Restoration, Book Four: "The Book Of The Dead"

By Bayla Dornon

Book Four in the RESTORATION series finds our three heroes in wildly different place. Chris has begun to carry the messages of RESTORATION to the younger generation through socially disruptive vlogs. Mary pursues her calling to help women overcome patriarchal barriers by creating and managing a day-care center for working poor mothers. And George, narrowly rescued from not one but two gold-digging blondes, must now do all in his power to protect his aunt from a man who seems to be a complete gigolo. Set against the backdrop of the decaying American empire, this series of novels details the efforts of young people to escape from the patriarchal shackles of their various religion-dominated families. Reprogramming their minds is only the first step in RESTORATION, and eventually they must resume the journeys that were interrupted, finding careers, love, and heartbreak.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bayla Dornon
• Release date: Jul 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005193393

Bayla Dornon

Bayla Dornon’s first book is “Gay Testaments, Old & New” an edited compilation of texts from both famous and obscure literature that paint a vivid and exciting portrait of men loving men.In 2020 and 2021, Dornon published the four-book RESTORATION series, the story of twenty-year old Chris Brenner, a gay man fleeing from his ultra-religious parents and their efforts to 'torture him straight' through religious conversion therapy. Escaping to the Center in San Francisco, Chris meets and befriends fellow initiates George and Mary — and falls head over heels in love with Tom Griffin, a charismatic Priest at the San Francisco Center for Restoration. The four novels follow these young adults as they struggle for independence and restoration from indoctrination and abuses of religious and patriarchal families and society.In 2022, Dornon has released the new series of “Jake Bennett Adventures”, the stories of sexy bisexual rookie LA cop Jake Bennett, trying desperately to make his way in the asphalt jungle of Los Angeles.Married to one man since late 1988, Bayla Dornon is an author, critic, playwright, former teacher, silly pagan, photographer, cat-lover and videographer. A third generation Californian, Dornon and his husband recently escaped the absurd desert of San Diego and now live happily ever after in Seattle.

Book preview

…and then what?

That’s the phrase that seems to come at the end of a long story. In the olden days, when novels such as this were offered in serial form, the author would usually end each segment with a ‘cliff hanger’, a phrase that made its way into the mainstream in the days of radio and movie serials. Tune in next week for the exciting conclusion…

But a published novel is different than a story published in installments: the book is finite, and has an end. A series of novels must end too, even if it’s only mandated by the death of the author, in some cases. I believe many novelists struggle, some more successfully than others, to wrap it all up at the end. Perhaps it's inevitable and natural, but we seem to judge a novel by its ending.

I remember the profound sense of loss combined with satisfaction that I felt when I finished The Lord of the Rings for the very first time, in 1972, in case you were wondering. As Sam returns for the very last time from his great adventure with Gandalf and Frodo and the rest, he opens the door to his home and family with the iconic statement, Well, I’m back.

I remember at that moment, as I read the words The End, thinking that I was back, too—back in my boring, humdrum, non-magical world on a farm in San Luis Rey. The end of that book was the beginning for me of a life-long ache to somehow always be reading more new work by Professor Tolkien. But it's not to be: he's died and gone out of the world, and now his son is gone too, and the work he left behind, which Christopher carried on, is finally complete. There will be no new books.

Graduating from counseling was a similar process in many ways to finishing the grand series of Middle Earth literary works. The painful and magical journey of discovery and healing, not to mention the extraordinary relationship with my counselor, who endured the epic struggle with me, came both suddenly and slowly to an end. I moved on: changed, healed, reformed, and restored.

It is that process of restoration that I most wanted to explore as I began writing what would eventually become this series. Many people endure traumas in the course of their lives; some of us are able to move past, while others succumb. I endured a few traumas before I was twenty which required counseling. What I discovered as I healed was that I was not returned to the person I was before my struggles: I was restored to health and well-being as the man I have become. I like to compare the process of restoration to that of losing a limb: it doesn’t ever grow back, but you might be able to get a replacement. And in time, it's almost the same.

