Chapter 1 #3
My aunt stands in the doorway, wearing a look of relief, anger, and confusion all rolled into one.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Justina. I lost track of time,” I say quickly.
“Who are you?” she asks Kit, before adding to me, “And what are you wearing?”
I don’t have time to answer.
“My name is Kit Rivers, and Hallie was at my family home. She and my brother, Dandy, are in the same class. It’s my fault she’s late. My mother asked me to take Hallie home, but I was working on my car.
“It won’t happen again.”
I simply stare, mouth parted in shock because I don’t understand why he would take the blame when I was the one who lost track of time.
My aunt looks out of sorts because Kit is being polite, and no harm was really done. “Well, thank you for seeing Hallie home. She knows better, though.”
“I know, sorry.” I bite my lower lip in remorse.
Kit gives me my bag. “See you, squirt.”
“Thanks for bringing me home.”
He nods and looks at me closely. I don’t know why.
I don’t question it, just watch as he walks down the porch steps, gets into his car without fuss, and takes off into the night. The moment he’s gone, I meet my aunt’s eyes.
I recognize that look.
“Go up and change, and then see your uncle. He’s in his study.”
I gulp down my fear, but nod.
The door closes behind me with a creak as I walk up the old wooden stairs.
My aunt and uncle aren’t well off, but that means nothing to me. I was grateful they took me in after my parents died in a car accident. I had only seen my aunt and uncle a handful of times, so I know that my living here is something they’re doing to honor my dad, who was my uncle’s brother.
They don’t want me here.
So I try my best to stay out of trouble and out of their way.
Tonight, however, I’ve done the complete opposite.
I open my bedroom door and quickly change into leggings and a long-sleeved top. My single bed is made with precision. Nothing is out of place, and one wouldn’t be blamed if someone thought this was merely a spare room.
There are no personal trinkets.
No posters on the walls.
Nothing in here reveals who I am. Or what I like.
The minimal clothes I have are put away in the drawers and the small closet.
I put on the small silver crucifix necklace and fix my hair in the mirror. My fear is reflected all over my pale face.
I close the door behind me, my bare feet making little noise as I walk down the long, dark hallway toward my uncle’s study.
One of the window shutters bangs so loudly against the wooden panes, I jump in fright. It’s just my nerves because I know what faces me.
I gently knock on my uncle’s door.
“Come in,” he says a moment later.
I wet my lips nervously as I open the door and see my uncle sitting behind his desk. The light from his computer screen bounces off his large silver-framed glasses, almost giving him a chilling glow.
I close the door behind me and wait in front of his desk with my head bowed and my arms behind me. I know better than to utter a word.
“What time is curfew?” Uncle Leon asks.
“Five o’clock,” I reply softly.
“And what time is it now?”
“After seven o’clock.”
Silence.
This torture is worse than the punishment. I know what looms. It’s the buildup he enjoys more than the actual abuse.
I keep my eyes downcast and my chin lowered.
The wheels on his chair roll back as he comes to a stand. The floorboards creak beneath his feet as he walks forward.
“You enjoy worrying your aunt then?”
“No,” I whisper.
“I can’t hear you.”
“No,” I repeat louder.
“Have we protected you, fed you, schooled you, and kept a roof over your head?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
I dig my fingernails into my small palms. “Yes, sir.”
“And this is how you repay us? After we took you in. You are the reason my brother isn’t here with us any longer. He spoiled you. Your mother could see what you were. But my compassionate brother was far too kind. Look where that got him.”
His accusations are callous, but I can do nothing but stand here.
“You must repent for your sins.”
He unthreads his leather belt through the loops of his pants.
I know what’s expected.
I step forward and place my splayed hands on the edge of his desk.
With my heart in my throat, my uncle runs his fingers through my hair, yanking my head backward. “You’re late because you were whoring yourself with that Rivers boy, weren’t you?”
“No! I made a friend today,” I offer as an explanation, begging he sees reason.
But I’ve learned there is none with my uncle.
“Men and women cannot be friends. A woman’s role is to bear children of the Lord. That is their sole purpose. Get any other notions out of your head.”
I nod quickly, eyes wide in fear as he lets go of my hair.
He yanks down my leggings, and with a crack, he slaps my behind with his belt.
I jolt upward with the force.
But I don’t cry out.
“You will say the Lord’s Prayer as I absolve you of your sins.”
Crack.
My behind is sore from the hiding my uncle gave me two days ago for forgetting to close the door to the chicken coop, which led to the chickens being lost.
“I can’t hear you!”
Thwack.
“Our F-Father…” I commence with a falter as the pain from his belt striking me burns.
“Louder!” my uncle orders, slapping me over and over.
I then go on to recite the Lord’s Prayer, eyes glued to the large wooden crucifix hanging on the wall.
I don’t feel any absolution.
Or see the “light.”
All I feel is numb.
Ironic, isn’t it, that my uncle, the town’s beloved pastor, believes the way to redemption is to beat it into a child?
All he is doing is proving that God doesn’t exist.
How can He?
Where was He when that truck veered onto the wrong side of the road, killing my parents but keeping me alive?
I survived without a scratch.
Where was He when I clung to my father’s cooling corpse, begging He bring my father back to me?
He was nowhere to be found, and that’s because He does not exist.
The only thing that does is the darkness, which is married with pain. These two factors embrace me tight and lull me into a quiet bubble because once my uncle drops his belt with a thud, I know what comes next.
He spins me around, and I do as he instructed the first night I arrived—I drop to my knees.
I begin reciting prayer after prayer, Uncle Leon stroking my hair as I do. Like I am his dog. It feels wrong, but I don’t fight it. This isn’t sexual. This is about control and servitude.
With hands interlaced, I close my eyes, praying that God forgives me.
One hour becomes two, and only when Uncle Leon says I am absolved of my sins am I pure again.
However, I feel anything but.