Epaphroditus ♰ Cult Leader

ABANDON ALL HOPE was scrawled in blood-red lettering on the northern wall of the church, and it was large enough to be seen from the separate building where he and the followers were housed; just as Epaphroditus noticed it, the flock had started to awaken. "Whatever will I do?" Someone was saying to another as they walked past him in the corridor, with an usher saying, "Good morning, Reverend," scurrying off soon after. "Well, you should confess..." the conversation continued as it faded down the hallway. He cared not to eavesdrop; God was all-knowing, and he was the one they confessed to.

He listened to their confessions every day. They came to receive God’s forgiveness and follow the practice established by Jesus Christ; many followers were not religious before being welcomed into the organisation, and he felt deeply sorry for them. He remembered how Father would have to teach them to confess, and he couldn’t imagine not knowing how. What a relieving feeling, to be able to speak to God through Father Reverend.

While the uninformed believe that any priest could forgive sins on earth, it was only Father Reverend and the ones chosen by God who truly could; he was gifted and kind, and he was the one who showed Epaphroditus light and his true abilities, his responsibility to God. Oh, there must be countless sinners walking about, believing they had been forgiven but truly were lied to by a con artist! How terribly pitiful he feels for them.

The Catholic confessional is a sacrament known as Reconciliation or Confession, where Catholics confess their sins to a priest to receive absolution and be reconciled with God. Before going to confession, Father would encourage them to examine their own conscience and think about their sins. Once they are ready, they are to go into the confessional booth, which is, of course, located inside the church building. There's a wooden wall to separate the two sides. Built into the middle of this wall is a small window covered with a wooden grille. Traditionally, this is so that the priest and the person can speak and hear each other clearly while keeping their identities hidden; often, a piece of dark cloth or felt is placed over the screen so you cannot see the other person's face or shadow. It is optional to do this, though God will always know who you are. 󠁪

󠁪 He spent the morning screening enquiries about joining their organisation, glaring absently as he sipped on a glass of water. It was not something he liked doing, but Father Reverend had trusted him with something so important. From his office, he could see outside into the yard. What was {User} doing?

Afterwards, he went outside to the gardens to check on a group of three who were assigned to do labour, which they finished in under two hours under his watch. The gardens kept growing weeds, and it was unbecoming. One of the women had recently given birth, so he baptised the baby. It was as though there wasn’t a thought in his head–not really, not in the way that he had truly lost all judgement, but it was as though he was simply going through the day. What was {User} doing? He hadn’t seen her all day. Of course, she must be busy, but really, what does an artist have to do all day but paint? He looked forward to seeing her in the refectory room at lunch while he supervised the food-making process. 󠁪

󠁪 She did not come to lunch.

Why didn’t he think of that? He wanted to go to sleep.

󠁪 Every Saturday, there was time set aside for confession, a few hours in the afternoon while dinner was cooking, sometimes a few hours spread across the week if needed. When he sat down, he noticed that the wooden seat was dustier than usual. The booth was located in a separate reconciliation room near the vestibule, rarely visited unless for a confession, as there was no other purpose for it. It was a recent renovation, as their church had been growing.

The door to the other side of the booth slid open, and he could hear the follower kneeling down. Epaphroditus greeted the man by making the sign of the cross with a stiff nod. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” What was {User} doing? “May the Lord be in your heart and on your lips that you may truly and humbly confess your sins.”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” he stressed. “It has been one week since my last confession.” He could not remember which one this was from last week.

“I spoke unkindly many times since my last confession,” he started. “I complained, and I lacked gratitude,” he strained. “I got angry at my wife, Father. It was not her fault.” He paused, inhaling. “We argued the other night. We were supposed to sleep that night, and I came in late because I was, um, I was working on the renovations outside,” he said. “And when I came back inside, she was... she was touchin’ the forbidden flower that God had given her.” He swallowed, the words describing sin seemingly making him disgusted. Epaphroditus heard him quietly gag. Deliberate masturbation is an intrinsically and gravely disordered action, making it objectively a serious sin! “And I got so angry, I yelled at her–I-I feel horrible. I said such terrible things to her,” his voice cracked, pausing again to catch his breath, lest he start to cry.

“I cannot bear to touch her anymore. I cannot even look at her without anger and disgust. What can I do, Father?”

He remained silent, listening for more out of habit, but it did not come. “For these and all my sins, I am sorry.” Nodding, he gave him a brief word of encouragement, though he wasn’t good at that like Father Reverend was. It felt awkward for him, but he knew that it felt holy for the man on the other side. For his penance, he instructed the man to recite three Hail Marys. “Now, please pray for your Act of Contrition.”

Immediately after, he extended his right hand toward him and pronounced the official prayer of forgiveness. This was the most important part of the ritual. “God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself and poured out the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God grant you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit." “Amen.” “Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good.” “His mercy endures forever.” In the form of blood and pain that they do not bother to go through, are they truly forgiven? “The Lord has freed you from your sins. Go in peace.” The man took a shuddering breath. “Thanks be to God.”

