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intheforest-hides-a-light · 5 years

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A New Family | Part 1

Synopsis: Rachel Jessop’s life changes forever the day she meets Joseph Seed, and the seven years that follow are not at all how she expected them to be.

((So tumblr removed all my text from this post when I went to add a hashtag so here I am pasting it back in again *cries* there’s probably errors now haha))

Rating: M

Genre: Angst, Drama, pre-canon

Characters: Faith Seed (Rachel Jessop), Tracey Lader, Joseph Seed + others

Warnings: abuse, drug use, thoughts of suicide, implied sex

Length of Part 1: 6.5k Total Length: TBD

Disclaimer: I don’t own FC5 or its characters, only thing that’s mine is my writing.

a/n: Basically my take on Faith’s story as seen from her eyes. Who she is, how she ended up with PEG and why she stayed. Wrote this waaayy before all the “Did Joseph exploited Faith” drama came about. I’ve always been intrigued by their relationship/power dynamic so this delves into that as the story progresses. Also gets into the role that the Faiths play and why Rachel is different. Enjoy!

-------

I count the bruises on my arms and legs as I cry alone in my bedroom. Three on the right leg, two on the left. Four on the right arm, five on the left. I haven’t looked at myself in the mirror today but I am sure that my left eye is completely black and blue. There are fingernail scratches along my collarbones. Are they from my dad or from my brother? I don’t remember. I don’t want to remember. I run my fingers through my hair. Masses of strands fall out in clumps. Is it from being dragged across the kitchen last night? Or is it from the incident in the girls’ locker room two days ago? I don’t remember. I don’t want to remember.

I turn my nightstand around, looking for a secret stash of weed I keep hidden in case of emergencies. I find the plastic bag, but it is practically empty. There have been a lot of emergencies in the last three weeks. My backpack is sitting by the door. I head over to it and search the inner secret pocket. Another ziplock bag, empty except for a white powdery residue. I go into the bathroom, open up the lower cabinet door, feel around the upper inside and pull out another bag hidden between the pipe and the wall. Syringes. Empty.

My phone chimes. It’s Tracey. I hesitate to pick up. Deep down all I want is to talk to someone. Tell someone that it happened again, that I am back at the beginning, that no matter how much courage I try to muster up I keep falling back to this same place, dirt low, forgotten. Beaten. The only way up is getting high. That’s the only escape I know.

Tracey doesn’t need drugs like I need drugs. Tracey doesn’t depend on a leafy plant, or a fine white powder or a needle to numb her pain. Tracey is much stronger than me.

I swallow hard and pick up my phone, “Hi, Tracey.”

“Hey girl, how you holding up?”

Just hearing her ask the question shatters me. I hold in my sob, but my voice comes out shaky and weak, “I’m...not...not great.”

“What’s going on?”

“It was bad yesterday. It was really bad.”

“Your dad? Your brother?”

My father is a pharmacist. Yet somehow, right after mom died, his years of education magically disappeared and he quit his job to start experimenting with homeopathic medicine. Since then things haven’t been so easy. He makes no money. We’re living in debt. He’s looking for a cure for my autistic brother. I try to tell him, because he won’t listen to his graduate degree, that it’s impossible, that David is going to stay that way forever and the only thing that is going to make it any easier on him is love and education. I tell him that and he beats me up. Whatever he cooks up in his lab only makes my brother angry, violent. I think it’s getting into my father’s head too. Sends him into these fits of rage. I go to bed hearing screaming matches between the two of them. I’m afraid that one morning I will wake up and--

I can’t think about it. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t have anymore weed. I can’t break down like this because I don’t have a way up.

“Both.”

“Those bitches from school?”

Don’t think about it, Rachel.

“Uh huh.”

“Oh gosh. I’m sorry girlfriend. Got that secret stash I gave you?” She’s referring to the pot. She doesn’t know about the other two vices.

“All out.”

I hear her sigh, “You know that’s for emergencies only, Rachel. Not for everyday use. You’re supposed to be getting off that stuff, you know? We’re trying to get you better.”

“I know,” I sniff, “I know Trace. Lately it’s been so hard. I just wish there was a way out. I know I’m failing. I know you probably think I’m a failure but I am trying, I’m really trying.”

She chuckles, but I can tell that it is loving, “Hey. I’m here for you. I’ll always be here for you. OK? I know it isn’t easy. You’re not failing as long as you keep trying. Speaking of which...I think I found a place for us.”

