Chapter 14
fourteen
Avonna
One Month Later
I’m not supposed to be here.
This thought follows me everywhere. All the time. Every minute.
Clings like the grease film on my diner apron.
Lingers like the Lysol stench in the communal shower.
It’s embedded in my bones when I scour mildew from strangers’ baseboards on a cleaning job.
The air in my lungs when I call three hundred numbers a night to sell some insurance policy I’ll never use.
Life on the outside is more grueling than I ever imagined.
I wasn’t raised for this. I was meant to be someone’s wife. A vessel to bear children. A helper. A silent shadow behind a hallowed man.
Instead, I’m in Tacoma with no car, no family, no future. A pay-as-you-go cell phone I don’t know how to use properly, three jobs, and a body I don’t recognize as mine.
I’m not sure how to crawl out of this hole.
It’s difficult to break ingrained patterns. I still fold my clothes like they’ll be inspected. I pray without thinking. Out loud, sometimes. Quiet little words under my breath when the anxiety turns to static. People around me look at me like I’m a ghost.
Maybe I am.
The house I live in is probably not even legal. Me and eleven other women. Six rooms. Bunk beds with scratchy sheets and sparse furnishings. The bathroom doors don’t lock right.
Still nicer than the house I grew up in.
I keep my guitar and other things in a plastic tote under my bed. The same clothes I stole months ago. Plus, a new hoodie from my diner job.
My roommates don’t ask where I’m from. I’m too weird. I don’t smoke. I don’t party. I don’t wear makeup.
I haven’t sung in almost a year. Not since I ran out of places willing to pay me to play. There’s nowhere to sing here anyway. Gigs require a network, transportation, belief in your own worth.
I don’t possess any of those things. Even if I did, I’m scared of what might happen if I let myself feel too much. Music still lives under my skin, but now it terrifies me.
As for the money I do earn, I wear it strapped to my body. I don’t trust banks and there’s no way I’d leave it at home. I’ve nearly saved enough for a decent car. Then I’m leaving Washington. Moving somewhere where I can start fresh. As to where, I haven’t figured it out yet.
In any case, there’s no point in worrying about it now. Moving is months away and my shift at the diner starts at six a.m.
I walk to work in the dark. Forty minutes down back roads, past boarded-up gas stations through rough neighborhoods. I used to keep a rock in my coat pocket. Now I carry a kitchen knife in my boot. I don’t think I’ll need to use it, but it makes me feel less helpless.
The work isn’t bad. I pour coffee. Wipe counters. Memorize breakfast orders and pretend diner’s small talk doesn’t make my stomach tie up in knots. Sometimes they leave good tips. Sometimes they don’t. It all evens out in the end.
The regulars call me “quiet girl” or “baby doll.” I don’t mind the nicknames, sometimes it’s the only part of my day I feel like anyone notices me. My boss and workmates are nice enough, but we’re from different worlds.
Marcy, one of the waitresses, is blonde and sharp and perpetually wears bright-red lipstick. She offered me a vape once, then laughed when I held it like a crucifix.
“You ever think about stripping?” she asked me two days ago while stirring powdered creamer into her coffee like it wasn’t the most jarring sentence I’d heard in my life.
Speechless, all I could manage was to shake my head.
She shrugged. “You’ve got the face and body for it. So much mystery. Your quiet-church-girl thing? Men go wild. You’d make an absolute fortune. Let me know if you change your mind.”
I went home and vomited in the toilet. Then I cried for an hour, curled around the idea of being touched. Watched. Desired. The idea of taking off my clothes in front of strangers made my skin crawl.
Worse, it made something inside me spark. Like a match I was never allowed to strike.
The spark scared me most. Not the disgust.
The curiosity.
Later, I prayed harder than I ever have since leaving.
Cried from shame and confusion. It wasn’t the first time I thought about going back to my old life.
Most nights, I’ve wondered if they’d take me back.
Marriage to Brother Gideon would at least be predictable, if it was still on the table.
Maybe I could repent, do penance, earn back my place.
The truth is, I know what would actually happen.
They’d punish me. Beat me within an inch of my life.
Disfigure me. Probably sterilize me too.
Anything to make me permanently undesirable.
Strip me of any chance at a future. I’d never be allowed to marry.
