Immaculate Misconceptions

Chris' face was badly bruised. There was a cut above his right eye that bled and his left eye (on top of the previous swelling) was beginning to swell up again and adorned a dark purple color. His lip was cut and bleeding, and he felt like he couldn't breathe. When the men rushed him, Chris gave his all to fight them off. He kicked, he punched, he scratched, and he bit. But, there were way too many for him to handle and his injuries slowed a lot of his movements. They all looked down at him curled up on the floor, coughing up his own blood as they regained their breath from the previous struggle. The man with the light blue jeans barked something at them that Chris' couldn't understand with his ringing ears but he could feel them dragging him, dirt and pebbles digging into his skin and embedding themselves into the cuts in his skin. They kept him on his back and hands yanked at his shirt. He squirmed, as if it would help but it would seem that he knew it wouldn't. They hooked their fingers into the rips and pulled until the shirt began to tear to pieces that were yanked from his body. He felt exposed and cold... But the words of the priest still rang in his ear. Chris had plenty of tattoos including a full sleeve that started at the top of his arm all the way to his hand and knuckles, his other arm was bare and on any other day he would still be planning tattoos to cover it but the only ink there was on his knuckles. On his shoulder blades he had an unfinished tattoo that just had scripted words and the rest of his chest was clean of ink. He had maybe 3 tattoos on his legs but besides his tattoo count, what did they want with them? What were they gonna do to him because of them?

Chris' hearing was going in and out so he couldn't quite catch what the man instructed next but he felt something cold touch the back of his legs and the vibrations of threads breaking. They were cutting his jeans with a hunting knife to expose his legs and whatever ink he had on them. The pants legs were pulled from his body roughly sending jolts of pain throughout his legs. Now, the jeans only landed mid-thigh and Chris felt naked. They yanked him up like a rag doll and sat him in a chair that was similar to the electric chair when it came to the restraints that adorned it but without them it could pass as your common kitchen chair. As they strapped him down, Chris spat the blood that pooled in his mouth in a random direction and held his head high. Instead of wrapping the chest strap across his chest and upper arms, they looped it under his arms and simply across his chest. The man with the glasses pushed the cart to his left side and grabbed a set of gloves before handing a set to the man with the blue jeans. The priest stood to the far right of Chris with his bible still open, he seemed to be murmuring words more to himself than towards Chris. The man with the blue jeans approached Chris and grasped his chin, lifting Chris' face so he would stare him straight in the eye... Chris spat and man's face grew irritated,
He raised his hand high and slapped Chris hard enough to turn his head sharply, "You will not disrespect me in this house of God. In this house of God, I stand above you and you are nothing but garbage." He wagged a finger at him while wiping his face.
Chris inhaled a shaky breath, "Do those words come from a real man of God or a man who's thoughts are plagued by the fables of other men?" He managed, his voice identical to someone with a severely sore throat.

The man ignored him and waved at the rest of the men who stood scattered. They all scrambled like rodents to line up once again, a couple of feet in front of the chair. The man with the glasses uncovered the container, taking the spatula and mixing the contents. Blue jeans approached him again, this time grasping his ink covered arm and squeezing the skin causing Chris to attempt to jerk away from him.
He continued to inspect his arm, pinching and pulling the flesh, inspecting under his arm as if to check how much skin the tattoos covered. He looked up at Chris with a glare, "You've de-faced a shrine of God." He stated.
Chris scowled, "Let he without sin cast the first stone." He growled, jerking towards the man.
The man stood, as if taken aback by Chris' words. But their intentions didn't seem to falter.
The priest seemed to begin to sing a hymn in a tone that sounded like death to Chris. His tone was low like an organ and drawing out the words painfully.
Blue jeans turned to the group while the priest continued, "Today, we restore this lost house of God in attempt to purify the soul that has been lost."
"Amen." The men chorused in monotone.
Chris pulled himself together, "You are all insane! You damn a society just because their lifestyle isn't ideal to your own. What kind of men are you? I am not the one who 'lost' your children, you are the ones who've pushed them away since the day they were born! I pull them from the darkness of their own minds and offer them the comfort mother and father never gave them. I offer them the understanding that priest and brother never gave them! I offered them a way out of the life you call perfect! How do you expect to live off of lies and survive? You all will crumble under your own weight."
Blue jeans laughed at him causing Chris' blood to boil in his weak state, "You speak so bravely. Yet you've been subdued and beaten. You've been brought down to your knees and are a parasite that has been squashed. You've lost and now we will help you get back on your feet and we will help our children get back on the right path."
"You have no right to call them your children and you have no right to say I am the one who's lost." Chris rasped.
The man slapped him again, "Shut your mouth!" He turned to the man with the glasses and in return the man nodded at him. He spun around, back to Chris and lent on his knees, "Do you know what's in that container Christopher?"
Chris exhaled, never breaking eye contact.
The man turned from him to snap his fingers and Chris watched as one of them broke formation and approached Chris, walking behind him. There seemed to be a pause before something passed Chris' vision and hung by his lips before it was being pressed firmly against them. Chris kept his mouth tightly shut, pressing his lips together as the thick and hard object was attempting to force it's way inside of Chris' mouth. Blue jeans scowled and grabbed Chris' face firmly, forcing his lips to part and the leather strap forced it's way inside.
The man smirked at him, "I rather you not fight this, you're gonna need that."
Chris' nostril's flared in anger as they tightened the gag to his mouth, it cut corners of his lips and sat uncomfortably. For the most part, it kept his mouth open slightly but the taste was bitter mixed with the nickel taste of blood.
The man made a quick movement to the container, pulling the spatula out of the grip of the man with the glasses who only scooted the cart closer to Chris. Blue jeans spoke again, "This, Christopher Cerulli, is going to be the first step of your purification. Together... We shall restore God's canvas."