We’ve been planning on running away together, mainly for my sake but also for hers. I need to get away from my dad. And she, well, Tracey’s got it good, but she’s always seeking more from life.

“How far is it?” I inquire.

“Not as far as we hoped, Rach,” she sighs, “Hope County”.

“Well that’s about as local as it gets,” I say with dismay, “What is it?”

“They call themselves Eden’s Gate. The Project at Eden’s Gate.”

“What are they? What do they do?”

“Well they’ve got a sermon tonight at the Ranch in Holland Valley. I’ll drive. Wanna come and find out?”

“I don’t think my dad will let me.”

“Who said you need his permission? Come on Rachel. We’ve snuck out your bedroom window plenty of times. It’ll be just like the old days.”

I look at my window. Nailed shut with wooden planks. Tracey doesn’t know about my father’s latest attempt to keep me in. My door is always locked. My father keeps the key. I can only go out for meals. Meals that aren’t even worth eating. I eat a scoop of peas for dinner and drink a glass of milk for breakfast. I do have my own bathroom, and my own bedroom, but no connection to the outside world other than my cell phone. Which is why those secret stashes meant so much to me.

“Well...I really think I ought to ask first, just in case,” I look down at my bruised legs, “I can’t afford to get into any more trouble. What do they preach? Maybe I can convince my old man?”

There’s a pause on the other end, “Just tell him they’re Christians. We are going to church.”

“Okay,” I pick at my nails, “I think he’ll be fine with that.”

------

Two hours later, blessed with permission from my unpredictable father, I am trying to cover up my black eye in the mirror. I don’t have a lot of makeup. My mother practically forbade it and my father continued the tradition. The only thing I can wear is concealer when I have a breakout, as every teenager gets. Otherwise he’s scared that I’ll get pregnant. But little does he know, back when Mom was alive, Tracey and I used to waitress at the 8-bit Pizza Bar while we were supposed to be selling girl scout cookies (sixteen is a little old for that anyway, in my opinion). We’d pick up some good looking boys in there from time to time. It didn’t matter that I didn’t wear any makeup. Guess you could say I had that small town charm going for me. Or maybe it was the fact that I was an easy target. I didn’t have a backbone. I still don’t. The boys were genteel enough. Courteous. Charming. But the minute I got into one of their trucks their hands went straight for me. Not the steering wheel. My breasts. Not the stick shift. My thigh. As if they owned it. As if they won it over. As if it was theirs for the taking from the beginning.

I let them take it. I’ve forgotten how much I owe Tracey for all the morning after pills she brought me. Every night after it would happen, I’d throw rocks and her bedroom window. She’d come down to the front and let me in. We’d go to the backyard, sit in the rocking chairs. Tracey would roll two joints and always gave me the bigger one. She meant well by it, like how a grandmother always gives her grandkids the bigger half of a pastry, but for me it did more harm than good. I would take it anyway, inhaling long drags of the stuff and pretending the smoke held the power to disintegrate my memories, my pain. I’d tell Tracey what happened. Every time it was a variation of the same story, with the same ending. She’d listen to me until I was done, until I’d finished crying and letting it all out. Then we would go back inside. She would make chamomile tea and serve it with oatmeal raisin cookies. I always had at least three because of the weed. Then we’d sleep in her big bed upstairs. When I’d wake up I couldn’t even remember the man’s face.

She kept forgiving me over and over again. She tried to teach me how to stand up for myself. She still does. But she also introduced me to drugs. I smoked pot with her but I found my way into other things in the bad parts of town. Coke. Heroin. I do them when I can do them, which is not very often. I can’t afford it and I can’t get out of the house enough anymore. I don’t think Tracey ever thought I’d become dependent on drugs. I know she only wanted to help me escape. But for me, weed was a gateway drug. It opened up a forest of dangers. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. I don’t have the self control that she does. Now she’s trying to wean me off of it. But she’s trying to cut off one head of the hydra. I need to smite all three if I want to get over this.

I stare at myself in the mirror. My complexion, once ruddy and bright, is now sickly, with tired eyes, bruises and scars all over. All of this makes me look like a corpse next to the plump small-town beauties full of spirit and life. I am a ghost. I float through the hallways like a ghost. I haunt my bedroom like a ghost.

