Haman stared at the shifting mass of black in front of him, trying to make sense of it. Nothing would stay, letters turning to symbols turning to insane glyphs that bounced around the page.
“Again,” Father’s deep voice asked. No, that wasn’t the right word. Commanded. Father didn’t ask, he commanded.
Haman nodded, trying to focus through his tear-filled eyes and the ever-shifting mess in front of him to find what he was supposed to read. Breathing heavily through his nose and trying his very hardest to think, he began slowly reading in a quiet voice.
“Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will know…”
Haman didn’t even see the strike coming, he simply felt the brutal stinging in his shoulder as a great blow knocked him from his feet and sent him spinning through the air.
“Renew! Renew!” Father screamed, as Haman toppled to the ground with a terrified scream.
Haman hit the ground with a painful thud, refusing to look up to meet Father’s burning gaze. He lay there, staring at the cold, concrete floor, trying to keep from crying, knowing that it would only worsen Father’s fury.
“You’re trying to test me. You’re trying to test me, and I won’t let you break me.”
Don’t look up. Don’t respond. Don’t make a sound. Haman knew to do these three things, and to let Father go through his rant.
“Lord the father, please give me the strength I need to get through this. Boy, Pslam 119:28, now.”
Haman nod your head, feeling relief flood through him as he remembered the words, rushing to spit them out before he incurred his wrath again.
My soul is weary with sorrow; strengthen me according to your word,” Haman said loudly.
“Good,” Father nodded. “Good. I try so very hard to teach you the way my Pa taught me, boy. But you resist. You resist every time. You won’t even read the Lord’s scriptures without twisting them, mocking them, rejecting the word of the Lord!”
Father sighed, walking over towards the back of the room slowly, shaking his head.
“You need to be punished, Haman. You need to understand why this is important. What the Lord will do to you if you reject him. Ten seconds.”
Haman knew what this meant, and scrambled to his feet, rushing to the door. Father burst forward, grabbing him by the neck and slamming him against the wall as Haman began to scream for his long-gone Mother.
“You will not escape the Lord’s wrath and fury, you little demon!” Father roared.
Father grabbed Haman’s arm, twisting it behind his back. Haman burst into tears, crying out in pain as he was forced into the old wooden chair at the back of the garage. Father grabbed the old ropes left on the ground, quickly binding him to the chair. Haman began rocking, desperately struggling against the ropes, as Father stood, staring at him in anger. He walked towards the roaring furnace in the back of the barren room, boots trampling over the old newspapers that lay there as Haman turned to desperate babbling.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Have mercy on me, O God, according to your unfailing love; according to your great compass…”
“Even the devil can cite scriptures for his own purposes, boy,” Father said, shaking his head. “You won’t change my mind.”
Father pulled the fire poker from its position leaning against the furnace, sticking it into the furnace as he jammed it in between several pieces of flaming wood. The poker was engulfed by the burning, horrific flames as they danced around the black iron.
“You’re a product of the end times, Haman. The world has been corrupted and broken. Most ‘Christians’ today are Christians by name only, and should be ashamed of themselves. They are cowardly, lukewarm, and ashamed of Christ's Word. They have substituted their own pathetic ideas for God's clear commandments... Don't listen to the money-grubbing heretic who stands at the front of your church. Listen to God, Haman. You need to listen to God! Methodist, Episcopal, Lutheran, Presbyterian, Catholic, Northern and Southern Baptist, Church of Christ, Assembly of God, etc. have all departed from God. Most well-known preachers have departed from God, and disassociated themselves with pure Gospel preaching!”
Father was ranting now, smacking his hand against the wall as his voice grew loud enough to shake the entire house.
“The children! Oh, God preserve us, the children are the worst! Being taught to be fags, that it’s OK to fornicate with men and to reject the Lord’s word! Being given Nintendos and play stations to tear their attention away from God and the Bible to force them into the secular world! Being corrupted by Satanic media with astrology and Harry Potter’s witchcraft and being told to follow Pagan rituals every Christmas to appease Satan Clause! It’s Satan himself, boy, disguised as a “saint”, giving children what seems like gifts, but only further seek to corrupt the youth! Reject Satan Clause, boy!”
Of everything he’d heard, that bit actually made sense to Haman, given that all this jumble of words and lines he had to deal with when reading means the two words are easily confusable. In fact, he pretty sure his misreading is what showed that connection to Father.
“I won’t lose this battle,” he says. “I will not let my son be given to this unholy world.”
Father pulled the long iron fire poker out from the furnace, its end glowing burning red. He walked towards Haman, raising the poker so its glow illuminates his gaunt face. Haman continued babbling in a mixture of begging and praying as he tried to kick and struggle against the ropes. Father lowered the poker, holding it just above the mess of burnt skin and scarring that ran along Haman’s arm.