If anyone out there is reading this, you have my husband to thank, in case you find my work to be complete here. He pressed me and argued for more of the story at many points, asking for clarification of points and events I already thought were clear. He demanded more resolution, instead of relying, as I tend to do, on the reader's ability to follow the trail of my chain of events beyond the plots I've worked out, to know, somehow, what will happen to them after.

…and then what?

One theme I tried to tackle in this series is the state of our pluralist society in the post-social-media age. America has managed, as of the writing of this introduction, to repulse the efforts of the failed Republican President to have himself installed as emperor for life. So far, so good.

Sadly, his legacy on the Supreme Court will endure for years. We are watching the constant erosion of the wall between church and state, as his puppets chip away at it with almost every decision, deciding that religious zealotry somehow confers special and pre-eminent rights over our enumerated civil rights, and that women do not have the right to control their own bodies. The highest court is industriously rewarding Republican efforts to prevent as many Democrats from voting as possible.

Our planet's delicate natural ecological balance is apparently gone forever, and every season careens farther from the normal and healthy fluctuations we've enjoyed throughout the majority of humanity's time on earth. Droughts and famine, unbearable living conditions, and ruin now await us and whatever next generation we're stupid enough to produce.

On the social justice frontier, as I describe it in this book, real progress has been achieved. At last, one of the many murderous white cops was charged, stood trial, and was found guilty of his obvious murder of a Black man, and that is a cause for rejoicing. But in response, the forces that support white supremacy have launched all-out war against any sort of educational effort regarding the painful and hideously obvious racism of America's past and present. 'Communism' and 'homosexuals' have given way to 'critical race theory' as the new boogeyman.

Is America doomed? I don't know. I do know that I will leave this country the moment I am able to, and never return.

Once, long ago, when my husband and I were discussing the death of old religions, he casually asked me if I ever thought Christianity would ever disappear. Without thinking, I answered, You'd have to get rid of money. I've thought about that for the past thirty years, and will offer just this one little observation on this topic: Star Trek's utopian Federation future eliminated both money and religion. Discuss.

Steven Pinker argues in Enlightenment Now that humanism and non-religious logic and reason have produced astonishing amounts of progress since the end of World War II, and I can't argue with his claims. He points to the end of international war, the eradications of diseases left and right, the constantly increasing standards of living and life expectancy around the globe. I know that those things are true. I also know that the darkness emanating from our western religions threatens to destroy all of that. And that is why, more than ever before, RESTORATION is essential.

…and then what?

First, we restore ourselves—and then we get to work!

Béla Dornon

July 2021, San Diego, California

If faith cannot be reconciled with rational thinking, it has to be eliminated as an anachronistic remnant of earlier stages of culture and replaced by science dealing with facts and theories which are intelligible and can be validated.

― Erich Fromm, Man for Himself: An Inquiry into the Psychology of Ethics (1966)

I put all my genius into my life; I put only my talent into my works.

—Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)

Synopsis of RESTORATION

Book One

Part One: The Only True Religion

It’s early December of 2019, and twenty-year old Chris Brenner has arrived on the streets of San Francisco with no phone and almost five dollars to his name. Unwashed and desperate, he searches for the Center for Restoration, a humanist philanthropic foundation dedicated to helping the victims of religious and patriarchal abuse. His luck finally takes a turn for the better when he meets the tall charismatic Restoration Priest Tom Griffin in a Starbucks. Tom takes Chris home with him, they make passionate love, and the next morning Tom brings the young man to the Center.

New members at Restoration must complete a two-week Probation, along with drug and disease screenings and daily group counseling. Also in Probation at the Center is a young man from Manhattan who gives his name as George, and a twenty-one-year-old woman named Mary, who has sought the Center because her home life had devolved into physical abuse.

The three Probationers quickly bond over the course of their two-week Probation, and at the end, all three are admitted as Initiates into the Center, a position which includes living quarters, a stipend, and a three-year course of study.