The man scooped some kind of white, smooth, creamy substance out of the container, scraping the excessive cream on the edge of the container. Then, he started at Chris' hand. He smothered the cream onto the surface of Chris' hand and smoothed it up his arm, he used two fingers to smooth the cream onto his tattoo covered knuckles. He kept smoothing the cream out onto his hand and up his wrist until the spatula was clean of any cream.
He stood, handing the spatula back to the man, "May the eyes of God be watching."

For the longest time, nothing happened. Chris' fingers twitched as he stared long and hard at the man. Then his skin began to itch... He felt like the cream was sizzling. He could hear his heart beat in his ears and took a sharp intake of breath.
The sizzling began to burn and the itching felt worse. Chris jerked his hand in attempt to ease the irritation but suddenly his hand felt like it was on fire as the cream ate through the first layer of his skin.
"HRRG!" His scream was muffled and his nostrils flared as the pain seared through him. The cream began to bubble and almost boil as it ate through his skin and then his flesh. The cream began to turn a pinkish color as it broke through his skins barriers.
Blue jeans stepped back with a smirk and Glasses took the stage, holding the container in one hand and spatula in the other he began to coat Chris' arm until all the skin was covered. His restraints caused his arms to stay at his side so any cream applied under his arms were exposed to his torso. The man worked quickly and Chris began to notice that as the cream touched his skin, it sizzled loudly and began working right away. Chris squirmed and jerked against his restraints, his screams resembling something of a dying animal as he tried to get away. He wanted so badly to jump into a tub of ice, to wash the cream away but he could do nothing as the man began to cover the script on his chest and his other knuckle. Chris' eyes welled up with tears as he moaned and screamed at the burning. The sizzling and the smell was so disturbing... but no one moved nor revealed the unsettling feeling in their stomach as they watched Chris' flesh burn away and the priest continued to sing.

Glasses bent down and inspected Chris' legs for a moment, pinpointing the tattoos before working quickly, covering the tatts with thick globs of cream and smearing it until the tattoo was covered. The container was just about empty as he stepped away from Chris, nodding at his work.
Chris bit down hard on the leather strap as he pulled against the seat. His fingers were twitching and his toes curled in pain, there were tears coating his face. He just wanted it to stop... It burned, it hurt, it felt like knives slicing through his skin.
Chris continued to scream.

~~

The boys wanted to return to New York as soon as possible. To be so far away from a state that Chris was somewhere in troubled them. Most of them felt like they had abandoned their front man in a way... But they all knew that they were doing what was best for Chris by continuing tour. All of that changed now as they learned that Chris wouldn't need a lawyer. Chris wasn't even in jail. Somewhere out there in New York, Chris was taken. Kidnapped.
Who knows what those 2 cops were doing to him... Did they hurt him?
It's been nearly five days, was Chris even alive?
No one asked these questions... No one knew the answer but neither did they want to know.
Greg, the tour manager, pushed the group to continue the tour since it would make no sense for Motionless in White to just cut the tour short for a trip to New York when their fans were fully convinced of Chris' safety.

Most of the group felt the most sorrow for Chris' parents who had to be informed... and the police made it clear that everyone was a subject. Their focus was on Kuza. No one had any idea why, seeing that Kuza wasn't even present at the New York show and it was obvious that the religious mob should be the ones under inspection. But it didn't look good on Kuza's part that the front man of Motionless in White would go missing and he would be in the spotlight.
They interviewed all members and all staff, even ex girlfriends. Police were assigned to travel with the band for the remainder of the tour. Not only for their safety in case another member were to be taken, but to keep an eye on all of them.
They were disgusted by the idea someone thought they had something to do with this.

Right now, Devin rubbed Ricky's back as he buried his face in his hands and sobbed. Their was so much stress within the group that it seemed like everyday a different member was crying. Some in secrecy, some while they were drunk, and some when they just couldn't hold it in anymore.
Kuza kept himself locked in the bunks and their stomachs churned every time they stood on a new stage with smiles planted on their faces. Meet and Greets were especially awkward, none of them wanted to conversate but it seemed rude and impossible to escape when it came to fans. Kuza was quiet during Meet and Greets whenever he attended them with large glasses on his face but at times it was an easy escape since the band could easily say that "Chris" was feeling sick. He'd always been feeling sick.

"Did they call?" Ryan twirled the neck of a beer bottle between his fingers as he wobbled into the front of the bus. That was another thing, the amount of drinking within the bus before and after shows was escalating.
Greg gave Ryan a weary smile, "No... not yet."
He downed whatever was left in the bottle and threw it in the bin before grabbing a can of bud.
Ricky lit another cigarette... even if he just finished his third one.

They were all waiting for the call that would tell them they had a lead.
They were all waiting for the call that would tell them that Chris was dead.