I wasn’t always a ghost. I used to take care of myself. I’d lost about fifteen pounds since my mother died. My dad’s cooking is shit. Even though weed makes me hungry I never feel the desire to eat anything because nothing tastes good. My brown-blond hair (God couldn’t make up his mind when he made me, you see, at least that is what my mother would to say) used to be shiny with a slight wave to it, now it’s matte, dull, falling out in clumps and frayed awfully at the ends. I want to die. I feel like if I am a ghost I might as well be dead. I think I started doing heavier drugs because of that. Because I want to die, but I am too much of a coward just to kill myself and get it over with. Part of me hopes against hope that by getting out of this house and hopefully out of this town that I will find some reason to live again. I don’t want to be a ghost. If I’m going to live the rest of my life as a ghost I want to make that life brief, tragic and wasteful, like the duration of a tea candle’s flame.

The black eye is still visible. I do not know how many times I’ve applied makeup to it. It’s still there, especially in brighter light. I pull out my tube of concealer and shakily squeeze more unto the back of my hand. The tube farts. It is empty. I begin to roll it like toothpaste, trying to urge the last drops out. A dismal portion exits the tube in another fart. I toss it in the trash and use what I have, religiously applying it to my bruised eye and giving a little to my unaffected eye, trying to make them match as much as possible. It doesn’t reduce the swelling or the pain, but it looks presentable enough. I wish I had some lipstick, anything to put some color in my face.

I am not sure what to wear for this evening. I do not know if this Eden’s Gate church is a “come as you are” sort of thing or if I should put on something a little more presentable than my oversized pajamas. I open my closet. . My father burned half my wardrobe when I missed my curfew by ten minutes one night. But he left the things that my mother passed down to me. Probably some of the few things left that still remind him of her. I find a light green dress she used to wear. Mamma was so pretty. I don’t think I’ll ever be as pretty as she. I put it on regardless. It zips easily, for its rather loose. Just six months ago it was too tight. I was afraid I’d break the zipper. Now there is no I fear of that at all. White lace adorns the sleeves and my cleavage. I debate pulling the neckline down or up.

It’s church, Rachel, I tell myself, Besides, no one will want to look at you anyway.

The last thought bites. It’s a personal truth. I look down and rediscover the scratches. I tug my dress at the back, raising the neckline.

Fortunately the doorbell rings just in time. I leave my bathroom and stop at the door to the hallway.

Once you’ve been in captivity, once you’ve been locked up alone with your thoughts for long enough, once you’ve accepted that you’re stuck, you don’t bother trying doorknobs anymore. You’re used to reaching that hard spot where it stops turning and opens nothing. It takes me a moment to touch the handle. I know it will feel cold. I know the distinct shape it has and how it will fit into the palm of my hand. What I do not know is whether or not it will open. It might reach that hard lock. I might’ve gone through all of this trouble and not be able to leave.

Knowing this, I twist, hoping for the best.

To my relief, it unlocks effortlessly and opens without so much as a creak. I head downstairs to greet my friend.

------

Sitting in the chapel in the ranch, I feel so nervous. My body shivers. My hands shake. My heart pounds. I do not know if it is withdrawal or what. But I am not completely at ease. The people here are disheveled. Messy. Somewhat gross. The kind of person I would become if I let my addiction keep its grip on me. They are the types that my father would advise me to steer away from, however in his current state he is more like them than he knows. I am more like them than he knows

A tall, fit man with a full, well groomed dark beard strides unto the stage in a flourish of applause. He completely contrasts the people sitting in the pews. He is nicely dressed, wearing a fitted blue silk shirt rolled up at the cuffs, black vest, and tight jeans. His belt buckle is exceptionally extravagant. A pendant of some sort hangs from his neck. The crowd cheers for him. He waves, flashing a million dollar smile and a glint in his bright blue eyes. He’s handsome.

I turn and whisper to Tracey, “If I knew that pastors could look as good as he does I would’ve come to church a long time ago.”

She smirks and holds back a giggle, “You’re terrible.”

“He’s hot,” I say, perhaps a bit too loudly.

“Shhhhhh!” She tries not to laugh, “Behave.”

“Who is he?” I ask as if I were inquiring about a handsome stranger across a bar, not a preacher at the front of a church.

“That’s John Seed,” she tells me, “He doesn’t give the sermon. He’s just the opening act.”