It also includes the right to participate in the free and open sexual life of the other members of the Center, which is largely what Chris and George had been seeking.

At the end of their Probation, Tom takes the three young people out for a night on the town in San Francisco; but later, Mary’s father, who has tracked her to the Center, attacks and severely injures Tom, thinking Tom had been sleeping with his daughter.

Part Two: Liberation

After weeks in a coma, Tom reawakens, and finds that Chris has faithfully waited for him, remaining by his side through the ordeal.

All three of the young Initiates continue their studies of the humanist writings and secular philosophies that have liberated the members of the Center, though family drama consumes their free time to such an extent that more than once each considers dropping out of the Initiate program.

Meanwhile, the rapidly rising national tide of intolerance for sexual and racial minorities, promoted and inflamed by Donald Trump, has come to The City, and a growing threat of violence looms over the Center. Beset by a crusading reporter printing lies and half-truths, the Center seems surrounded by enemies, and is saved in their hour of need through the unexpected intervention of leather-clad vigilantes. Following the release of tension, members of the Center are glad to make a trip to Los Angeles to participate in a biannual conference for Restoration, and the trip cements Chris’s dedication and devotion to Tom and the Center.

With spring just around the corner, Chris and Tom decide to look for a place to live together. But as they are apartment hunting, a terrible auto accident occurs, killing Tom and leaving Chris badly injured.

Book Two: Autrefois

Devastated by the death of his boyfriend, Tom, Chris Brenner slowly fights his way back to mental and physical health. The surviving Priests of the Center for Restoration rally around the young Initiate, providing him with emotional support and much-needed counseling. In the course of emptying Tom’s apartment, Janie and Lulu discover ten years’ worth of journals, and make the decision to give these to Chris, who begins reading them and quickly becomes obsessed with them.

Mary Torres, slowly recovering from the trauma of her father’s abusive violence toward her and her mother, falls back into Instagram addiction. The catalysts for her relapse is a mysterious young hottie, known to her only as Angel, with whom she develops a progressively more and more unhealthy sexual relationship. Throughout the affair, she maintains her online college course work. When Mary’s sister asks her to come to New York and help with the imminent arrival of her first child, Mary agrees, and arrives , taking time off from the Initiate program.

George Goldbaum unexpectedly reignites his old relationship with his first flame, Sarah Stern; but, when alerted to the precarious state of his aunt’s health, George returns to Manhattan and quickly agrees to take over the day-to-day running of the Stein family’s luxury shoe and accessory business. This means that he has effectively left the Initiate program at Restoration, though he remains in contact with both of his friends, Mary and Chris, offering his home as they journey to New York on errands of their own.

Chris’s errand involved the sudden re-emergence of Tom Griffin’s long-divorced wife, who reveals that after their divorce, she had Tom’s daughter. Now she wishes to be compensate for unpaid alimony, which leads to a deal in which Chris returns with the ten-year old girl to San Francisco.

In the course of his recovery from Tom’s death, Chris realizes that he is constantly grieving by staying at the Center in San Francisco, and he decides to try moving to the Center in Manhattan, hoping that a new environment and new people might help to speed the healing process. Book Two ends as Chris leaves for New York, finishing the last of Tom’s journals on the plane.

Book Three: The Masters

Arriving in New York City, Chris is determined to leave the sorrow of the past behind, and press on with his work at the Center for Restoration. The letter he delivers for his friend and mentor, Lucille, introduces Chris to Julia and Theresa, two retired members of the organization who take the young Initiate under their wings and begin to work with him, guinding him to a new career of service to the Center.

Meanwhile, George is also in New York, having discovered that his aunt Miriam is steadily declining. A radical heart surgery can save her; and so, George assumes control of the family business, juggling his studies at Columbia University with the demands of running a multi-million dollar luxury goods business. The fact that George is also juggling two different blonde women severely complicates and hampers his efforts to steer the Stein Shoes company, resulting in more headaches for the convalescing Miriam. When neither woman is willing to back off, George quickly realizes he's in over his head.

