The Bride of Christ

By Vincent Sweeney

Darkness reigns in the city of Dominion under the watchful eye of its gang lord, Cain. His prized possession is a young prostitute whose spirit he has broken through years of systematic abuse.

The prostitute, Gracie, has come to the end of herself. She is addicted to heroin, enslaved to Cain's whims, and, because of her profession, dying. Helpless and hopeless, Gracie weeps alone on the street, not realizing that a broken heart like hers has a remedy.

Joshua Stewart has returned home after a dishonorable military discharge. Having repented from a murderous past, Josh seeks God’s guidance for his life. From a city rooftop, he sees Gracie weeping and knows he must help her.

Josh begins hiring Gracie only to spend time with her, but as their relationship blossoms, it becomes apparent that they must first free Gracie from Cain’s clutches before she and Josh can truly be together. What starts as a business transaction soon escalates into an all-out war with the fate of the city hanging in the balance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781312950399

Book preview

The Bride of Christ

THE BRIDE OF CHRIST

Vincent Sweeney

www.brideofchristnovel.com

Published by Vincent Sweeney www.sweeneyauthor.com

Copyright © 2015 by Vincent Sweeney

Distributed by Lulu

www.lulu.com (ID: 16400350)

ePub ISBN: 978-1-312-95039-9

AUTHOR’S FORETHOUGHT:

To God be the glory for all things . . .

If you hate my work, blame me for it.

If you love my work, praise God for it.

NOTE:  This story focuses on mature subject matter. For the sake of maintaining honesty, it contains adult language, sexuality, and violence. 

1 – GENESIS

(Psalm 34:18)

The year was 1992.

The young man was terrified. His hands trembled as he tried to keep the songbook still, but it was no use. He set it down on the back of the pew in front of him to keep it steady.

Is it true? he thought. Oh God, I'm guilty. Will You really take away the blame?

He cleared a lump in his throat, his gaze fixed to the lyrics on the page. He did not really see them. He remained silent as the congregation around him sang.

Just as I am, and waiting not

to rid my soul of one dark blot . . .

He contemplated the dark blots on his own soul–a dozen nameless men he had killed.

I was under orders. I didn't really have a choice.

Those delusions were not enough anymore. He knew better now. He unconsciously touched his crew-cut hair as he remembered washing blood from his hands in a muddy jungle river only a few weeks before. It was his most recent kill.

As usual, he had been given some furlough after the successful hit. This time, he had come to see his cousin, and was subsequently dragged to church. He normally would have resisted more, but not this time.

Something about this last kill had been different: something he had not considered before. He remembered hearing a scream in the distance as the victim's body was discovered, followed by a mournful wailing. He then realized that it was indeed a victim. He had destroyed a life that someone else loved. Was it still justified? He would not be ordered to kill unless it was necessary, right?

Right? Not so sure anymore. No . . . not sure at all.

To thee whose blood can cleanse each spot, O Lamb of God, I come . . .

He heard something else in addition to the lyrics, and in agreement with them. He heard a quiet voice convincing him that he was guilty, but that the gospel was true, and he could also be forgiven. He believed it. 

His heart had been pierced, by whom he did not yet really know. He only knew the man’s name, and that He would be his savior. 

Do you believe? the preacher asked as the verse ended. Do you hear Him calling you? Do you have faith that God has paid for your sins? The author and finisher of that faith is the one called Jesus–the Lamb of God that was slain and resurrected . . . the Christ. Are you His?

Just as I am . . .

The young man slowly laid the song book down on the seat behind him. He could wait no longer. With a dread of the unknown, but a trust that he would not be rejected, he left the safety of the pew. He clenched his trembling fists as he walked to the front of the sanctuary.

Although the room was full of other people, he knew not of their presence. To him, there was only one other person in the room–this Jesus, the one they called Christ. He fell to his knees and uttered the only phrase he could think of to express the new life he already felt within. 

"You're the Son of God. You are God. Please, forgive me, Jesus. Please, forgive me."

The young man could think of nothing else to say. He had nothing else to offer but himself. He was broken, and yet somehow renewed. 

His name was Joshua Stewart, and he was now an adopted child of God.

2 – REVELATION

(Luke 12:2)

The year was 1994.

The blonde was dying. Faint blue veins lined her pale skin just beneath the surface. She had a split in the middle of her lower lip: nothing remarkable, except it had been there for months. The needle tracks inside her arms had long-since dulled in color, but the raised skin still told of days when she had no regard for life after the fix. Dressed in only a backless gown, she might have felt undignified, had she any dignity left. 

