9. Margarete
CHAPTER 9
Margarete
I grew up believing that my chastity was my greatest virtue. No one spoke about sex in the community where I was raised, but there was an understanding that your virginity was to remain intact until your wedding night.
Ironically, the Elders of our society didn’t believe that the women remained chaste. They needed proof, and on the wedding night, they stood around the bed holding hands, singing hymns as they witnessed the most intimate act between a husband and a wife. This ritual had nothing to do with religious morality or the union of two souls meant to walk in this eternity and the next. The charade was one more act to demean and humiliate women. I often asked my mother why God hated women, but now I realize it was the wrong question to ask. The question I should’ve asked is, why do men fear us so much that they twist the concept of God to shackle us?
My breath hitches, and my skin tingles as Hans lifts my nightgown above my waist. He peers into my eyes. “Is this okay?”
“Yes.”
Hans kisses my forehead before trailing his lips over my face to the crook of my neck. A moan escapes my lips. I want to clap my hand to my mouth to silence the sound. The pleasure is wrapped in a blanket of guilt. My mind screams that what we’re doing is sinful, but my body quietly begs for more. I long for Hans’ touch, for his lips to pepper my skin. I want to experience every earth-shattering emotion he evokes in me. I force myself to ignore the nagging echo warning me about the Jezebel I’ve become. That echo is shackled to beliefs that imprisoned and threatened to destroy me.
With nimble fingers, Hans raises my nightgown higher, exposing my undergarments. “Lift your arms, baby.”
I follow his instructions and he pulls the gown over my head, discarding it on the floor. There’s something freeing about the way he gazes at me.
His eyes trail over my body with evident appreciation. “You’re so beautiful. Every inch of you is a work of art.” Hans laughs nervously. “I’m not sure I’m worthy of touching such perfection.”
Hans takes his time, touching me as if trying to imprint every inch of my body in his mind. I close my eyes and allow my mind to roam in bliss.
But then he stops.
My eyes shoot to his. “What’s the matter? Did I do something wrong? I’m sorry.”
Hans grinds his teeth, eyes wide, right hand forming a fist. “You did nothing wrong. You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I must have done something for you to stop.”
Hans shuts his eyes momentarily as if trying to compose himself. “You did nothing wrong.” He trails his hand along my side. “I just hate that this is on your body.”
I know what he’s talking about. The indented cattle mark. Property of The Covenant. “It’s okay. All the women have it.”
“It’s not okay, baby. Nothing they did to you was okay.”
Mommy got me a new dress and fixed my hair like hers. I stared in the mirror, my hand moving along my braid.
I should be excited about the ceremony. After all, it was ushering me into a new phase of my life. But I’d heard the older girls talk about it, and their words hadn’t reassured me. They mentioned the pain, the weeks of healing, And on occasion, I’d heard one or two girls crying at the memory.
I looked at my mother. “Do I have to do this?” I still enjoyed playing with my doll. I wasn’t mentally ready for the label placed on me.
“You’re a woman now, Margarete. This is something we all go through. Once the change happens, we proceed with the ceremony. It provides us with protection. It lets other men know to stay away.”
We walked into a room with other families. Everyone was dressed up and smiling at me. Mommy held my hand and walked me to an altar. It looked pretty, with flowers adorning the sides and a white sheet and pillow on top. I felt like an angel.
Papa Gabriel stood beside the altar. He smiled at me before nodding to the guests. I noticed none of the kids were there. Everyone was older than me.
“Why are none of my friends here?” I asked Mommy.
“Only adults and those who’ve gone through the ceremony are welcome.”
Papa Gabriel passed me a drink before I lay on the altar. I took a sip but didn’t like it. The liquid was too strong and burned as it went down. I coughed a few times, but Papa told me to keep drinking. I closed my eyes and pinched my nose, chugging the liquid like a glass of cold water on a hot summer’s day. A few seconds later, I became light-headed and didn’t even feel it when Papa brought the hot iron to my skin. The pain came the next day and for many days after when I changed the bandages to avoid infection.