Mary Torres also travels to New York, staying in Brooklyn with her sister, Laurel, who is expecting her first child with her boyfriend Charles. Mary quickly realizes that Laurel has chosen disastrously, and her boyfriend is an abusive, impoverished Trump supporter. After her little niece arrives, Mary returns to the Center in San Francisco, resumes her inline college coursework, and begins counseling with a woman's group. It is there that she makes a breakthrough that impels her to greater and greater progress with her life.

Chris has not been idle during this time: he has added a few more sexual experiences to his resume, and is deeply immersed in intensive courses with the two Masters. He has also made new friends, and begun to develop perspective on his family and his brief relationship with Tom. Even when tragedy strikes again, Chris demonstrates resilience and stability.

With the three friends now going their own ways, Book Three ends with a snow-ball fight in Central Park on the winter solstice, as Theresa Smith dies and Chris begins a new chapter of his life.

Part One

1. Genesis

The Ogdoad of Hermopolis

Within the great and noble city of Hermopolis, it has been told from the most ancient times that the Ogdoad, four goddesses and their spouses, all lived as parts of the great waters that covered the world before creation. The male gods appeared as frogs, while the female goddesses appeared as snakes.

At first, all sang of the great waters, but each pair sang in a different voice: one pair sang ever of the stillness of the water; another of the infinite extent of the water; a third pair sang of the darkness that dwelt ever deep within the water; and the last pair sang ever of the unknowable mystery of the great water.

As time went on, the eight began to sing together, and their mighty song grew so loud and wonderful that the force of it thrust a vast pyramid-shaped mound out of the water; and before their glorious song ended, the holy sun, great Ra himself, rose from the mound, bringing all life to the new-born land.

I.

George woke to the sound of an urgent beeping, and for a second he lay still in his bed, trying to identify the troubling sound. When he realized that it wasn’t coming from his TV, his gaming console, his laptop computer, or his cell phone, he leaped out of bed in his tank top and saggy old tighty whities. A red light on the house phone was blinking rapidly in the darkness before dawn. George grabbed the handset and pressed it to his ear.

Sir, I am very sorry to disturb— began Banks.

Is it a fire? croaked George, adrenalin kicking in and making his voice husky and light.

No, sir, I believe it’s an intruder, clarified the butler. And, given madam’s heart condition, I was loathe to ring her in the middle of the night.

Of course, Banks. George’s mind raced. Where is he?

I heard footsteps, sir, in the downstairs living room, above my quarters. I came upstairs to see if it was madam or yourself, but I couldn’t find anyone.

George was disconnecting his cell from its charger. I’m calling the police, Banks, then I’ll go to Aunt Miriam’s room. Sit tight.

Thank you, sir, intoned the ancient servant.

George slammed the house phone into place and spoke to the nine one one dispatch, who assured him that a patrol car was en route. George quickly climbed into a pair of jeans and a light sweater against the possible cold outside, pocketed the cell phone as he stepped into his top-siders, and trotted down the stairs to his maternal aunt’s rooms on the second floor. Her sitting room curtains had not been drawn completely shut; the new maid was careless and sloppy. In the east, a dull amber flush indicated dawn was not far away. George loved the elegant and expensive furnishings of the second floor sitting room, but now he hurried past them, leaving them unappreciated, to knock softly on his aunt’s partially open door. He heard movement within, and then a light went on. George hastened to Miriam’s bed, calling her name as he came.

Gideon? What is it, what’s wrong?

I’ve called the police, they’re on their way. Banks thinks there’s an intruder.

Miriam Stein Mendelbaum flung back the covers and swung her legs out of the bed, her toes searching for her slippers.

Please, Aunt Miriam, George pleaded. Please stay here while I meet the police.

No, Gideon, she said, her voice strong and clear. We’ll go together.