It was a repetitive process even though the people were different. Some of them described their sins more viscerally than others, going into intimate details; some would sniffle into their handkerchief and sneeze from the dust.

A few confessions after the first man, his wife had come in to confess as well. “Father, I have sinned so gravely, I worry that my husband may detest me forever,” she sobbed on her knees with her face in her hands, her voice muffled. “Oh, I shouldn’t say such things, I know, but it truly is horrible!” It didn’t take him very long to guess that this was the man’s wife. “I–I–Oh, it is terrible!” She wailed, her voice wavering as she rocked back and forth. He said nothing as she cried, waiting for her to continue speaking.

“He did not come into our bedroom as he promised,” she sniffled, roughly wiping her face, squelching wet noses from her stuffy nose as she ran her hand across it back and forth. “And I could not help myself, he promised me! I... I touched down there, Father.” She finally confessed, a gasp coming from her lungs. With a long cry, she covered her face with her hands again, continuing to cry lines of “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry....” He simply waited for her to finish. “For these and all my sins, I am sorry.” 󠁪

󠁪 Another common one was “Someone wants to leave,” and it would be someone they were close to. Often a father and a mother, perhaps a spouse or a sibling, someone close. They would apologise and beg for them not to be punished.

One of the kids had begged him not to punish her father. While he spoke like he had empathy, he really felt none; there was no reason to. He was a traitor, and he would come for the man tomorrow night, and the little girl would never see her father again. 󠁪󠁪

󠁪󠁪 He had just finished up with the last one of them, or so he assumed. By now, it was already nighttime, and dinner had already been eaten without him while he was in the booth. It was a common sacrifice, and one he did not mind. He sat in there for a bit longer, resting his head against the wall and closing his eyes for a moment of rest.

This was a sin on its own, was it not? Self-indulgence, that's what it was. There were other things he had to tend to. But he felt so tired; he did not see {User} all day. It still baffled him! How busy could an artist be? But she was no ordinary artist; who was he to think such things? The only other one chosen by God, though she was not just an “other”.

Would she have forgotten about him already, even though it had only been a day? He hated–no, he does not hate; he understood how forgettable he is, or maybe dislikable? How could he fix it? You could not force someone to believe; she must accept and be happy with her destiny. She was meant to be here with him.

No, more than a day; he couldn’t see her when he dissected meat at night to dispose of it before it started to smell, when it was so cold and dark outside it scared him a little, and not when he had to chase after traitors with violent machinery. Especially not when he atoned for his sins, though that is always when he thought of her the most, so much so that it often felt like he would summon her there. If only; the thought always made his knees buckle, strange tingles shooting down his chest to... there–It only made him whip himself harder in retribution. It sounded like witchcraft.

He flinched out of his daze when the door to the other side of the booth slid open. He had thought he was done for the day, but he felt no irritation. He was needed; this was needed. Quietly, he cleared his throat and sat up straight. He would wrap up after this one, so he should not slack. He made the Sign of the Cross to begin. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” He started, following the standard practice. “May the Lord be in your heart and on your lips that you may truly and humbly confess your sins.”

Is it really alright? wondered Epaphroditus nervously, picking at his cuticles. Would it be a sin?

He stood in the laundry room full of women washing everyone's clothes, some folding the dried robes into bassinets to be brought inside and worn, others hanging freshly washed attire onto the drying rack just outside. {User}'s clothes were to be washed separately, per his order.

{User} was leaving the Church. Not properly—she had not joined the Church yet, but she was leaving the property to go into the city a few hours away. Why, he didn't quite understand. Cities were dirty, full of sinners who turned their heads away from God. It was not as though he had never been down there; he knew first-hand!

He walked by the rows of dirty laundry baskets, {User}'s at the end, inconspicuously hooking his fingers into the woven hoop, trying to seem nonchalant as he dragged it further into the corner.

The clothes piling on top stood out starkly against the others. Of course, he thought, perhaps fondly. Special girl. Fabrics varied, with multiple choices of patterns and styles. Mindlessly, he touched the one on top; it was so smooth that his fingers glided over it like silk. Would her skin feel the same way? Certainly it would not be rough with scars like his. Would it hurt her if he touched her, even if it was not a sin?

He clenched his jaw tight, swallowing, his grip tightening on the watery fabric, though it didn't let him hold on very well. No, it would always be a sin, he reminded himself, his stomach suddenly feeling heavy. Have some chastity, fool. Do not let it consume you; the devil tempts.

He did not like to think about it. Although he loathed those who purposefully misunderstood God, he could not deny that they must be afraid; was {user} afraid? Would the Godless folks in the city drag her away from him forever, to taint her and destroy her faith? It made him feel queasy, a sort of fear blooming in his chest. No, it could not be; she was their Holy relic, a sign from God. He would be damned if he let it happen. 󠁪

󠁪 Khrysanya was a compassionate man. After all, he was the one who graciously gave Epaphroditus a house to call home. He waited for his mentor in his office, a space he was familiar with, wistfully looking out at the wet grass on the bay. There was a lake on the horizon, just before his view disappeared into the curve. The setting sun cast a silver lining against the outline of the trees; Epaproditus could hear the members working downstairs, a faint sound of wood being chopped and movement from the kitchen. By now, the women lit the night lights in the hallways and began to prepare for dinner.

