. He gasped for air when they parted, and not resisting must have been a good move, for Anton looked pleased.
"I have somewhere to be," Anton murmured. "I'll be back. You are free to do whatever you want."
To think I would need permission in my own home, Y/n thought bitterly. How the tides have changed. But he was delighted—or at least, as delighted as he could be, with the terrifying experience he had—that for a few moments, he would be alone. For the itch within him was starting ti grow stronger still, and at times he found his fingers cutting into flesh. There were a pack of razor knives taped underneath a cabinet, previously to use against intruders, but now Y/n knew it for one purpose. But enough of that. Today Y/n felt a strong, powerful force within him: calling him, telling him—that he needed warmth. Warmth, warmth, warmth, after shivering with his teeth chattering away in the cold attic.
Strange how he had despised fire and yet now all Y/n wanted was heat. Y/n wanted something searing he could drink. Alcohol, maybe, but he had seen what monster his father had turned into because of that. Growing up and seeing your parents' flaws was like losing your religion.
Or maybe he would shove ice down his throat, to curb the need for heat, and choke on it. Those were options. But when Y/n heard the click of the door, signalling that Anton was away, he found his hands clasping around something wedged between the sofa cushions. Like a blessing, it was a lighter.
Y/n looked at it with morbid curiosity.
The lighter held to his palm. Y/n almost missed the physical feeling of pain after being so anguished: so mentally exhausted. He needed something—just something so desperately, to jolt his senses. The fire reminded him of back in the Church, listless, dead, dying, killing himself. He flicked it and the flame danced merrily about. The sight of flames made him sick, and Y/n turned it off.
It was pure shame he felt. It was strange, really, this sick urge to massively and publically self destruct so Y/n wouldn't have to live in the terror of being in his own skin. He could have torn it open so that the cracks would fester, so that all the dirtied bits could leak out.
It would be like a ritual, maybe. A self-condemning ritual.
A flame, Y/n thought, like the flames that burned that world down. The catalyst of destruction.
He turned on the lighter once more. The flame ignited quick; it flickered for a second before it flowed brighter. Y/n's hands, though trembling, moved closer and closer towards his palm. He was ready. He was ready for flames to erupt on his skin, to feel that need to scream; to be in the pain he deserved.
And when the flame scalded him, Y/n felt every agonising minute of it: his palm had the eerie, white glow to it; Y/n screamed, he screamed, before he rushed to the bathroom and doused his hand under cold water. But part of him felt relieved. Yes! He had been burnt! Punishment had been rightfully delivered to him! Y/n was satisfied, but then he looked at the cracked scalp of his skin, now taking on a strange white colour. Blood started to flow and his bones could be seen layered under skin. The sight made Y/n blanch, and his eyes watered from the aftermath of pain.
But still, it had been successful. Y/n was pleased with the outcome, though the pain he felt would have thought otherwise.
He slumped to the floor and muttered the verses from the bible he remembered. It had been ingrained in his brain, from the numerous times Anton had repeated the Gospel to him. Now their words were light and Y/n found it was too easy for them to flow from his mouth, without holding any weight or meaning.
He didn't manage to fall asleep. He heard the pattering of footsteps, and assumed it was Anton.
Instead a tone cut him out from his corpse like state. His hands tingled as a reminder.
He blinked.
"Ally," Y/n said softly.
"Oh my god," Ally breathed heavily, "you're— hurting yourself."
Y/n winced. The patterns on his skin seemed to sear a white-hot pain. The lighter clattered on the ground, and gleamed in the light.
"I'm not," He lied. It was futile.
"What is wrong with you?" Ally spat at him, more alarmed than hatred-filled. And that didn't comfort Y/n. He would have rather her look at him with blazing disgust in her eyes than a drop of sympathy, of concern. He deserved it. "Who the hell is the stranger in our house? The child? What happened to you?"
Y/n said nothing.
"Y—You..." Ally closed her eyes. Be disgusted, Y/n thought to himself. Hate me. Kill me. Please? "Did you just burn yourself? Whatever possessed you to do that? You have been off for weeks! What is the matter? First a child, then...there's this handsome stranger in our home. He seems vaguely familiar, and yet..."
Y/n stayed silent. Berate me. I don't care.
"I looked up to you. You were my older brother—you were brilliant. Intelligent. My friends used to have crushes on you. You used to save me from them. Our parents."
"There is no them," Y/n said listlessly. He found his hands squeezing the edge of the table, gripping onto it ruthlessly. "There is only Anton."
"Who is Anton?" Ally exploded, "who the hell is he? Call the fucking police! Whoever is making you like this—it's abuse. That's what it is. Abuse."
"And it's what I deserve," Y/n whispered. "You have no idea, Ally, the things I've done. It's beyond horrid."