“There’s more of them? Tracey, you told me this was church, not that mythical place where all of the hot guys in Hope County disappeared to!”

“Rachel, shut up!” She giggles again, but then whispers to me, “Don’t get your hopes up. He’s as good as they get, well, looks wise.”

“Bummer. That means we’ll have to fight for him.”

“Rachel!”

Our laughter is camouflaged by the cheers and shouts from people in the pews, phrases like “Oh John!” and “We love you!” and “Praise our brother”. I observe the scene. Sometime during our banter two other people entered the stage. One, a very tall, burly, fearsome man with a long frizzy red beard and bloodshot beady eyes. He holds a large semi-automatic rifle close to his body, and scans the crowd meticulously for possible threats. Though he wears the uniform shirt of the U.S. army, his demeanor is not one of honor or pride, but of sickened, disillusioned duty. The other, a girl, with thick yellow curls and a bountiful bust contained inside a too-tight white dress. She has slanted, sultry green eyes. There is a whorelike, slutty quality about her despite her conservative dress. But she is undeniably beautiful. I self consciously remember looking at my own chest this morning. Scratches everywhere. Nothing to be proud of. I run my fingers through my mousy hair, wishing I’d washed it. The beautiful woman holds a bouquet of flowers, with several blossoms strewn throughout her golden locks. She smiles at John.

I roll my eyes out of jealousy and look at Tracey, motioning to the girl sitting on stage, “Don’t tell me it’s a wedding,”

She shakes her head, “Oh no, that’s his sister. Faith. I don’t quite know if marriage is a thing here or if they’re all about brotherly sisterly love or if it’s just one massive orgy. I have no idea.”

I laugh at her raunchy train of thought. This is the Tracey I love.

“And who is Mr. Scary over there?” I whisper, trying not to make it obvious who I am talking about.

“Oh, him?” She whispers back, “I don’t know...He wasn’t here last time. I don’t exactly know what the gun is for, either.”

“Maybe he’s exerting his second amendment right?” I tease with a horrible attempt at the stereotypical Hope County drawl.

She looks at me. It’s not funny. “Why do they even need guns?”

“Tracey. We live in Montana. Everyone’s got guns here.”

“I know… but something’s not right.”

I look around the room again, “Maybe his job is to stop desperate bitches like us from throwing ourselves at that hottie over there?”

She bursts out laughing.

Our conversation is interrupted by John’s voice, “Brothers and sisters, welcome!” he proclaims, arms outstretched.

Applause. Tracey and I join in. At the moment we are spectators, like flies on a wall carefully observing but not yet involved.

“I want to tell you,” he continues, “how wonderful it is to see all of these new faces in our home this evening.” His eyes find mine momentarily. I’m intimidated by his strong presence yet also trying my hardest not to swoon. “We hope that this is just the beginning of your march with us.

“I want you to think of the life you’ve led before now. Of all the pain, of all the hardship, of every road you’ve turned down that felt like a dead end. I want to assure you, brothers and sisters, that the ship you’ve sailed across a sea of hardship is about to dock. I give to you a new captain who will guide you to an island of paradise. My brother, your Father, Joseph Seed!”

The crowd stands, clapping and cheering, holding their hands up in praise. The church doors open, and the blazing golden sunset from the west illuminates the doorway, revealing the silhouette of a tall, broad shouldered man. The light comes through his yellow tinted glasses, creating two glowing dots on the ground in front of him.

He moves with a serenity. There is a comforting sense of peace, a radiance that surrounds him. His suit jacket fits him well. His long hair is tied in a small bun on the crown of his scalp. He carries a white book with the symbol of the Project etched in gold on the cover. A rosary is wrapped like a bracelet across his right wrist and palm.

I cannot yet see his face. I too am standing, on my toes, craning my neck around the people in front of me, squinting. Finally when he reaches the stage, he turns around, and the crowd goes silent. They return to their seats. I am the last to stay standing.

Our eyes lock like magnets. I do not need to hear his voice. He does not need to utter a single word. A look comes across his sullen, rugged face. He catches his breath. The room is completely silent. Time slows. My heartbeat pounds. He looks as though he has seen a ghost. I know I look like a ghost. Perhaps it is that I seem so weak and sickly that common sense says I should not be standing here, I should not be in this room. But I am. And I know, somehow, deep inside myself, that I am destined to be here. To meet him. His expression changes from one of shock to one of recognition, a longing for something far off in the distance which yet appears so near. A red string of fate ties the two of us together before either of us can object. But like some perfect private secret, I am afraid that anyone else caught on to it. As my awareness returns to the room, I sit. He swallows hard. I try to look away but I can’t. I’m already entranced.

