Chapter 4
Chapter four
Seraphina
Take Me to Church – Jasmine Thompson
The flame on my desk wavers, casting restless shadows across the page.
Wax pools at the candle’s base, thin rivulets running like veins.
Smoke and old paper cling to the air, the kind of scent that seeps into walls and never leaves.
My lamp broke weeks ago, but I don’t mind.
Candlelight is kinder. Softer. It hides the edges I don’t want to see.
My pencil moves as if it has a will of its own.
At first, it’s only his hands. Large, rough, veins standing out like rivers under skin.
I trace the curve of his knuckles, the flex of his fingers when he reached for me.
Strong hands—hands that could break, and yet when they touched me, even for a heartbeat, they were careful. Reverent.
Next, his eyes. My pencil fails me—the shade is wrong, never dark or bright enough—but I press harder, almost tearing the page.
Green, alive, burning when they landed on my bruises.
He didn’t look at me the way others do, with pity or disgust. He looked furious.
Ready to strike down the whole world for daring to lay a hand on me.
The ink comes after. Tattoos crawling up his arms, winding like stories carved into flesh. Patterns I can’t read but can’t stop staring at. Every line forbidden. Father says tattoos mark the damned, but all I saw was someone who carried his pain on the outside instead of letting it rot inside him.
The candle flame dances on a breeze, flickering, mirroring my heartbeat as I think of him.
My chest aches. I haven’t seen him again.
I tell myself that it’s safer. But still—when I walk through the streets with my father for items for the pantry, I search.
I can’t help it. I look for the impossible man.
The slip of paper waits where I left it, hidden between the pages of my Bible. I run my fingers over it, edges worn soft. An address. A temptation pressed against the Word. I should burn it. I should throw it away. Instead, I tuck it deeper, comfortable among the old pages. A secret. My secret.
Father has been… different. On edge. His sermons thunder louder. His eyes cut sharper. He watches me like a hawk circling a rabbit too close to the brush. He thinks I’ve been tempted. He’s right, though he would never believe the truth of it.
Tonight, during Bible study, I make the mistake of asking a question. My voice shakes, but I force it out.
“Father… why does God punish some with pain and not others? Why—why create us weak if weakness is sin?”
The silence after everyone leaves is unbearable. His gaze pins me, slow and deliberate. His hand moves to his belt.
The slide of leather through metal steals the air from my lungs.
I don’t need to see it—I know what comes next.
Ten lashes. Ten searing lines. The first bites like fire, snapping across my skin and drawing a thin ribbon of blood.
I flinch, tasting copper on my tongue. The second digs in deeper, hot and sharp, splitting the surface and sending shockwaves down my spine.
By the fifth, my back is alive—burning red, angry streaks blooming across trembling shoulders.
The sixth twists my stomach into knots, the sting radiating like electricity.
Seven, eight… I count in my head, each strike breaking the skin, carving into my flesh.
The ninth rakes across my shoulder blades, sharp, wet, and shocking.
The tenth leaves me shaking, blood prickling along the lines, breath ragged, every nerve raw.
The pain isn’t just in my back—it’s inside me. It settles in my chest, in the hollow of my spine. The room presses in, silent but heavy, suffocating. I curl my shoulders, trying to shrink, trying to breathe without screaming.
Later, in my room, I bite down on a cloth as I peel back my dress. The mirror reflects me in fragments—angry red lines streaked with blood across trembling shoulders. I press a damp rag against the skin, hissing through clenched teeth.
I think of him.
Trey.
His hand on my wrist. His eyes on mine. The way he saw me—saw all of me—and didn’t flinch. I close my eyes, imagining those hands here instead. Strong, not to restrain, but to shield.
When the tears stop, I uncover my hair. It falls heavy over my shoulders, a wild spill of red glowing dark in the candlelight. Father calls it the devil’s mark. He makes me bind it beneath scarves and pins. But alone, I let it fall.
The mirror throws me a stranger. Not meek. Not bowed. Someone fierce, unbroken, free. I sketch quickly, capturing the image—hair loose, chin lifted, mouth unbound. And beside me, always, the faint suggestion of green eyes watching.
Maybe it’s blasphemy. Maybe madness. But for a heartbeat, I feel alive.
The floorboards groan outside my door.
I freeze, breath caught in my chest. It’s late—too late for footsteps in the hall. The candle sputters, flickers like it’s trying to warn me. Shadows leap wild across the wall. I shove the drawing beneath a book, drag the scarf over my head. My pulse thunders louder than the creak of steps.
Boots on the boards. The rustle of fabric. The scrape of a latch.
The door swings open.
Gideon fills the frame.
Still cloaked in the black robes of the chapel, cinched tight at the waist with a cord, he looks less like a man than a shadow spat from an old tome.
His thinning hair gleams with oil, pulled flat from his forehead.
Large, cracked hands clutch a leather Bible like a weapon.
He smells of sweat, earth, smoke—and something sour that curdles my stomach.
His eyes rake over me. Not with kindness. Never with kindness. With possession. A slow, deliberate claim, as though he’s already branded me.
“Your father has spoken.” His voice is steady, deep, a serpent coiled in scripture. “The time has come. Soon, the congregation will hear of our betrothal.”
Betrothal. The word chokes the air from the room.
My nails dig crescents into my palms through the fabric of my dress. Every part of me wants to scream, to tear the scarf from my head, to spit the truth in his face—that I will never belong to him. But my lips remain sealed. Silence is my only shield.
He steps closer. Heat rolls off him, suffocating. His hand lifts, hovering inches from my cheek. For a terrible moment I think he’ll touch me. Instead, his fingers twitch, then fall. The smile he wears is sharp. Wrong.
“You will be molded into obedience,” he says. “A wife of purity. God has chosen this path for you.”
No. Not God. My father. Gideon. Men twisting the name of God into chains.
His eyes snag on the edge of my scarf. His mouth twitches. “The hair will be your greatest trial,” he murmurs, almost reverent. “Fire meant to be smothered. But I will tame it. Tame you.”
A shiver tears through me, but I bow my head, hiding my face in shadow. My scream stays buried in my throat, turned to ash.
“Good,” he says, mistaking my silence for submission. “You learn quickly. Obedience is the only gift a wife can give her husband.” His knuckles whiten around the Bible. “And when you falter, I will correct you. For your salvation.”
The words alone make the welts from my father’s strikes flare hot, burning with the promise of more—without Gideon lifting a single twisted finger.
When he finally turns away, the air is thick, unbreathable, fogged with his poisonous presence. I shut the door with a shudder, but the weight clings. I collapse onto the bed, trembling, chest heaving like I’ve run miles without moving at all.
My hand finds the Bible. The leather is cold, smooth under my fingertips. I slip them between the pages until I find it—creased, nearly falling apart.
The paper. His paper. Not his name, but a place. A door out of this cage.
I’ve read it so many times the words are etched into me, branded deeper than the lash. Still, I clutch it, needing the proof. That escape exists. That hope is more than a dream.
I can’t risk hiding it in my shoe—not now, not with eyes so close. Instead, I slip it into the lining of my pillow, pressing it flat where I can reach without sound, without suspicion.
Close enough to touch. Close enough to believe in.
Just in case.
Because the noose tightens every day. And one night soon, I hope I have the strength to run.