And moreso.

I waited until I had adequate time. I am not certain if any of this will make sense; all I can do is open the floodgates and let things fall as they will.

We had been in training, prior to that solstice. The first one, I should say. We did not realize that then...all we knew is that we were being abused. It was a covert type of abuse, performed insidiously to make us believe that we had desired it, and even had requested these acts be perpetrated upon us. It was simple in the beginning: fondling, viewing pornographic films, discussing the necessities of willing oneself to the god. On the solstice, however, that changed.

I cannot recall if it began the evening prior, or the evening of; what I can recall is that we were taken from our bed at around ten o'clock the evening in question. We were handled very roughly, which frightened us. We were taken to the room where the atrocities occured, and were to occur, and we were stripped nude. Saliva and inpatient fingers covered us, penetrated us. It was as frightening as it was painful. Almost immediately we began to panic, so we were tied and gagged whilst a narcotic was prepared to calm us. I do not know what narcotic it was, as very soon thereafter things began to appear hazy, unreal. I know a spoon was involved, a vial and a syringe, but that is all. Flame as well, if I remember correctly. I know we were required to repeat phrases, phrases that supposedly held great power. There as an alter: blood was shed, and we drank. At that point, there was no more fear, as everything seemed to occur as if in a dream. I remember the staff held aloft, the burning oils, the smell of blood and sweat as it pervaded the air.

As it neared midnight (so we were told) things grew hushed, and a wreath was placed on the head. We were dressed in white linen, and laid gently on the bed. Candles burned softly, and for a time it seemed things were even peaceful. Arcane phrases were whispered, and the abdomen was rubbed with oil and a mixture of spices.

Then, in a whirl of fierce teeth, deep growls, taut muscles and obsidian eyes, we were pounced upon. There is no way to describe the carnal obscenities; the nausea, trembling, constant thrusting-rocking sensation, the pain, the heat and rage spun with grief. The body was taken and used for the power and the glory of this god, the god who has not a name, only a title.

We lost consciousness soon after the festivities began.

That is all I can manage for the moment.

An explanation.

My wrath has passed. Some years I am acutely aware that it is upon me, and the hours are agonizing. And other times, I realize it only as evening falls, and there is only a small shiver of panic. This year was in between, I suppose.
I woke up that morning soaked in a cold sweat...I knew something was wrong, as I awoke and not the Host. I supposed that it had been a nightmare that we had forgotten upon waking, and left it at that. But for the rest of the day, things were not as they should have been...the air was stale, the food too bland. Carbonation in soda was painful to the tongue, and colors were dimmed. Sounds were impossibly loud but muffled and every tactile sensation was so acute it was almost unbearable.
Then flashbulb memories began to surface: a wreath, a latex glove. Liquid-filled vials and twisted spoons. Short stubby fingers, with dirt in the creases of the knuckles and nails chewed to the quick. A darkness so complete it feels as if the body has been detatched...until the pain comes. Then the physical body reacted: rapid, shallow breathing, uncontrollable trembling, nausea, dread. Old wounds began to come alive with a dull ache. Dizziness and then I recall--and I come forward immediately to deal with it.
Exhausting.
The rage in being hurt, the fear of the past coming back, and then the rage in being afraid. All the while, I was forced to attempt to keep everyone calm. Words cannot adequately describe this. I am thankful, however, that I am allowed the outlet to share, as incoherent as this is.

Solstice.

I know that those following Wicca practices celebrate on the solstices; a few of ours were Wiccan, so I know a bit about that. I am not saying that solstices are supposed to be unpleasant or are wrought in concentrated evil, but my experiences with such days are far from savory. In my experiences, those days were met with dread, with fear. They were drenched in a heightened sense of mortality, and yet it was during those times I worked hardest in my resolve to survive...perhaps in spite of what we were enduring. To prove them wrong: that we were not weak, that we were not fodder for the gods, that we were not created for their abject desires.

Fuck them. Now isn't a good time. I shall finish this later, when the mind is clearer.

An unsavory necessity.