“They’re going to come for you, Haman. The dark, Satanic forces of the world are going to come for you late at night, to twist, corrupt and break you. You need to grow strong through the words of the Lord to reject these dark influences.”
With those words, Father pressed the burning metal against Haman’s skin. Haman’s begging and pleading turned to incoherent screams as his skin burned and blistered under the poker’s touch. Father began to count, his deep, booming voice rising above Haman’s high-pitched screams.
“One! Two! Three! Four! Five!”
Haman found himself desperately floating on the edge of consciousness, the smell of his cooking flesh filling his nostrils as he screamed, an animal knowing nothing but that it had to escape from its pain.
“Six! Seven! Eight! Nine! Ten!” Father screamed, raising the poker from Haman’s burning flesh.
Father stepped back, looking down at his son in disgust as Haman’s horrified screams turned to exhausted sobbing.
“If you can’t survive ten seconds feeling the hot poker on your arm, how are you going to survive an eternity of feeling that pain on every inch of your body!?” he snarled. “Only with the Lord’s strength can you prosper.”
Father walked to the furnace, jamming the poker back into the wood so the flames embrace it once more.
“I’m going to go pray for guidance in my room. You’ll get another ten when I come back. Then maybe you’ll stop resisting and read the Scriptures like you need to for the Lord’s guidance to be made clear to you.”
Father turned, walking out the door and leaving Haman tied to the chair, crying. Although it took him what seemed like hours, he managed to calm down, taking deep breaths to try to force a thought through his muddled mind. The only thing he could think to do was to try get that poker out of the fire. He couldn’t deal with the pain again. He knew he had to escape. He began to rock the chair, the legs dragging slowly along the floor as every rock moved him but a fraction of an inch closer to his goal, getting to the furnace.
Step by step, inch by inch, Haman moved towards the furnace, the only sounds by his pathetic whimpering and the sound of wood scraping on concrete. Focused only on the task on hand, not even let the burning pain of his ruined flesh distract him, he moved forward. His muddled mind was now clear and on the task at hand, his tongue spitting out the endless verses he’d memorized, hoping to find strength in at least one of them.
“Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. But those who hope in the Lord with renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint. But you, Lord, do not be far from me. You are my strength; come quickly to help…”
After what seemed like eternity, Haman had gotten to the furnace. It glowed like the eyes of demons, like the eternal flames of hell. He winced as he was reminded as the pain that coursed through his arm, where his scorched flesh and melted skin hung loosely, sending shooting pains through his body. He stared at the poker’s black handle, trying to focus. It could burn through the ropes, maybe. Or he could use it as a weapon, to keep Father back. There had to be something he could do. If nothing else, he might be able to buy himself time as Father would have to reheat the poker.
Rocking his chair into position, he reached his hands towards the poker handle, his fingers dancing along the hot metal as he tried to get a grip. After a few moments of desperate fumbling, his fingers managed to wrap around the handle, allowing him to get a semi-firm grip. He pulled on the handle, trying to free it from its place buried amongst the kindling, but it remained stuck. He tried again but was again unable to pull it free. Finding all the strength and mobility he could in his tiny, bound body, he pulled.
The poker burst free from the furnace, sending lumps of burning charcoal and wood across the room. The strength of his action sent the poker flying from his grip, his nimble fingers unable to keep a grip on it as it flew across the room, clanging uselessly against the concrete floor. Haman found his chair toppling over and let out a scream for help as he tipped forward.
He hit the cold, hard concrete floor with a painful thud, his skull smacking against the ground. His mind once again turning muddled and fuzzy, he saw bright lights as the spilt charcoal beginning to set the scattered newspaper and old wooden walls alight. His view shifted from dark to bright and back as he tried to stay conscious. His vision focused, as he saw flames beginning to rise as they spread through the whole place, engulfing it in an imitation of hell itself. He tried to move, but the ropes kept him from escaping his downed position. He began to scream, in terror, in pain, in desperation, as the flames spread quickly through the old garage.
***
Haman’s life changed the day of the fire. Father, too focused, found himself engulfed in the fires akin to the ones he knew his son would see, and soon understood the pain he’d inflicted on his child was the last thing he knew. His house, his prison, his cage, was turned to mere ash and cinders. Haman’s body, made in the image of God, was burnt, scorched, seared, melted and blistered to the point where to call it human would be an insult to God.
When the fires were finally left out, the only sound but the crackling of wood was a slow, deep breathing as Haman’s breath stirred the ashes. His body now a twisted, scarred mess, all he could do was wait for death or rescue.