And with that, she was into her slippers, reaching for her robe, and wrapping it around her as George helped her with the sleeves. Together they padded cautiously down the ornate stairs into the living room, and proceeded to the front entrance, turning on lights as they went. George whispered details of Banks’s report as they moved carefully.

A searchlight picked out the front window of the Stein home, and Miriam sat down lightly in a wing back chair by the cold fireplace as George went to the front door. Within minutes, he was escorting a pair of uniforms from the twentieth precinct through the house, then quickly returned to his aunt to report.

The back door was open, he murmured. There was a small black bag inside the door with some of the more expensive nick knacks and one of the crystal clocks. The snow’s gone, so there are no footprints. The two cops are searching and talking to Banks.

Miriam nodded silently. For a moment she looked around her beautiful home, the home he grandfather had purchased for her grandmother, filled with the history and mementoes of the Stein tribe, each speaking eloquently of wealth and taste. Her eyes met George’s, and together they shared an expression of fear mingled with growing anger.

Miriam patted George’s hand.

We’re going to do something about this, Gideon she promised.

George nodded weakly. It was less than a week since his first semester at Columbia had ended so disastrously, and the memory of his poor grades was still sharp and unpleasant. Equally uncomfortable was the scene with Jennifer Johnson, the day he told her in a café she wouldn’t be able to marry him and convert him to Christianity, as she’d planned. George was haunted by the fury in her pretty face, and the guilt he felt for leading her on, though not deliberately, stabbed at his stomach and made sweat pop out in his armpits every time he thought of her.

Equally bitter were his last memories of his other big fling last fall, with Sarah Stern. The last time he’d seen her, they’d literally fought, and he had been excited and sickened by the physical violence of that encounter. George rubbed the little scar on his lip where she had punched him hard in the mouth.

And then she just vanished, no texts, no calls, no visits, nothing. I should probably try to find out if she’s even still alive. What if she’s dead? What if I had sex with a woman who’s dead?

Gideon?

George snapped back to the present, feeling less than his usual annoyance when his aunt used his real name.

Yes?

The police need you, she said. I am going up to my room. Miriam got to her feet, steadily but slowly.

I can handle this, George reassured her.

Good. I would like you to come with me to temple tomorrow.

Unseen, George nodded, then focused on the police officers, who were explaining that they had finished their search of the residence, and produced a large sealed clear plastic envelope containing the black bag and the purloined items. They would return these promptly, they assured George, as soon as they had been photographed and dusted for fingerprints and other evidence.

One of them, a burly six-foot cop with a receding hairline and intimidating muscles, gave George his card and ordered the young man to call if they found anything else missing or disturbed.

George walked the officers out the front door, then trotted to his room, stopping to see if his aunt was around in her sitting room, before flinging off his clothes and taking a long hot shower. When he got out, he saw a notification on his phone: it was a reminder that today, Christmas Eve, he was meeting Jennifer to give her his answer about baptism and marriage. He had forgotten to delete this from his calendar when they broke up, and the sight of it sent George Goldbaum into a funk.

The Obelisk of Atum of Heliopolis

Since the first day, all Egyptians have been told how Atum, the shadow-soul of the sun god Ra, existed forever, quiescent and still, within the eternal waters of chaos. One day he stood upon the new mound rising out of the sea; taking his penis in his hand, he pleasured himself mightily; and in the end brought forth Shu and Tefnut, a brother and sister pair of gods. They in turn coupled and produced Geb and Nut, the gods of earth and sky, and together they defined the limits of the world.

Pleased with the progress of creation, Geb and Nut bore four children: Osiris, god of fertility and regeneration; Isis, goddess of motherhood; Set, the right hand of chaos; and Nephthet, the left hand of chaos.

From these nine immortal beings arose everything that is in heaven, on earth, or in the underworld.

II.

Chris scratched behind Sampson’s left ear where the monster cat liked it best, his head tilted, eyes slits, ears askew, purring wildly.