As many are likely aware, I rarely use slang...and at times I do not use contractions. This had never bothered me; in fact, I feel silly or childish in using either. The Host and many of the others do, and that does not bother me...my refusal to pepper my everyday speech with it is my choice alone.

However, I am finding it increasingly difficult to continue doing so. Often, my written posts are misunderstood as being rude or "preachy". Furthermore, at the jobsite, there is a necessity for slang...certain tools and material are only known by their slang-terms.

For instance, diagonal cutters are "dykes". Flex connectors are "jakes". Easy anchors are--shamefully--"pig-dicks". I know I must adapt...I know that I am the minority and it is up to me to transform. I have no issue with that. My issue lies in feeling uncomfortable speaking in that manner.

I pride myself in being well-spoken. Words calm me, and wielding them well gives me something to feel good about. I know that slang is not lesser speech, but when I attempt it, I feel as if I am losing control. As if I have lowered myself from responsibility.

The Host suggested that I begin with using contractions. I am able to use a few: saying "we've" is not so upsetting as saying "can't".
I do not mean to appear anal-retentive; it is not a "true" problem, really. I understand that. I suppose I wish I knew how to start, and not despise myself for it.

Wanting the ordinary.

I feel a longing for normalcy. Surprised? I am, I suppose. What is normal, anyway? Two incidents occured today...

The first time the body raped, the body was around four years old. It dislocated the hips, and to this day they will intermittently become dislodged. Today at work, having just stepped down from a ladder, the left hip dislocated. Aside from being terribly painful--unable to walk, stand straight, or move effectively--it was incredibly embarrassing. There was a panic Inside: immediately we were transported back through time, and were reminded not to dare tell, not to let on that anything strange had occured. With my greatest ability, I walked as best as I was able toward a few steel beams and pressed the hip back into place. I know I haven't got it in quite correctly; it still makes a clicking sound as I walk, but setting it back into place is a two-person job, and there is no one here at the moment to assist me. Aside from the shame and moderate pain, I thought back to the other day, when the scars had been noticed. Is this incident just another black mark against me? Another reason to be seen as a liability? It was not even my fucking fault.

Then, after finishing up my day and having spent two hours at school as well, I see a friend online. He is a pastor, and he counsels us from time to time. After having been so cordial the past few months, he jumps on my case again about integration. That is is the collective-desired goal. According to whom? It is not my goal. It is not Molly's. In fact, it is not really anyone's "goal". The Host is passively interested, and that is the extent of our feelings toward this. Integration is his goal. Another victory, another integration through his counselling. Not fucking likely. It is so incredibly invalidating to hear someone say, "But don't you want to be a part of who you really are? Don't say your name is Logan anymore; that isn't your real name. Your real name is what is on the birth certificate." My existance is just as valid as his, as anyone's. I will continue to use my name, I will continue to live as I choose, and I will continue performing my damn duties, as they were given to me. I feel like a cipher.

And, again:

Molly told the pastor that she knew from whence the Wars came. She then described to him a series of drug-induced hypnotism sessions, in which we were "programmed". One of the programs was the Rakhas Wars...something to keep the mind busy so as to not ask too many questions. As soon as Molly mentioned certain terms and phrases, I knew she was telling the truth. Once this information was out, a great wall crumbled Inside, and fresh information seeped out as if blood from a wound. For instance, there is a code to activate me: that code being 719, and here I am, using it frivolously as an e-mail screenname. I never knew why that number had such intense meaning to me; I just knew that was who I am. Of course, that makes sense too...there were times, inexplicible before, that the uncle was able to call me forward specifically to assault, because he knew I would fight, and that was arousing to him. And I wonder: am I just this number? As silly as it may seem now, I had hopes that God had created me. The thought that I was a mere instrument to perpetrators, programmed to do as they desired, is insidious. To be created by them is a thought I cannot entertain.