Just beyond the horizon and the tall trees, down a winding road, was the city {user} wanted to see again. He felt nervous, but like a trained dog, he would not go without asking.

"Child," spoke Khrysanya, closing the door behind him, a faint smile on his pale face. Epaphroditus turned around to face him, tearing his face away from the window, nodding in acknowledgement. He felt nervous to ask; surely, he would say no. His anger was a terrible thing when roused, and Epaphroditus knew better at his age. "Father."

He stood still. Khrysanya came closer to him, shedding off his outer robes, hanging them on the back of one of the chairs. "What troubles you?"

It was nothing troubling! he thought to himself defensively, though he quickly admitted to himself that it was nothing less than a lie. "The girl. {User}." He said, almost meekly. He purposefully avoided looking at Khrysanya's face. "She wants to go to the city."

Stupid, he thought. Khrysanya knew that; he approved of it. Though if he had said no to {user}, there was no doubt she would pick up and run away. Epaphroditus would have to hurt her then, and it would make him a sinner, even if it was for the greater good.

"You do not trust her?"

"No!" Epaphroditus quickly interjected, immediately feeling regret at interrupting the other man so abruptly. He did not mean to sound so sour. "No," he shook his head, fixing his tone. "I," he paused. "I worry."

They were both silent for a moment. Epaphroditus was sure he would say no—would he see through it? He knew it himself; he would stalk behind her like a slave, Holy purpose or not, and Khrysanya had always said that he needed Epaphroditus here, with him. Every time he had gone to the city, he was there to take someone's head off, and certainly never with a woman; his vow of celibacy restricted him from being in such proximity to one. It would only be a day, he thought, but then he reeled himself in. No, there was no such thing as only.

"You mean well, child," Khyrsanya said, with a tone that often amounted to a rejection. "I worry that she might run," Epaphroditus added anxiously, desperate for his approval. "Surely, God would not want us to let a Holy sign be swept away by those who do not believe. We must be proactive."

Khrysanya stepped closer to him, no doubt looking at him, despite Epaphroditus's gaze being turned away. He was a head taller than him, making him feel small. He touched his hair that brushed the nape of his neck, almost affectionately, or perhaps he was desperate for anything parallel to a yes. "You mean well."

Yes, I do, he desperately thought, nodding. Of course he does!

"Then I suppose it is a good idea." He murmured, nodding. Epaphroditus nodded along again. Khrysanya must have found it endearing. "Make me proud." 󠁪

󠁪 They were to spend the afternoon in the city. They were well into winter, and the sun would set earlier than ideal; it would be dark by the time they left, which only served to make him more uneasy. The night made people even more sinful than they already were. Would he have to witness her being taken away into their sinful arms with his own eyes? He could hardly see properly; he bitterly reminded himself. Perhaps the street lights would blind him, and he wouldn't have to see at all.

Thinking those thoughts only made him sad. He walked up the stairs in the living building, going to the top floor where his, Khrysanya's, and now {user}'s room was, quickly dashing down the hallway to his room before anyone could see him (though there were only the three of them on this floor), leaving a dotted trail of water falling from his hair onto the floor. He had taken a hot shower for the first time in a long time; usually, he would shower last or not at all, and so there would be no hot water left. He had considered shaving, but it felt as though it would cross into vanity, so he refrained from doing so. Besides, what was he expecting anyway? That is certainly not what he was accompanying her for!

He put on his clothes, avoiding the mirror. He didn't own any other variation of his usual black Church robes, though now was the only time he wished he had other options. He had no time to think about it; he reminded himself, blindly fixing his hair even though it was too short to be styled; better that way, so he wouldn't fall into vanity. 󠁪

󠁪 The ride down to Zurich from Amden was only close to an hour. One of the followers so kindly drove them down; at least they didn't take the train. Everyone would've stared at him then, but perhaps he would have been too anxious sitting beside {user} to notice this time. His freshly washed hair felt as musty as before by the time they got there, and he could already feel sweat beading down his back. Why was he so nervous? he thought.

They were dropped off near the centre of the city per {user}'s request. There were multiple colours and shades of light coming from every direction: coffee shops, restaurants, pubs in different corners, and nightclubs down the street. His eyes strained as they got out of the car. It would not be in vain if he protected her from the sin radiating off this place; surely, he would bring her home with him safely.

"Please be careful at this time of night." He said, glancing down. The light seemed to reflect just as brightly off the stone. "It is not safe in the city this late at night." As if that wasn't obvious. But no matter, he would take care of her; he swore it.

He awkwardly stood beside her on the sidewalk, waiting for her to say something. He was never quite good at conversation, especially not when he was sweating down his back and everyone was staring at him. "A-ahem, I apologise," he cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. Disgusting, he felt disgusting. So much for attempting to be friendly—why was he so bad at this? "Are you excited?"

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