Spare Parts
Part One
His deer and seal skin pack are nothing but a crumpled pile of shredded remains. His beloved walking stick, the one crafted so carefully by the chief of a tribe that no longer walks the earth is nothing but spent firewood now. His weapons belt, designed, carved, and initialized by the most talented leather worker of his own forgotten people is worn by another now, same for his carefully modified sandals. His own belt, the one he made simply to keep his pants up is nothing but spare parts. As for his father’s fabled gun and bowie knife. They belong to still others who took everything from him. His winter gloves, his hat and spats, all so much reused bulk or kindling along with his old books and other sundries.
His marvelous, mysterious water extracting machine is the only item out of his vast collection that they simply discarded without considering or trying to reuse. His throwing stick as well, one of them tried it out and wounded himself before it was only just barely saved from the fire pit by the simple fact that they forgot to burn it.
He spent five days and nights with the noose around his neck, no food or water. He stayed that way, strung up with his feet just barely touching the dirt below. Every time he fell asleep, he began to strangle. Every time he woke up, he did so in sheer panic and every time one of them would come along and whisper the words to him.
Back in his village, back during the blizzard and the strangers and the slaughter. He kept ahold of his pride. Being a pet to the Tumor Queen, being her miserable little kept coward. Even when he was in a cage he kept ahold of his hidden pride. Back there a second time he allowed the darkness to nearly swallow him but he left holding onto that same old pride, deranged and maddened even as he was.
He had no pride when he relented and recanted his former life. He let go of every bit of that pride as he mumbled their hallowed words and swore an oath bought by starvation and torture.
They only spared his life to begin with because of the tenants of their faith, and even then, they only just spared his life. Outliers and apostates can’t be truly saved after all. Only unburdened of their sinful and worthless lives.
Of all the worthless and sinful creatures that they ever held captive. Of all the sick and wounded human animals they fed to the glory of their martyred Goddess, could any of them even hold a candle to him?
If they only knew.
These backward cultists held no concept of evil so dark or knew a vision of life so dire. They made their mistake in letting him live so that he might see some mysterious light and learn to repent his former ways.
He knelt in prayer and did their menial labor. He let them shave off the pile of dreadlocks he had cultivated for nearly as long as his collection of now ruined and discarded former possessions. He served obediently and gave no thought to anyone or anything beside this new shallow, hollow life.
He held no kernel of hope for his old life because he knew how cults like this worked, he had seen them second hand before, more than once. He didn’t worry for or about the people who he loved, the ones he had abandoned in the middle of the night. He even kept thoughts of the girl at bay because he knew it was a weakness that could and would be exploited.
He slept, ate, and drank, and believed in nothing. You can do that in a cult because they don’t require any real or true belief, only your obedience to their shitty hierarchy.