And my purpose, even that may be compromised by the afore-said programming. I see myself as a protector, but a protector does not have bouts of rage. A protector is gentle, nurturing. I have only begun to encompass that in the past six months. What was I before? It is quite possible, I was told, that I was a destructor working under the guise of protector. Someone to keep everyone in line by means of fear and threat of violence. A "trauma-by-rescue" bond is difficult to break, I know. It fits my earlier character, to be sure: rage for days, then compassionate at the drop of a hat, and always ready to lead the collective down the avenue I thought best, despite what anyone else may think. It would explain why I shut the body down and sabotaged therapy sessions, and was crass and violent toward clergy who dare cross me.
And then the memories flood: living as the object of assault whilst being photographed, the wounds being "cared for" without anesthetic, hallucinations induced by narcotics and sleep-deprivation, the crude medical exams to check on the "Baby Messiah" within the womb. And then, the punishments inflicted, the guilt, as the child is miscarried. The mindgames, the constantly changing reality, the mask of deceit we wore so no one would know about the nightly activities. The candles, their flames mocking our pain. Blood and saliva as lubricant for the shredded cervix that physically cannot bear another intrusion...but is forced to anyway. And then the Shadows; whether they are hallucinations or demons, I do not know. But we gave them our blood nonetheless.

I cannot help to wonder what abuses were connected to that time period. What is described above was from chronological ages nine through thirteen. But there were other instances. I cannot ignore the fact that the biological father was best friends with the uncle, who was the main perpetrator. He seemed rather flippant about the little abuse that had been leaked, and refused to offer shelter when we requested it. There was a time, at age four, the biological father left us with a family for a period of time. I do not recall the incident, but Molly and Nicholas had spoken of it in great detail. We had done something bad--that is, questioned the appropriateness of a pornograghic film playing for all to see--and were taken to the bedroom, forced to give oral sex, and raped. As far as we know, that was one of the earlier splits. The mother found out that we had been left there, and she came to rescue us, knowing these people were dangerous. Talking to her about it now, she validates all but the rape, as she did not know and will never know. She remembers it being odd that we, at that age, were locked in a room for being "sleepy and uncooperative" at noon.

And oddly, the Host is drawn to pleasing men, whatever the cost. She tends to shy away from sexual favors, but will do all in her power to be accepted and loved by whomever she deems as a father figure.

I do not know where I was going with this. It seems to be a jumble of thoughts...I hope I have not confused anything. There are merely some things best left unsaid.

Something to investigate.

One of the small ones, Molly, told a pastor of ours a secret. It was something I had no prior knowledge of, and when I was told, he made it clear that Molly had asked him to tell me not to be angry at her.

This disturbs me; what would cause her to be frightened of my reaction? Why hadn't she come to me first? It is why I exist.

Aside from that, this "secret" truly startled me. At first I was in denial, though it is something I have suspected for years. It makes too much sense. It negates my individuality, somehow, and I cannot stand feeling out of control. I need stability in my self, at very least. Now I am confused by this, even saddened. Rage was my first emotion, after denial; rage no longer suits me, as it accomplishes nothing. Even then, I realized that my reaction played heavily into the scenario itself. Like a marionette, a string is pulled and I jump.

I feel unable to discuss this completely. Even with choice words, it may come to be too much. Most have their secrets, their fears, the one thing one cannot tell another soul, or even admit to oneself. In that, we are bound together.

How did I not see this? I kept a constant vigil...such a careful watch. And yet it was carried out with no resistance. Now, in retrospect, I know I should have seen it. So obvious, so glaring were the clues...did I want to overlook this? Was it something so unbearable to me at the time, that I allowed it, so as to not incur confrontation?

There is no reason to think Molly a liar. Everything she has said thus far in relation to our past has been absolute in its truthfulness. I am proud of her for coming forward. I merely wish it did not implicate me as a failure.

I wish I knew what to believe...at times it makes perfect sense, and at times it seems so fantastical, something from a poorly-written horror movie. Something not even released to theatres, but sent straight to one of the "other networks" for a showing in the dead of night.

I do not want this knowledge; it frightens me, nauseates me. I feel the familiar dark desire, even though I know it is dangerous.

Damn this self-pity. And damn them: may they be dispatched violently to Hell for their trouble.