When he was finally dragged from the ash and the rubble, all Haman did was babble incoherently, spitting out Bible verses and muttering about understanding and fires. He spent a vast stretch in hospital, as doctors, medics and workers tried to forge a form out of the burnt flesh and ash they had found in what remained of that house.
Eventually, Haman was released from hospital. With two dead parents and no other family, he was taken to the orphanage, the Saint Francis of Assisi Home for Boys. Haman soon learnt that this place was the same messed up, corrupted institution that Father had warned him about, worshipping Saint Francis like a demi-god, letting boys in the home grow up without being converted to the word of Jesus Christ, promoting the Satanic Paganism in Autumn as they dress the boys up like sinners, demons and witches. The teachers don’t even pray or hold His name up high. Staying there, Haman knew he didn’t belong. He knew that the flames he had felt the day of the fire would be felt again if he let the corruption that had spread through the Saint Francis of Assisi Home for Boys. For all he had cried, for all he had begged, for all he had screamed, Father had been right.
***
Haman sat by himself, his pencil scratching against a piece of paper as he stared mindlessly at the Christmas Fire in front of him. Thankfully, his mangled, burnt form kept the other children from talking to him. Those who were brave enough to try talk to him soon found that all they would earn for their courage is mockery and insults as Haman berated their lack of faith, their materialism and their inner-corruption.
They were making Christmas cards to hang on the large Christmas tree in the room. The other boys eagerly got to work writing and making, crayons, chalk, markers, pencils and pens scribbling away at their cards, drawing bizarre, unreadable letters that danced across the page, muddling and frustrating Haman’s mind as he tried to read what was written there. Classic pagan imagery adorns all their cards, brainwashed into them by the media, encouraged by the orphanage directors and teachers. Holly and ivy from ancient Saturnalia pagan celebrations, Nordic and Druid-based mistletoe, the atheistic gift-giving, the worship of some fat, gift-giving figure as if he was a God himself, the Roman paganistic candles that sit all around the room, red and white axe running down the candle. They draw and scribble it all, content in their mockery of the Lord.
Haman sneers, turning his upper lip at the image in front of him. He scowls across the room, before one of the teachers, Mr Calnan kneels down next to him, smiling. Haman watches the momentary flicker of disgust as the Mr Calnan grows near his blistered, burnt skin, before it’s replaced by a fake smile.
“Are you OK, Haman? Would you like to join in with the fun? We’re going to make cookies to leave for Santa tonight. Then, we’re going to set up a video camera to see if we can catch him in the act.”
Haman didn’t respond, instead staring as the flames wrap around the glowing logs, dancing and rolling around the kindling as tongues of flames lick the air.
“You know, you’d really have a great time if you…”
“No,” Haman said, his eyes not shifting from the flames. “I won’t be corrupted by you. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
“Christmas is all about that, Haman. It’s about love, and giving, and it’s when Jesus was born.”
“Jesus Christ was born in the Summer or Fall,” Haman answered, his once-muddled mind clear and remembering what his Father taught him. “The Ancient Babylonian Catholics changed it to allow for Paganistic influence. It’s all lies and corruption. Lies and corruption.”
“Come on, join in the festivities, Haman. If you’re not good, you won’t get visited by Santa Clause tonight.”
“Santa Clause is just a Satanic servant who seeks to corrupt me. I refuse.”
Haman turned his gaze away from the fire, making eye contact with Mr Calnan, before standing.
“I’d like to go to bed early. I’m tired,” Haman said.
“Haman, you really should…”
“I’m tired,” Haman repeated loudly, interrupting Mr Calnan. “I’d like to go to bed.”
With that, Haman stood up, walking towards his room. The other children tensed as he passed, waiting for his violent, angry outburst, but he just stared straight ahead and walked past, his burnt face contorting in a sneer.
***
Sleep didn’t come easily to Haman, but like every night, it came eventually. Wrapped in his blanket cocoon, he his mind wander. Dreams shift to nightmares are the bright, glowing gates of Heaven turn to the burning flames of Hell, shifting back and forth. Eventually, Haman found himself crying softly in bed, wrapped up in his blankets. As his sleepy haze wore off, drowsiness was replaced with anger at his own weakness. He found his fingers subconsciously tracing the burnt scars running along his skin, remembering the brutal, mind-consuming pain that would wait for him if he refused to stand up in the face of corruption. His scarred finger tips ran across the wetness running down his cheeks, wiping the tears off. He sighs, his sleeve brushes the tears from his face. He took a few deep, long breaths to calm himself down, before he realized he had the need to pee. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, standing slowly from the bed, careful not to wake the other children. He didn’t particularly care for them, he just knew that the fewer interactions he had with the corrupted world, the better.
