29. Anna
CHAPTER 29
Anna
I was on my knees.
Praying.
The Lord's prayer was ingrained in my skin. Branded on my mind. Tears streamed down my face, wetting my thighs as they dripped off my chin. I stole a glance at the altar with my knees on the concrete ablaze. The lectern mocked me as did the enormous cross that towered over us. He stood before me. His stare piercing into me, disappointment laced his tired features.
“You’re an embarrassment,” he spat. “Our Holy Father wouldn’t let you in Heaven’s gates. You make me sick. You make Him sick.” His words sliced through my skin the way a ship cut through the ocean’s surface.
The whip cracked, stinging my raw flesh. The sound of screaming ripped my body back to reality, realizing the bone chilling noise was coming from me.
“God,” he jerked my chin up to look at him, “despises unworthiness. Women who know God know their place.” The backs of his knuckles met my cheek in a wet smack. “Disgusting. Again.”
I wanted to hide. I wanted to run. The backs of my thighs stung as if the whip was still cracking down on them. It was painful, so painful that it was hard to be grateful like Father said I should’ve been.
Look to God, Anna, that and serving me is your calling, he’d tell me.
I’d look to God if I were able.
I peeked at him through tear lined lids. My dark lashes were clumping at the self-appointed God who looked down on me like I was worthless. It was like God enjoyed watching me unravel, crying, begging for forgiveness for a sin I never committed.
So I prayed.
I prayed until my knees were bruised.
I prayed until the bruises threatened to burst.
I could only hope I’d bleed out, finally terminating this miserable life I was living.
My white dress was crumpling in my fists. Ruining the image he had for me. I was always a disappointment in his eyes.
In God's eyes.
My voice went hoarse. I’d been on my knees before him for hours. Longer than any punishment I’d ever received. Last time, it was for watching a show he didn’t approve of. The two characters were fornicating, and of course, that was the part he walked in on me watching. This time, it was my fault; I snuck in a book I knew I shouldn’t be reading. He snatched it out of my hand and beat me with it until my temples rang out. Eventually, the book became his fists, and the raid didn’t end until I felt myself floating. I touched the ceiling of the old farmhouse before God decided not even he wanted me, and I was catapulted back into my broken body.
I just wanted to be normal. I wanted to date like other girls my age. I wanted to read romance books and watch romance movies. I didn’t want to be the freak. The church girl who wasn’t allowed to wear pants or shorts. The only fun I had was during vacation bible school where I was granted a break from the brutal hand of my father.
Who was saving me for himself.
My stomach heaved settling itself in the form of cramps that radiated out towards my back.
“Get up.” He grabbed me by my hair, dragging me to my feet. “There’s a bible study soon, and I can’t have you here tainting the Lord’s house with your pathetic attempts at redemption. A filthy soul like yours could never be truly clean.”
My knees knocked together as I struggled to find balance. The backs of my thighs screamed in pain from the whippings that were more and more frequent. I was nearing my eighteenth birthday and I couldn’t wait to leave this man before he took everything from me.
He shoved me forward as we made our way out to where his brand new Lexus waited for us. A gift from his flock. The church loved him. They adored him and in turn, looked at me as if I were an angel. The sweet only daughter of the Pastor. But he despised me. My very face sickened him and reminded him of the woman who dropped off a baby at his door refusing to leave her life as a street worker.
God forbid I question what he was doing sleeping with prostitutes.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he growled from behind me. My spine snapped straight, expecting another hit. “You disgrace. Anna, you should be ashamed.” I didn’t understand what I did.
I turned my frightened gaze on him. “Father,” I licked my chapped lips. “I don’t understand.”
The leathery feel of his palm met the other side of my face. Vision swimming, I gripped my face instinctively, applying pressure to the throbbing sensation that rippled across tender flesh.
He snatched me by my arm. “You have a red stain on the back of your dress, you repulsive whore.” He popped the trunk to the shiny vermillion vehicle. His gaze darted around the lot and the empty street. There was no one here to witness the abuse.
Surely, they’d all justify it because it was him.
“I’m sorry,” I sniffed, trying to hold back the tears. “I didn’t know.” Father hated me most when I bled. I was impure. Tainted. The blood would flow every few weeks; I didn’t know how to make it stop.
So I prayed.
“Get in,” his cold words sent ice through my blood. I hated the trunk. I hated the darkness so much. When I hesitated, he gripped the back of my neck, shoving me headfirst. “Either get in or walk home and let the streets dispatch you the way they did your sin-infested mother.”
I bit my trembling lip, painfully chapped, and split. Bobbing my head, I turned to face him, slowly placing my bottom on the edge of the trunk.
“Don’t get your filthy fluids all over the place. Are you stupid?” His voice came out through clenched teeth. “And don’t touch anything when we get inside. You’ll tarnish the clean house of God. You can stay in the shed and use the outhouse until you're finished weeping the precious fluid God blessed you with all over the place.”
I scooted off the edge, clenching between my legs, making sure my thighs were tightly closed together as if that would stop my body from expelling all the sins I’d committed. I tried to be good like he said; I tried to stay pure so I wouldn’t bleed like this.
But I failed.
I always failed.
I tucked my knees to my chest as the inky blackness surrounded me. The sound of the footsteps drowned out the heavy sob that tore from my throat. The ignition purred peacefully surrounding me. The soft Christian music played through the car and my father loudly sang along.
The forty-minute ride was painful. My legs cramped, and I vowed that once I got away, I’d never see the inside of another trunk ever again. The salt from my tears lingered on my tongue; cramps stung at my insides as hot liquid dripped down my thighs.
The death of the engine stirred me from my reverie. The trunk popped open and for a moment, I hoped I’d be saved. The light from the porch of the little farmhouse I shared with my father blinded me. Banishing all hope of deliverance. I wanted my bed. I wanted my favorite blanket and stuffed bear. But I’d have none of those things.
“Father?” The sentiment almost more painful on my lips than the welts on the backs of my thighs. “Could I please have my blanket?”
He laughed. “No. Everything you touch is going to get thrown away, so be grateful that I’ll grant you the privilege of keeping it clean from you.”
“But—” The chilly breeze lifted my dress around my legs. A tremor of apprehension rolled across my skin, goosebumps rippling across flesh. It was getting cold. His eyes went to the apex of my thighs. He fisted his crotch through his jeans, making me sick. His look was slimy as it lingered over the most secret places of mine.
“How dare you talk to me like that. Have you learned nothing from The Word?” He cocked his head to the side as if I was the repulsive one. “You submit to me. And one day,” he stepped closer to me. His breath sour from communion. “I’ll allow you a place in my bed. My precious daughter saved just for me.”
He reminded me that I’d one day be his. Nausea crept through me in a hot pulse that dispersed across my bloodstream. I was powerless in his presence. He haunted every crevice of my mind. Too terrified to do anything but obey.
I swayed on my feet before making my way around the back of the house to the shed that had a hard cot waiting for me. The stench of the outhouse wafted past my nostrils, letting me know I was close. I hurried in to clean myself up a bit, knowing I wouldn’t dare leave the shed until morning. Rough wood splintered my hand as I shoved the door open.
I used to look for God.
But I never saw him. Never heard him. Never felt his presence during one of my Father’s bone shattering tirades. Father was the only sign of God I'd ever received.
If I ever made it out of this grievous life, I would never forget.
And I'd never forgive my father or God.