Never be allowed children. I’d be a cautionary tale brought before the congregation during sermons.
A living, breathing example to keep the rest of the women in line.
There’s no going back and, truthfully, even in the most challenging moments I don’t want to.
I’ve made my bed, so to speak.
For now, I’m suspended. Hollowed out and waiting for my life to begin.
Today, the diner is quiet. A few booths full of truckers scarf down huge breakfasts and a couple old men read actual newspapers. I move through my section without thinking, hands robotic, lips stitched in a polite smile as I refill coffee.
I notice a woman at the far corner booth.
She’s been coming in every morning the past couple of weeks.
Mid-forties, short brown hair streaked with silver.
Wears a thick flannel jacket over a white T-shirt and jeans.
Her eyes track me gently, not in a creepy way.
More like she’s studying something she remembers.
She tips twenty on a six-dollar bill.
When I thank her, she asks, “Could you meet me outside for a moment when your shift’s over?”
Panic flares. My first instinct is to flee. Is she from the compound? I don’t recognize her. Will she try to bring me back?
When I take a breath, something about her kind smile calms me. It’s not threatening. It’s…knowing.
I finish my shift a couple hours later. Clock out. Pull on my hoodie. My hands shake a little when I push the door open and step into the overcast gray. I doubt the woman would wait this long.
Sure enough, though, she’s leaning against a blue sedan. Smiles when she sees me.
“Sorry if this is weird.” She wrinkles her nose. “When I came in a couple weeks ago, something about you brought back some memories for me.”
I nod, unsure how to respond.
“I used to be where you are,” she adds. “Staring into space. Robotic politeness. Deep, bone-chilling terror. I see it in your eyes.”
I glance down at the gravel. This conversation is making me extremely uncomfortable.
“Forgive me for being blunt. Have you escaped from somewhere fundamentally religious?”
I freeze. I don’t recognize the term, but I understand intrinsically what she’s asking.
She whispers, “Yeah. I thought so. Me too.”
A long silence settles. The wind kicks up. I hug my arms around myself.
“You don’t have to say anything, sweetheart.” She crouches down to catch my gaze. “I only want you to know you’re not crazy. You’re not alone. What you’re feeling? The shame. The confusion. The fear. It’s valid. It’ll get better.”
I look up at her, tears sting my eyes.
“I couldn’t live a normal life for years without crying,” she confesses. “I couldn’t date. I felt out of place. Like I was a demon in disguise.”
Tears spill before I can stop them.
She reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out a business card.
“There’s a group here in Tacoma. Therapy for people recovering from purity culture. All of the counselors are survivors themselves. It helped me. Saved me, really.”
I take the card.
Her name is Megan Malloy. She gives me her personal number.
“Please don’t go back.” She takes my hand. “Whatever they told you, shame isn’t salvation. Silence isn’t virtue. You deserve your own voice. Call the number any time, you’re not alone.”
With a quick wave, she gets in her car and drives away.
I stare at the card in my hand until my fingers go numb.
Black ink on soft cream paper. No cross. No scripture. A name, a phone number, and a small, hand-drawn spiral. The walk home feels longer today with the card in my coat pocket. Every few blocks, I touch it again. As if it might vanish if I don’t keep checking.
My mind whirls around the concept of help.
I have no idea what to think.
Back home, help meant confession. Kneeling in the prayer tent for hours. Fasting until the world tilted. Chanting until your soul felt scraped raw.
Help meant silence. Obedience. Suffering. Earned pain was proof you were worthy of salvation.
This? A stranger with caring eyes and a business card? I don’t know how to trust it.
I do know something in my chest is shifting. There’s a stir I don’t understand.
At the house, no one’s around. My bunkmate’s probably still at work. The bathroom’s empty. I lock the door, just in case. Sit on the toilet lid and take out the card again.
I read the name over and over.
Tacoma Healing Collective
Trauma Recovery & Therapy | Sliding Scale
Specialists in Religious Harm & Purity Culture
(253) 555-0012
My thumb rubs the edge until it starts to fray. A year ago, I wouldn’t have dared to think about therapy. But now, I’m already so far from who I was a year ago.
I tap the number into my phone. My finger hovers over the call button.
Then I hit save instead.
Small steps.