Haman’s bare feet slowly moved along the floor, as Haman felt the cold floor underneath his toes. He slowly pushed the door open as it creaked open on its hinge. Haman walked out into the hallway, moving down towards the bathroom. The only sounds in the dark, cold night was his shallow breathing and the slightest creak of the floorboards underneath his weight.
Suddenly, a new sound was added to the mixture, a rustling of the Christmas Tree leaves. Haman froze, his breath caught in his throat, as he stayed perfectly still for a moment. Listening, nothing but silence answered back. Creeping forward, slower and quieter, he moved out into the sitting room step by step. He reached the door, leaning close as he peered through the crack in the doorway, seeing the dark room illuminated by the glow of the fireplace, which had almost snuffed out by the darkness, only burning embers remaining alongside a few weak tongues of flame with barely the strength to flicker. Slowly pushing the door forward, Haman leaned in through the doorway, scanning the room.
Standing by the Christmas Tree, leaning over and engulfed by shadows was a large, dark figure. Its skin was red and smooth, tufts of white fur sprouting from its body. It was engulfed by darkness, almost swimming it as it focused on its task at hand. Its blackened, twisted hands reached into a large brown sack. Haman watched as it pulled a small, multi-coloured box tied with ribbon from the bag, gently sliding it under the tree.
Taking advantage of it being distracted, Haman slowly moved towards the fireplace, feeling the barest hint of warmth from the dying flames. He paused, seeing a familiar shape. Standing next to the fireplace was a black iron fire poker. Haman’s hand reached out towards the handle, his fingers trembling with fear and anticipation as he took hold of the poker. The iron scraped slightly along the brick fireplace, making a loud scratching as he took it in his hand.
“Hmm?” the creature asked, his head twisting around to see what was going on.
The creature turned, to find Haman raising his fire poker in the air, as it let out a terrified yelp that stayed Haman’s hand for a brief second.
“Wait!” it said quickly. “Calm down, boy, no need to be frightened! Don’t you recognize me?”
Haman paused, his fire poker raised as he stared at the creature, his mind racing to remember the Bible verses needed to give him strength as he muttered them under breath, his muddled mind trying to figure out what this creature was.
“Don’t worry, boy, it’s me, Jolly Old Saint Nick!” it said, holding its hands out calmly.
Haman stared at the man, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. He made out a long white beard, as his skin and fur morphed into the traditional Santa suit. The figure began to talk, but Haman only heard a second voice in the back of his mind, as his breathing became angry and frantic.
“Satan Clause! It’s Satan himself, boy, disguised as a “saint”, giving children what seems like gifts, but only further seek to corrupt the youth! Reject Satan Clause, boy! REJECT SATAN!”
Haman felt Father’s voice screaming through his muddled mind, swinging the fire poker with all his might in a wave of anger and terror. Santa Clause turned his head around, making a noise in surprise as the poker smacked him straight in the side of the head, sending him spiralling to the floor with a groan. Blood splattered onto the ground.
“Wait!” the figure gasped desperately, it’s hand reaching up to tear off the white beard. “Haman, stop, it’s me! It’s Mr Calnan, wait!”
Haman watched, consumed by terror, as the creature-turned-religious mockery shifted its form once again, taking the pleading face of Mr Calnan as it changed form. Haman screamed, swinging again as the fire poker bashed into the side of the creature’s head, leaving a long, bloody gash into the side of his head. The creature made a horrific sound, a terrifying blend of laughter and begging as its face began to morph. Haman screamed, trying to focus through his muddled mind as he stared into the burning, twisted, screaming face of Satan himself, here to corrupt him. The fire poker bashed into his nose, crushing it under his poker in an explosion of blood and cartilage. The Devil screamed, an unholy, unnatural roar, the creature enraged at Haman’s rejection of its corruption. Haman swung again, and again, and again, and again. Haman struck the creature until his strength was sapped, until its skull had collapsed under his blows, until its corrupting, roaring voice wasn’t even a dying gurgle, until he’d finally finished.
Haman dropped the fire poker as he stared through the darkness at what he had done. He heard his faint voice whispering prayers and quoting Bible verses in the back of his head. For a moment, his mind felt clear, as he understood what he had done. Before his mind could shatter, Haman rejected that moment, as the fog of confusion, mental disorders and brainwashing embraced him again, and he felt like a champion of God.
As the Satan Clause bled out, its skull broken open as its brain matter was left spilling out and running down the tree leaves, Haman turned to the fireplace. Haman stared into the darkness, watching intently as the last of the infernal flames are snuffed out by the cold night, the final visions of hell fading from his mind. Left alone in the darkness, Haman felt safe and secure from corruption for the first time in his life.
“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me”, Haman whispered.