He speaks right to me as he begins his sermon.

“It is fate that you have come here.”

His words are chilling. They pierce me.

Joseph continues, “It is God’s divine plan that you are here today. Whether you’ve devoted yourself to this project or if this is your first time with us, I tell you that you are here for a reason. This is no accident. This is no chance.”

His speech, though indirect and addressed to a crowd, feels so personal. It is as if despite all of the people in this room he is talking to me and me alone. I know that it is no accident, that it is no chance, that I am not confused. The connection I feel with him is mutual. In a sea of strangers I am seen. We see each other.

“Just as such,” he goes on, respectfully connecting with the others in the pews, “your existence, your very entrance into this world, your birth, your conception...all is for a reason.”

He cannot stand it long. Joseph looks directly at me again and reads my soul like an open book. “You who have felt lost, unwanted, undesired, and unnecessary to the world: have no fear. You have a purpose.” He assures me, “Your life is designed to have significance. Even when the road is foggy, when the path is untred and you know not which step to take, know that God has a destination for you. I have a destination for you.”

My eyes well with tears. For the first time since my mother died, I feel safe. Sheltered. Believed in.

His voice, like silk, his words, like music, envelope me. “When all doors have shut against you, when your friends and your families turn their backs on you, I will be standing here with open arms. I accept you, my children, just as you are. There is nothing you have to change. No one else you have to be. You are loved here, just as you are. And you have always been worthy of that love.”

I break.

When the people around me hear my sobs interrupt the silence of Joseph’s pause, they turn to me with a look of celebratory joy on their faces. A woman on my right with very few teeth and hair bordering on dreadlocks pulls me against her bosom and holds me. Two young men reach back from their seats in front of me and pat me on my shoulder. Now the entire church is watching me, overjoyed. Someone starts the applause.

I feel a new hand on my back from my left side. I turn, expecting it to be Tracey. But it’s not. It’s the woman in the white dress from onstage. The sister.

“Come with me,” she beckons.

I don’t know what this means. “Wh-why?”

I look at Tracey. For the first time she’s looking at me not as my best friend. She seems bitter, disgusted, as if I’m filth. Trash. Foolish. Petty. As if I had no soul.

Faith speaks softly to me, “The Father wants to meet you. Won’t you come up?”

I laugh through my tears, “I’m interrupting the service.”

“No no no,” she’s overbearingly gentle, “Please come up. Nothing would make us happier.”

“Go to the Father,” the woman holding me into her bosom says, lifting my torso towards Faith. I take the sister’s hand, and she walks me down the aisle towards The Father who awaits me by the altar.

When we reach it, Faith hands me over to him and returns to her seat.

His hands are smooth and cold. His eyes, up close, are a vortex behind his yellow glasses. Full of wisdom and peace, as if he had reached that Nirvana the Buddhists dream of. He’s good looking. Not in the way that John is good looking. John is the kind of untouchably handsome, out of everyone’s league yet inside every girl’s dreams. The Father is approachable yet with a true sense of authority, like all fathers should be.

“What is your name my child?”

Intoxicated by him, I forget it on the spot. “My name?”

“Your name.”

“Rachel,” I swallow, “Rachel Jessop.”

His lips turn up at the corners.

“Tell me, Rachel. What is making you cry?”

I search for the answer in his eyes and find it, “The feelings that your words are bringing me. Feelings of safety. Salvation.”

He holds my face in his hands, “Salvation from what, dear Rachel?”

Feeling all eyes on me, I choke up. “F-from my life. From my agony.”

He nods slowly, knowingly.

“And what gives you this pain?” He continues to hold my face so that I cannot look anywhere else except straight into his magnificent eyes. More tears come.

My next words are succinct, for I’m clinging to my composure. “My father and my brother beat me. I’m bullied endlessly by my peers. I don’t feel safe anywhere.”

He continues his knowing nod. “My brothers and I know intimately of your struggle. Don’t we?” He looks to John and Jacob.

I see John nod in my periphery, but Jacob makes no expression whatsoever.

Joseph’s left hand softens into a gentle caress, “What else, child?”

