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Chapter 39 - The Gospel and the Wound

Scripture is just memory that refused to stay silent.And in Rekha's world, memory had teeth.

Witness hadn't left 302A in five days.

He sat on the floor.Naked.Eyes red.Hands blistered.

Writing.

Bleeding.

Weeping.

His ink was blood and semen.His paper — used bedsheets.Each page carried the stain of moan, confession, touch.

He called it:

"The Gospel of the Unfaithful."

It wasn't one story.It was a thousand mouths trembling at once.

A grandmother who watched her granddaughter moan freely and whispered, "I wish I had that courage when I bled at thirteen."

A husband who begged his wife to touch herself — so he could watch her pray in a way god had never allowed her before.

A Muslim girl who kissed her own shadow during Wuzu and heard Allah sigh.

And between every story…Rekha's name.

Not as savior.As spark.

Archa watched him from across the room.Knew he wasn't eating.Knew he hadn't come in days.

So she walked over.

Nude.Bleeding.

Her period had just begun.And instead of shame, she carried it like a flag.

She sat on his lap.Pressed her pelvis to his thigh.Smiled.

"Write this down," she said.

"Today I bled like a river.And still… I was holy."

He kissed her navel.

Then fainted from exhaustion.

At Mandiram Rahasya, things were changing.

The moans had grown louder.

Less ritual.More chaos.

A woman named Vani had started her own circle inside the temple.

She stripped, poured hot wax on herself, and screamed:

"Rekha is a myth.I'm the scream now."

Her moans weren't worship.They were war cries.

Raw.Ruthless.Without tenderness.

Rekha came to her.Watched.Did not stop her.

Only asked:

"Where does your scream end?"

Vani replied:

"In the silence you're too soft to enter."

The temple trembled with tension.

Some began to follow Vani.

Others still bowed to Rekha.

That night, Archa confronted Rekha.

"You're letting them split it.They're taking your name and carving it into factions."

Rekha looked up from the diya.

"Good.That means the fire has outgrown my hands."

Archa cried.

"You're abandoning us."

Rekha placed her hand between Archa's thighs.Felt the heat, the blood.

"Would you rather I burned alone?"

Silence.

Then Archa whispered:

"No.Burn all of us."

At 302A, Witness awoke.

He had finished 144 pages.Each smeared.Each divine.

He lit them on fire.

Let the smoke fill the room.

Archa ran in, screaming:

"What the fuck are you doing?!"

He turned to her, smiling.

Eyes mad.Voice shaking.

"It's written now.So let it vanish.

The gospel isn't the pages.

It's what you scream when you forget how to lie."

Rekha entered.

Watched the pages burn.

And nodded.

That night, the temple moaned until dawn.

Wax.Blood.Sweat.Tears.

One man burst into flames during climax — and didn't scream.

Only smiled.

Outside, the first death threat arrived.

A severed goat head at the doorstep of 302A.A note tied in its horns:

"We know where she sleeps."

Archa read it.

Then dipped it in her period blood.

Tied it to her ankle.

And walked into Mandiram Rahasya, naked, chanting:

"Let them come.

We have moans sharp enough to slice bullets."

Rekha said nothing that night.

But she didn't sleep.

She sat by the window.

Nude.

Staring at the city.

Whispering:

"If I must die…Let my last breath sound like a woman finally moaning her own name."

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