She used her arms to shift her position in the uncomfortable wheelchair, causing an instant surge of pain from her groin. She applied a little pressure with her hand, dulling the pain slightly. She did not mind it much anymore. To her, it was a signal that at least her body was still alive, even though her spirit lay dormant somewhere deep within her. 

The blonde was in her mid twenties, but the contemplation in her dark, sunken eyes told of a lifetime already lived. Her hair was in a ponytail, as she usually kept it, and she wore no makeup or jewelry apart from a single ring on her left hand, which she unconsciously rubbed with her thumb. She was thin and clear-complexioned, bearing a cold beauty. 

She surveyed the room, wondering what sort of person would occupy such a blandly-decorated and disarrayed workplace. A heavy file cabinet with some broken thumb-locks and splotches of missing paint leaned precariously away from the wall. On its top, a column of unfiled reports and medical journals rose toward the ceiling. On the desk, a single tattered picture in a neatly-polished frame displayed the scraggly face of an adolescent boy, grinning sarcastically. Next to it, a coffee mug stained with evaporated black syrup sat atop a stack of papers, possibly to keep the tower balanced. A jostling doorknob startled her.

The hospital administrator opened the door only briefly to set a stack of mail down on a chair, which was already occupied by many previous days’ mail. She then pulled the door halfway shut again, leaning on the knob while she continued her conversation with someone in the hallway.

It takes gross negligence to give that much heparin to a neonate, but I’m worried it could happen here too, the administrator said.

The blonde turned her head slightly, more out of instinct than interest in what was being said by the two female voices in the hallway. She detected a defensive tone in the reply.

Well, the administrator continued, "we haven’t got a choice if JCHO pushes it through. You guys might as well start working on an insert for Policies and Procedures. If you can get it to me tomorrow afternoon, I’ll try to have it proofread and maybe approved by Friday."

Then you need me to work on it tonight? came the reply in the hallway.

The administrator then pulled the door shut again, and the conversation continued privately.

The blonde heard a steady banter of muffled interjections for several minutes before the administrator finally entered, huffing when she closed the door behind her.

Hi. Sorry to keep you waiting, the administrator droned, walking around her desk. She was in her waning forties, and her dirty-blonde hair appeared to be rapidly graying. A pair of glasses with plastic rims dangled from her neck by a thin band of beads. She wore makeup and dressed professionally, but only in the most lenient sense. The wrinkles forming around her mouth told of countless cigarettes she had consumed.

After sitting down, the administrator looked up at the blonde and paused, as if surprised. I'm sorry about the gown. I thought you'd already be dressed, or I wouldn't have had them bring you down.

The blonde said nothing.

Let's see, let's see, she continued, perching her glasses atop her nose as she shuffled through a small stack of paperwork. She produced a pink file folder, then began flipping through it. I don’t want to offend you, but I have to ask: are you able to read and write?

The blonde only licked unconsciously at the never-healing split in her lower lip. 

I see you’ve left most of this information blank.

It’s all from my past, the blonde finally responded, shifting her gaze to the various articles on the administrator’s desk.

Well, we need to take care of a few things in the present before we can discharge you.

Why did you people cut me? she asked flatly.

"Why did we cut you?" the administrator echoed.

You knew what could happen. The risk was already high enough.

Your cervix had already seen massive scarring, to the point where there was hardly any pliability. We had no choice but to cut. Normally, a C-section might have been performed, but that would have put the child at even greater risk of . . . exposure. Besides that, I doubt you could have survived in your condition.

Well, that wouldn’t have mattered much anyway, would it? The blonde’s eyes were fixated by something on the desk. Where is the child?

"Like I was saying, there are a few things we need to take care of before we can proceed any further with your treatment or that of the child."

Is that your son? the blonde asked.

Excuse me?

In the frame, she said, motioning slightly with her head.

Yes, the administrator responded, a little uneasy.

Does he live with his father?

What? she asked, growing annoyed.

He doesn’t want much to do with you, does he?

And just what makes you think that? The administrator was angry now, but partly curious.

That picture’s pretty torn. I think you’d replace it if you had a better one.

It was best for him. He needed someone who’s more free than I am.

It’s a shame, the blonde noted thoughtfully.

Look, we need to get down to business. At what point are you in getting your Medicaid reinstated?

I’m not a ward of the state, the blonde said, looking to the floor. Not anymore.