Does this mean you’re sorry for shedding all over my best shirt, you rotten pussy? Chris interrogated fondly. You’re too heavy, you fat beast, Chris complained.

The cat’s huge front paws, carefully placed in the maximum heat zone of the young man’s solar plexus, were beginning to hurt. The Initiate pushed the animal away and slid naked out of the Master’s double bed. The cold wooden floor shocked his feet with sudden hard chills, and Chris hopped on one foot and then the other looking for his socks. These he pulled onto his feet, vaguely repulsed by the collection of cat hair sticking to them. Sampson gave a tenor yowl of impatience and leaped off the bed onto the floor with a muffled thud. Together cat and man walked slowly into the kitchen to see about breakfast and other vital matters.

It’s so weird waking up in someone else’s apartment, Chris thought to himself. Aside from sleepover at Tom’s, I’ve been at the Center for most of the past year.

And this part of the city is really noisy, he added sourly.

When Theresa died, Julia had arranged for several Initiates from the Center to come by and feed Sampson, but that was only a short-term solution. So she had asked Chris to move in temporarily. A week ago, Julia and May had removed all of Theresa Smith’s clothing and other personal items, distributing them according to her wishes at thrift stores and other charities. The large piles of papers, clippings, articles, photos and other mental detritus they had carefully collected and placed in a large laundry basket on the coffee table in the living room. Sampson had promptly claimed this territory in the name of the feline race, and to prevent unnecessary damage, they had moved the basket to the hall closet. Later this week, Julia would be coming by, and she and Chris would make arrangements for the disposal of the rest of the items in Theresa’s long-term residence, including her wildly eclectic collection of books.

Chris ruffled the beast’s fur on his proud tail as Sampson dove into his breakfast, then the man wandered down the hall to the bathroom to sit and wait for the kettle to boil. Living in the Master’s home, Chris had taken to drinking tea, as Theresa always had during her life. Before the water could whistle, the giant long-haired calico appeared in the bathroom and trotted to the litter box, licking his lips with obvious disdain. As the two used the toilet in tandem, Chris couldn’t help but smile at the collection of character flaws that made up Sampson’s enormous personality. As if sensing the young man’s attention, Sampson looked up and gave a curt meow, then went back to his business.

Soon after, the man got into the shower, and the cat climbed into the living room window observation post to survey his kingdom, which consisted of several treetops containing contemptuously small and obnoxious bird species, a busy street, and occasionally strange creatures who appeared in the windows of the building across east 83rd Street. If the cat really stretched, he could see Madison Avenue, but nothing of the slightest interest ever happened there.

The young man was halfway through his shower before he realized it was Christmas Eve. A memory of his family, their faces shining and excited, flashed before his mind’s eye. Then the critical part of his mind noted that half of his family, his mother and his little sister, were dead and buried; and the other half, his sister and his father, were twenty-five hundred miles away in the East Bay town of San Leandro. For an instant, Chis had the urge to reach out and call them, before remembering the time difference.

Not to mention the fact that we don’t really speak much anymore, he added honestly. But I’ll send my sister a text, he added as he toweled off and climbed out, ignoring the steamy mirror, his hair a wild golden-brown haystack of uncut curly locks.

Chris padded to the bedroom and put on the clothes hanging on the closet door: the shirt Tom had bought him, and the tan pants.

A year ago, Tom was in the hospital fighting for his life after Mary’s father bashed him, Chris thought somberly. Now Tom’s dead, too, and all I have to remind me of him is this ring of his that I wear under my clothes, ten years of journals, and a lot of pictures. And those other computer files, the ones I can’t open…

Chris Brenner headed barefoot back to the kitchen, to make some toast and think about the files from Tom that Lucille had given him, along with the pictures.

I always get the same error message when I click on them: There is no application set to open the document. And there’s no extension on the end of the file names, to give me a clue where I should be looking.

Maybe I could ask Burke for help?