He pulls the words out of me, words I am sure I shouldn’t even say in front of so many people. “I abuse drugs for help,” the rest is a stream of consciousness through my tears, “I’m a rat. I rummage for anything I can get my hands on. I always thought I deserved this life… like I did something irredeemably wrong and my circumstances are a consequence. I take every blow and I let others take from me… but there is no hatred in my heart for anyone except for myself. I don’t blame them. I think it’s all my fault.”

He sighs, looking at me with pity and understanding, “What if I told you, Rachel, that none of it is your fault?”

This concept is foreign to me, “How?”

“The pain you suffer is not because of your own personal ills. If that we’re the case, why aren’t the money grubbers, the corrupt politicians and greedy business owners punished with the same abuses you experience?”

I look at him blankly, “I don’t know.”

“It’s society that is sick, Rachel. It’s the ills in society which are responsible for the pain and the suffering of the innocent. It’s not your fault. They don’t understand you, so they try to take you out.”

The clouds part in my mind. The sky is clear. I’ve never thought of it it that way. I never considered that I am not the problem.

“But here,” He touches my forehead to his. I adore the feeling. “Here you may be saved, Rachel. Here your differences are celebrated. Put to use. Here you can be fulfilled and you can be happy. That’s what this Project offers.”

The Project, on their cue, claps again, pleased with the power of their leader’s message. Joseph looks straight into my eyes. I feel his anchor sinking in to me. And I know I will follow him into the darkest depths of the sea.

“We will talk more, Rachel.” He says. I am passed back to Faith and seated beside her. She holds my hands tightly. Joseph continues his main speech to the rest of the crowd.

“The world as we know it, as we see it today, is full of fog. Clutter. Sin. Distractors from our destined path. My children, can’t you feel that the world around us today is not the world that God intended to create? You, like Rachel, who have found yourselves here today as a result of his divine plan must be aware, even if remotely, of this fact?

“Let me tell you: God is angry. God intends to wipe this world clean again, the way he flooded the earth allowing only Noah and his family to board the arc. We are once again approaching a storm. Which is why, my children, God spoke to me. He has called to me to reach out to all of you, to each and every one of you, that you might be saved. That you might be redeemed. That you might discover your purpose and follow the path which he has set for us. My children, won’t you take my hand? Won’t you take hands with me, my brother Jacob, my brother John, and my sister Faith and join us in our march to Eden’s Gate?

“You do not need to decide tonight. But I hope that at the very least, I have planted a seed.”

John is the first to laugh at his closing statement. Jacob again, has no reaction. As the crowd catches on, the chuckling grows. I myself laugh through my tears, but when I look in the audience, I see Tracey scowling.

---------

Crickets conduct their nightly symphony as Tracey and I walk through the long grass back to her pickup truck. She’s quiet, but her anger can be felt loud and clear. She’s walked a few steps ahead of me the whole way.

“Tracey,” I stop her, grabbing her hand.

I look into her dark eyes, those eyes that know more about me than any other soul on this earth. My closest and dearest friend.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

She scoffs, “What the hell happened between the two of you just now?”

I know she is talking about the moment I shared with Joseph, then my emotional breakdown and our uncanny closeness that took up a bulk of the sermon.

“I don’t know,” I tell her, “I haven’t quite wrapped my head around it yet.”

She crosses her arms for warmth, pulling on her long sleeve t-shirt. “It was...awkward- no, uncomfortable, no-- Rachel what the fuck was that? What the actual fuck was that?”

Suddenly I reread a beautiful chapter in my life as if it were some sort of vulgar oddity. I’m embarrassed. I look down.

“Look, Rachel.” Tracey sighs, “I know there are some things we don’t talk about. I know that everyone has got secrets. I just wish I knew before we came--”

I look up at her, confused. “Knew what?”

She swallows. “I shouldn’t say anything. Who am I to judge? I mean…”

“What are you trying to say?” I demand defensively.

“Nothing!” She puts her arms up and takes a step back from me. “Let’s just go home. Your dad is probably worried.”

“I don’t want to go home.” I tell her. It’s the truth.

She gives me a look of shock and confusion. “Rachel, these people…there is something not right about them. They’re apocalyptic. They’re all talking about willing to die for that man. It’s like they’re being brainwashed. Some kind of new age Japanese kamikaze squadron ready to blow themselves up! Not to mention they look like a bunch of crackheads.” She puts both hands on my shoulders and looks me straight in the eye, “I want you to get better, Rachel. I’m afraid these people will just-just exploit your addiction. They won’t heal you. They’ll make you worse.”