"You need to tell me what is going on. I'll have you committed."
"It doesn't matter," Y/n mumbled softly. "It doesn't matter where you place me. A psychiatric ward, a mental institution. I don't care. He'll find me."
"Why?" Ally asked. Her voice was pained, cracking, and Y/n felt his heartstrings tug. Then flashes of the past appeared in his memory once again: of her burning, her screams, her death. And now she was real in front of him, unaware of everything that had happened. "Why...are you—hurting yourself? Please. I can help. Just tell me what happened."
"You'll never look at me the same." Y/n started to shake his head. "Leave me be. Please," he begged.
"Not until you tell me what's going on. Burning, of all things—! Burning..." Then Ally's face became pale and her breaths started to become ragged. "Anton and burning..."
And then a scream. Ally started to convulse and shake, before she stumbled back. Her eyes were solely fixed onto somewhere in a distance. A hallucination, perhaps? Y/n wondered—but in his pained state, he couldn't move or make the effort.
"Devil—devil!" She yelled. And that's when Y/n knew; Anton had returned.
The priest looked heavenly. With the light casting through the windows, with his blue eyes and golden hair catching onto the golden stream of sunlight pouring through, Anton was the epitome of a God. And Y/n started to shiver, remembering his parting words: don't do anything. He had disobeyed Anton.
Anton tutted and ignored Ally. Walking and striding towards Y/n, he bent and examined the burnt hand. It was looked worse than it was; but it was mottled, ugly, and flaking. One could see the pink layered underneath. Y/n, for a minute, tried to view himself as how others would see him. And he saw: the little marks on his skin where his fingernails had dug into, at irregular intervals, the disgusting flesh that was not hanging off, dead and horrid.
"You did not need any cleansing," Anton sighed. "What a drastic measure you took."
Y/n watched, stupefied, as the burns on his hand disappeared. Anton didn't flinch, not even once, at the display of power he showed. How much, Y/n thought, how much powers have the Gods given him to make up for the fact he has come to the world? It was a blatant show of favouritism.
Why? Y/n thought, despairing at the fact he would never ever truly be able to overpower Anton in any aspect—why, God? Why didn't you make me good enough so that you could love me? That you wouldn't give me such a horrible life? That you wouldn't confine me to such a fate?
"Does it hurt?" Anton asked calmly, his fingers pressing against where the burn mark had been. Y/n glanced behind him—but his sister was out cold, drenched in sweat. He couldn't bring himself to care about her openly. It was too tiring, and he kept his concern pushed down to his gut. "Tell me if it hurts."
"It just disappeared." Y/n said numbly. "Why would it be painful?"
"Don't do that again. Why?"
Y/n didn't reply. Visions haunted him, as he recalled the fire. Too many times in his nightmares, he had replayed the night with Nora dying, with Peter dying, with his sister dying, again and again. The hyenas in his brain were famished; with a ravenous hunger that could not be satiated. The nightmares took him to Anton's assault, and he would wake up, anxious, sobbing, shaking all over. Yet the dreams were indefatigable and uncontrollable; Y/n could not help it. At times he longed to drive a metal pick into his brain to drill out all the bad memories. He wanted to slam his head against the wall, had fantasies of ripping his skin apart...seeing his scar tissues open and fester. Bleeding for the world to see.
He would dream of his parents too. Memories he thought he had long locked away came tumbling back. He would gasp; feel pains everywhere mumbling his brain, and Y/n wouldn't be able to sleep again.
Stop, please! Y/n would beg, make it stop!
It would get better eventually, he told himself. But when Y/n thought of the future, he couldn't see any chance he would make it past his current age. No matter how much he stared at the distant horizon everything was a murky blur. He couldn't see himself living, or even attempting to. The future was bleak, and the only comfort offered was the action of slicing through his flesh, springing new, fresh wounds. Mutating himself so he wouldn't be him anymore.
"I was just trying..." Y/n said tiredly, before he slumped against him. "To feel something. It isn't matter if it was pain."
"You didn't care when your sister fainted. Yet you want me not to touch her?"
Y/n found himself slowly caring very little. About anything. It was exhausting. A mental battle.
"You're lucky Lucas didn't see this." Anton said quietly. Manipulative bastard.
"I think he has seen plenty already, don't you? He's a heavy sleeper. He won't wake up."
"...Huh," Anton started to laugh, and laugh, and laugh—for reasons Y/n didn't know why. "You have really changed, Y/n."
Y/n's voice was slow and unhurried. Faint. "Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?"
Y/n could feel a smile against his neck. The lighter was still on the floor, but he was too weak to reach out for it.
"It's wonderful, Y/n," Anton whispered. "It's divine."
how was it?