One of the downsides of the Center’s restrictions on screen time was that very few of the members of Restoration had technical skills in the area of data and computers. But last fall, Chris had met and becomes friends with a private eye named Burke, an older man who invited Chris to move in as his kept boy. Chris had briefly considered the idea, since he liked Burke very much, and the thought of security and a home in Manhattan were very alluring. But after talking it over with his straight friend, Sam, Chris realize that the offer was probably for a limited time only, and if it ended, he’d be homeless in the loneliest city on earth.

Still, he and Burke had maintained a very warm and sexy relationship, and Chris felt some hope that Burke could help him open these mysterious files from Tom’s past. Chris found his iPhone and carefully composed a text message. Though Chris himself preferred to call rather than text, Burke never answered his phone, and Chris often found himself leaving goofy or dorky sounding messages.

Now that I have a temporary place of my own, I could ask him to come here, Chris mused. Except that he’s a natural snoop, and he can’t seem to turn it off. I don’t want him browsing around in Theresa’s stuff.

But I could invite Jim over, he suddenly thought, and the happy thought of seeing his hot blond friend caused Chris’s cock to make a quick bounce and thicken.

Down boy, he told himself. Start with an invitation, see if he wants to come. THEN jump his bones.

Happy with his plans for the day, Chris Brenner busied himself around the apartment, doing various little house-keeping chores with a cheerful air and the energy of youth.

Ptah, Creator Of All The World And The Gods

In Memphis, the ancient teachers relate the history of the beginning of the world thus: Ptah was the craftsman god, able to make something from nothing and envision the finished product before he started. Ptah conceived of the waters and the land and the sun in the sky within his mighty heart, and because of the power of his vision, these things came to be. As each idea was formed within his mighty heart, Ptah spoke its name, and it was so. First among all of his creations were the other gods, who took up their governorship of the world and the sky from Ptah himself.

III.

Mary gave the slippery heart plug a quick tug, her finger crooked through the ankh-shaped ring. There was a sickening pop as the cork-like plug broke free of Angel’s frantic heart. Mary brought the plug to her lips and licked the metallic-tasting blood. Angel’s hot dark blood poured forth onto his chest and stomach; Mary’s other hand, pressed against Angel’s heaving chest, receiving a tidal flood of his dark life as she easily and powerfully restrained the naked man’s struggles.

Fondly Mary remembered how much Angel hated getting his own cum on himself, and how much he loved to shoot it on her face, in her hair, on her chest. Now the tables were turned, as Mary stood triumphant above him, her feet lifting off the floor as she began to ascend from the ruined, convulsing earth into the dark and lightning-crested skies waiting above.

Angel spasmed again and again, each time more weakened, mute, incoherent sounds coming from deep in his chest as life erupted from the fatal hole in his chest forever. Within a few minutes, the deadly violence ended, and his draining corpse sank back into the black satin sheets that were somehow also the drapes covering the unreal three meter windows looking out into a hellscape of forest fires and flowing magma. Never looking back, Mary flew unhindered through the yawning windows, her arms straight behind her, eyes blazing like twin fireballs, a wild scream of joy and triumph slicing through the stormy night.

Mary’s body jerked hard left to right, and the shock of the sudden movement woke her instantly. She lay panting in the still darkness, heart racing, a sick feeling in her stomach, savoring the destruction she had so casually wrought on her nemesis in her dream.

If only it were that easy in real life, she thought sardonically to herself, then climbed out of the little bed in her room at the Center, clad only in a T-shirt and running shorts. She tottered unsteadily to the bathroom and splashed some water on her face. The wind stirred the big tree in Lucille’s Garden, the twigs like fingernails scratching at the old windows, the night filled with furtive little noises.

The young woman dressed quickly in the cool night.

I have to stop reading Anne Rice before bed, she thought. It’s been over two months since I last thought about Angel, and I certainly don’t wish he were dead. I do wish I’d never met him, but that’s hardly the same thing. If it weren’t for him, I never would have joined the women’s group, and they’ve changed my life.