“At least I don’t feel like the odd one out!” I shout at her. I am more frustrated with the situation than with my friend. “I don’t know how much more I can take! I don’t want— No, I can’t go back to my dad, Tracey. I can’t go back to school. I’m already failing. It’s not like I’m going to graduate. I’ve got nothing! I haven’t eaten a proper meal in three months! What am I going to do with my life besides waitressing or prostituting myself or having some rich man’s kids? This place…” I start to tear up, “I know it’s not perfect but it’s better than what I have now.”

She scoffs. “You know that you’re better than that Rachel.”

I laugh, but I’m exasperated. “I don’t! I fucking don’t! I’m not like you, Tracey! I’m not smart! I can’t get a degree. I don’t have a mom who supports me and takes care of me.”

I’ve wounded her. “You know that’s not what this is about.”

“And you know what?” Tears stream down, “I’m not your fucking charity case.”

“Well what makes you think you’re theirs all of a sudden? What makes you think you’re his all of a sudden?”

So that’s it.

“You’re jealous,” I call her out.

She laughs it off. “Sorry, Rachel. I’m not jealous of your forty-something schizophrenic preacher boyfriend.”

Our argument becomes petty, like that of two bratty schoolgirls, the kind of people we have never been before. “He is not my boyfriend.”

“Oh really?”

“Why would you even say that?”

“Well you sure seem pretty close don’t you?”

“I don’t know what happened!” I yell. “I never met that man before tonight! You heard me on the phone! I had no idea who this group was or what they do!”

Her mouth twitches. “Well you’re a damn good liar Rachel.”

“I’m not lying!”

“You’re trying to tell me that the little scene you made back there wasn’t planned?”

I shake my head. “I don’t see how it could be.”

“And I don’t see how it couldn’t be.”

“Tracey!” I try so hard to get through to her, but nothing is working, “I’ve never lied to you! Not once in all these years!”

She’s quiet.

“Why don’t you believe me?”

She sighs and looks away.

I know that she is jealous. But I realize in that moment that she is not jealous of what happened to me tonight. She’s jealous because she can’t believe that I can find peace and happiness in a different place, that I can find it with people other than her.

“They aren’t trying to fix me,” I say with an angry, disillusioned certainty, “All you ever do, all you ever talk about is trying to fix me. You believe that I’m broken. You want me to be broken so you have something to do with your life besides sit in your nice fucking house with your nice fucking family. All I want...for God’s sake all I want is to feel like I have a purpose. I don’t want to be someone else’s purpose, Tracey. I want to be my own purpose.”

Tracey continues to avoid looking at me. She glances in different directions, looks at the ground by her feet. “So that’s it, Rachel?”

“What’s it?”

“You’re just going to throw our friendship away?”

I want to shake her. “What? No! Tracey that’s not what I said!”

She glares at me. “I’ve been here for you. I’ve fought for you for the last three years. We’ve grown up together. I’m sorry that’s not enough.”

“Tracey!”

She’s running to her truck. I try to follow her, but my lungs and legs are weak.

“Tracey!”

She’s too fast. I feel dizzy. My vision starts to blur. I try to pick up speed.

“Tracey I didn’t say that!”

She doesn’t turn around. She doesn’t look back. Gets in her car, starts the engine. The lights turn on and she speeds away.

I watch her tail lights fade. I’m sick of the taste of my own tears. I’m sick of this life. I drop to my knees and grip the grass as hard as I can with my fists. I scream into the blue night sky. What is the way? Where is the path? What is my life supposed to be? Who am I now that I have no one? I can’t walk home. I don’t want to walk home. I could call a cab but I don’t have any money.

If I go home, I don’t know if I will ever get out of the house again.

I hear Joseph’s words in the back of my head. I remember them almost verbatim: “When all doors have shut against you, when your friends and your families turn their backs on you, I will be standing here with open arms. There is nothing you have to change. No one else you have to be. You are loved here, just as you are. And you have always been worthy of that love.”

I turn around, take a deep breath, and run back to the ranch. It glows with warm light from inside. It’s the only light I see.

#far cry 5 #faith seed #far cry fanfiction #far cry 5 faith #fc5 #joseph seed #fc5 fanfic

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