Then, quite frankly, how do you expect to pay for all of this?

Faith, she said, laughing softly. But her smile disappeared, as if she suddenly remembered a nagging burden.

I’m afraid this is a serious matter. This hospital is already vastly overcrowded with people who at least have their paperwork in order. And until you help me, there’s no way I can help you.

I have no money, the blonde replied.

No family? No assets? the administrator asked.

The blonde laughed again, shaking her head. The laugh settled into a wry smile.

I’m sorry this is funny to you, but without a little more help from your end, there’s very little we can do to help you . . .

The blonde only kept smiling.

" . . . or this child," the administrator added.

The blonde's smile vanished.

Not so funny? she prodded.

Not when the joke is cruel.

Well, life can be something of a cruel joke, I suppose.

You have no idea, the blonde said.

After thinking for a moment, the administrator said, Tell me your situation then.

"My situation?" the blonde asked. Recounting her testimony had never occurred to her.

If you tell me what’s happened to you, maybe I can help you.

It would take some time.

Well, I’ve got all morning.

Are you sure? the blonde asked, motioning to the stack of paperwork on the administrator’s desk.

Look, this hospital can’t afford to keep beating around the bush. We have too many lives at stake to risk going under because people like you won’t pay us their bills so we can pay our own. Now, how do you plan to pay for your expenses?

. . . .

Miss?

. . . .

The administrator exhaled a frustrated sigh and sat back in her chair. Well, I suppose you’re not the only parent of this child. Who is the father?

The blonde’s eyes shot up to meet those of the administrator, as if the very question had pierced her soul.

The administrator straightened her back. She felt an inexplicable sense of fear when she looked into the young woman's eyes.

I’ll tell you a story–a true story, the blonde began, delving fully into bittersweet memory. It's my story . . . and yours.

3 – VANITY AND VEXATION

(Ecclesiastes 1:14)

The year was 1993.

Summer heat bathed the streets of Dominion, West Virginia. There were no stars in the black sky, but the city’s main drag was well-lit by orange streetlamps and the headlights of hundreds of cars, bumper to bumper. It was not a traffic jam, but rather a weekly ritual in which the youth from the area gathered to cruise the strip. The cycle ran from the post office to the corner gas station and back again, nearly a mile long. Over and over, the parade filed through from about nine o’clock in the evening until the early morning hours, all weekend long.

Along with the cars cruising, the sidewalks were lined with onlookers and admirers, all mesmerized by the pretty lights and pretty skin that often occupied the passenger seats of the men’s prized chariots. But more than just coveting of the eyes was taking place.

In only slightly-hidden view, a business of the shadows flourished. Just down the dozen or so alleyways that lined Main Street, business deals took place in which flesh and drugs of all types and colors were peddled in exchange for a sickly green currency. 

At the intersection of North 8th Street and Main, a set of conjoined apartment buildings sat in stoic view of the hedonistic dance. The first building towered several stories above the second, creating a dark corner where a lone man stood statuesque, surveying the spectacle.

Joshua Stewart often came up to his gargoyle's perch to ponder. From there, he could view the world under a microscope. He thought to himself that this one little city authentically represented the state of all mankind: people cycling through a line over and over again, endlessly grasping for a thrill to fully satisfy. This had been the grail coveted by man for millennia, but Josh knew that it could not be found in the narcissistic parade below. 

I'm a hypocrite though, aren't I? he thought.

Josh let out a sigh of grief, conceding that he too had spent his share of time in the parade. But now he saw it from above, and the point of view changed everything. It wasn't just here, though. He knew this was only one manifestation of an insidious worldwide plague of vanity. He knew that no self-glorification could fill the void in any man’s soul. He knew that now, anyway.

Josh then caught sight of a young boy carrying a skateboard and shouting obscenities to his friend across the street. Idly swearing to one another in a degrading wallow they didn't even realize, the two exhibited the nature they were born with: the inclination for sin. Josh's heart ached over their condition. He hoped that they might consider the view of their deeds from above. He wondered if the streetlights might be veiling him from the view of people below. But then, his heart sank again.

No one ever looks up.

Diagonally from Josh’s perch, at the intersection of South 8th and Main, a group of young ladies leaned single file against the brick wall of a closed thrift shop. Partly concealed by the shadows of the alleyway, the girls were arrayed in fine display, as lovely as merchandise in a store window. Each prospective buyer was required to approach from the south end of the street, pull up to the curb, and motion to whichever girl he wanted. The cycle would continue in slick mechanical fashion, with girls being picked up and dropped off every few minutes until long after midnight. 