Mary Torres seldom bothered to look at Instagram or Facebook these days, apps she’d thought she could never live without just over a year ago, when she first came to Restoration. Now her days were packed with online college classes, hard physical labor at the rental property, and the chores and study she still enjoyed here at the Center. She pulled her hair back into a short pony tail, slid a scrunchy on, and clattered down the old wooden stairs, across the great hall, and into the dining room.

Lucille, dressed in a heavy black sweatshirt and pants with her Priest ring on, was already sipping a cup of her favorite tea, and waved at Mary as she sat down with a cut bagel and a dab of strawberry jam.

Good morning, Mary, said Lucille, and turned the tablet around she’d been writing on, showing Mary the list.

Morning, boss, joked Mary, scanning down the chores Lucille had laid out, neatly sorted into urgent, important, and other. Ready to get to work?

Lucille smiled, and then gave a grimace as she laid her hand on her hip. This cold grey weather makes my hip ache. But at least we don’t get snow.

Mary and Lucille talked over the work to be done today at the Children’s Center, a joint collaboration among four different women at the Center for Restoration in San Francisco. Painting, fixing, planting, and almost all of the other physical preparations were now complete: the team was moving into the outreach phase now. Child care for ten neighborhood preschoolers in the woman-run daycare center would be offered for one month free, starting in six days, on New Year’s Day. This month of free care would give them a chance to work out any kinks or bugs before moving into the self-sustaining pay phase.

Lulu had suggested to Helen and Mary that they consider offering work in the Children’s Center to men also, but both Mary and Helen had negative feelings about the different dynamic that could create. So, the trio had drafted Lucille, the most seasoned and business-savvy of all the various Restoration personnel, to help fill in the blanks where Helen, Lulu and Mary’s knowledge ended. Lucille had said she’d be glad to help with the start up, but that they should find a replacement for her before too long.

Today’s schedule included one heavy chore, the removal of an old bougainvillea, and several office chores, such as folding and stuffing application packets, as well as one artistic endeavor. For this, Helen had conscripted her friend and fellow Priest, Bruce, who’s drawings and paintings had become works of art during his six years at the Center. Mary had been quite impressed with his sketches of the creatures she wanted him to draw and paint on the walls in the day care center.

The place is really shaping up, she thought, and smiled to herself. We can easily get everything ready for New Year’s Day.

It’s all coming true, all of my hopes and dreams.

Suddenly she realized that it was Christmas Eve, and she had not once thought of her parents or her sister all morning. Guilt flamed quickly in her, and died away as quickly as it had come. As the baby of the family, Mary knew it was natural for her to be the peace-maker, a role she had assumed with dedication and seriousness. But in the course of her counseling at the Center for Restoration, both one on one with Jason and in the women’s group, she had come to understand that her efforts to save her family, to protect her mother and sister, and to reform her father were all doomed to fail, simply because they were not interested in changing for the better at this time. Her mother remained trapped in the woman-hating Roman catholic church; her father was still in jail and guilt tripping her mother into giving him conjugal visitations; and her sister Laurel had just had her first child with a total loser who mistreated her, if he wasn’t actually abusing her yet.

Mary trotted back up the noisy stairs to her room, lost in thought.

A year ago I was swearing out a deposition for the DA, all about how my father abused us and attacked Tom Griffin with a baseball bat. I ran away from home, but instead of escaping his violence, I exposed my friends to it.

Though Tom had made a full recovery, guilt had gnawed relentlessly at Mary for months after the brutal gay bashing. Her subsequent recovery from PTSD had ultimately led to a permanent restraining order, issued to protect Mary and her mother from Paul Torres. Her father had violated that order when he got drunk and came after her at her mother’s apartment. Mary had had him arrested and jailed, but it was solely because of his own uncontrollable rage and abusiveness that Paul Torres received the maximum sentence of seven years in prison.

And now it was Christmas Eve again.

I will not reach out to Mom or Laurel, Mary decided. If they contact me,