The income was staggering. Depending on the tricks, a girl could make between $100 and $1,000 per hour. But she would not be able to keep the money. She was only a single associate in the employ of a master businessman. 

Standing under a broken street light on the opposite side of South 8th Street, a dark figure watched his empire thrive. His real name was known by few, but all who knew him addressed him as Cain. He remained as calm and vigilant as a trap-door spider, eying a smorgasbord of prey all around. Only the faint flicker of Cain’s cigarette would give away his position each time he took a drag. His face was dimly illuminated with each pulse of light, revealing the countenance of one who held confidence and strategy in a carefully-calculated balance. His entire form seemed to exude a tangible shadow. His jet-black hair was rivaled only by his abysmal eyes, which were arguably black themselves. With just a hint of facial growth, a canvass of tight skin blanketed his strikingly-handsome features.

Cain inhaled another drag from his cigarette as he watched across the street, considering the flesh of a new girl: a tall black paragon with regal features and visibly-tight muscle tone. She met the gaze of each potential customer with a ferocious eye, communicating an aggressive intention to fulfill her function.

A tiger in a cage, Cain thought aloud, exhaling smoke through his nostrils, "my cage."

Cain was the unrivaled prince of the streets. Although many other privateers peddled in the same goods as he, a mighty share of all profits was required to find its way into his pockets. Any opposition would be met with a retribution that no one in Dominion dared provoke. Cain’s employees were well-protected and well-rewarded, mostly  in the form of various and sundry designer chemicals. The only price was slavery in exchange for freedom–the freedom to serve one's lusts without remorse or boundaries. Vanity was an abundant character trait in this dazzling world, and it had garnered Cain a virtual army of runaways and dropouts, all willing to die for the chance to feel alive.

Cain’s eyes wandered over the rest of his lucrative stock until they came to rest on the girl standing at the very end of the street, almost in view of the pedestrians around the corner. He puffed his cigarette again as he considered his true prize. 

Gracie’s slender frame was leaned against the wall with a provocative twist in the midsection. Her left knee was bent, the sole of her weathered tennis shoe resting flat against the bricks. Her right arm was placed squarely between the wall and the middle of her back. In her left hand, a cigarette sent faint wisps of smoke up and over her knuckles. She found the warmth somewhat soothing, but her mind only half-registered the sensation. Her head was cocked at an angle, and her blue-gray eyes stared vacantly into the mesmerizing torrent of headlights in the street. Her blonde hair was kept in a tight ponytail, which doubled as a cushion for her head against the coarse bricks.

The other girls were dressed to blatantly advertise the merchandise they had for sale, but Gracie's own attire was quite modest by anyone’s standards. She wore a white tank top, a denim jacket, and gray sweatpants. She adorned herself with no makeup or jewelry. At a glance, one might expect that such a halfhearted approach to a harlot’s appearance would only yield like returns, but she held a customer base as steady as any other girl in town. Hers was a specialized service for a select clientele. 

As he watched Gracie, Cain's lips curled into a satisfied grin. She was his favorite trophy.

A man in his late-twenties pulled up to the curb in a silver Mustang and rolled down his window. Hey, Spunky, he said, motioning for a particular young brunette to come near.

Hey there, Teddy Bear, Spunky said, leaning into the open window. What can I do for you tonight?

He shrugged. I’m in the mood for something different.

Oh? she asked, feigning intrigue. What’d you have in mind?

Something along the lines of a . . . double, maybe? What do you think?

The brunette smiled seductively. Well, I think we could arrange that. But, you know, when attendance goes up, so does the price.

The man was elated. Have no fear, baby. Powerball was good to me this week.

Oh, now that’s what I love–a man who comes prepared. She giggled a little. Who else did you have in mind?

The man looked to the row of girls behind Spunky. He smiled and eagerly motioned to Gracie. How about that quiet little thing on the end there?

Her? Spunky jeered. Oh, baby, she’s bad for your health.

Gracie heard the conversation, but didn't turn to acknowledge it. She only blinked lazily as she puffed on her cigarette. Her gaze was directed into the strip, but with no point of focus. 

Seriously? Teddy asked.

Definitely, Spunky concluded.

The new girl approached boldly, bending down to make direct eye contact with the client. You want something different? I’ll show you sights you never dreamed of.

Teddy nodded. There must be something very special about you.

She smiled a little in return. Let me put it this way: my tongue is quick, and I don’t mean I’m witty.

Teddy's smile widened. Something tells me I should believe you.

She nodded. Trust me, baby. We’ll take good care of you.

You’ve got me convinced, he concluded. Hop in, ladies.

The girls filed in, and the deal was settled. With his rented merchandise in tow, the man steered his car back into traffic.

After watching the car exit the alleyway, Gracie caught sight of something unusual across the intersection: a person walking with steady intention, as if anxious to leave the public street. 

The svelte woman wore a dark overcoat that mostly concealed her white nurse's uniform. She had fair skin, and her black hair was tied up in a French braid. As the woman approached the intersection, she was forced to allow traffic to exit North 8th Street before crossing. While waiting, she looked to her left and noticed Gracie watching her. The nurse initially returned her gaze forward, signaling that her eye contact was accidental. 

Gracie only continued to stare her down. 

Instinctively, the nurse looked briefly to the left again. She was uneasy to find Gracie still eying her.

Neither person knew the other, but when their eyes connected, each felt a distinct sense of opposition, as if their very existences were at odds with one another. 

The nurse saw Gracie as something alien–a creature she did not understand. She feared Gracie. 

Gracie felt an unquestionable disdain for the nurse, but was unsure what it could be that she found so reviling. Gracie examined her from head to toe, and then settled on it. When making eye contact with the nurse again, Gracie blew smoke from her mouth with a look of bitter hatred for the cleanliness that the woman exuded.

The nurse was becoming frightened now, and she returned her gaze forward. Relieved to see that her chance to walk had come, she hurried across the intersection with a brisk stride, looking neither right nor left. 

Gracie's eyes fell downward, and she sighed. She then heard a car horn beeping musically behind her. 

Hey, Gracie, you’re date’s here! one of the girls taunted, eliciting a chorus of cutting laughter from the others.

Gracie turned to see one of her familiar patrons, an elderly man in a weathered Buick Electra, pulling up to the curb. His type seemed to be her only clientele anymore, primarily because theirs was the only age range sufficient to disregard the health risk that sex with her entailed.

As Gracie walked toward the vehicle, she flipped her cigarette away with her middle finger, intentionally leaving it in the air as she passed by the girl who had chided her.

Hey, handsome, Gracie said, leaning into the window. She noticed that the old man's fly was unzipped, but she couldn't be sure if it was done in anticipation or sheer oversight.

Hello, darling, the old man said, handing her a bouquet of already-wilting roses.

Gracie noticed an orange clearance sticker on the side of the paper wrapping. Well, aren't you sweet?

Just a rose by another name, the old man said.

What's this for? she asked.

You deserve it, he began, having rehearsed on the drive over. You're a fine, fair maiden, and you've touched me in a way like no other.

I think you mean a place like no other, Gracie said, motioning to his lap. But thanks for the gesture.

The old man shrugged as Gracie opened the door and sat down in the car. 

No further discussion was necessary. This was Gracie’s function. This was her livelihood.

Smoke billowed steadily from Cain’s lips while he watched the old car pull away with Gracie inside. Between the prostitution and the drugs being peddled, he knew this would be a very profitable night.

From his perch high above, Josh continued to watch the city beneath him. His heart was low. He ached for something.

Josh then scanned the night sky. I know You've forgiven me, but when will You give me a purpose?

The heavens remained silent.

Josh sighed. He knew that an unanswered prayer was an answer in itself. Maybe tomorrow, he concluded. Downhearted, he turned away. It was getting late, and he had to work the next day.

4 – FOOLS DESPISE WISDOM

(Proverbs 1:7)

Hey, guys, Josh said, swinging open the single glass door of the pharmacy. Smiles and polite greetings sounded from the two ladies counting pills at the front counter when he entered.

Hey, cuz, the pharmacist said. 

What’s happening, Ian?

Another day in paradise, Ian replied.

Although Stewart’s Pharmacy was technically owned by Josh’s father, his cousin Ian had managed the business since it opened almost a decade before. After Ian graduated from pharmacy school, his uncle had purchased this small corner of the local grocery store to wall off and establish a new business in. With cramped quarters and substandard facilities, Ian had managed to build a firm customer base through sincere care and service. He spent much of his time counseling patients on how to reverse their fleshly ailments through lifestyle changes. Despite his counter-intuitive approach to business, people returned to Ian on