Delilah
The bus stops in front of a set of iron gates just as the sun starts to rise.
Despite my exhaustion, I couldn’t sleep.
According to my mother, I’ve never been able to sleep in vehicles—even as a baby—which made road trips unbearable.
But now, I’m grateful since it gives me a rough idea of where we are, or at least how far away from home we are.
It’s been at least an hour since we got off the main roads, all of which were being patrolled by groups of men in the same uniforms as those who came last night.
With my limited knowledge of geography, I would guess we’re somewhere near the ocean.
The forest around us is lush and green, with that distinct coastal smell carried on the wind.
The gates—guarded by two heavily armed and masked men—swing open, and the tires crunch along the gravel road that leads up to a gothic-looking church. The brakes squeak as the bus rolls to a stop at the front of the cathedral, and we all squirm restlessly as we await instruction.
The driver puts the bus in park and opens the door, looking back at us expectantly. “What are you waiting for?” When no one moves, he stands and yells, “Get the fuck off the bus!”
We all scramble, tripping over each other as we exit as quickly as possible.
An older woman stands at the entrance of the church, dressed in a dark gray dress that extends from the bottom of her chin all the way down to her ankles.
Her hair is pulled back in a bun so tight I wonder if she has a headache, and her facial features make me think she’s spent much more time frowning than smiling.
She dips her chin at the driver. “Brother.”
“Mistress,” he greets her coolly.
Her keen eyes roam over all the girls. “How many are there?”
“Twenty-eight. But more buses are coming.” His tone is impatient even with her, a woman who seems to be of importance.
“Thank you, brother.” She turns her attention to us as he gets back on the bus and drives away. Her gaze is scrutinizing, and I can’t help but stand up straighter as she surveys us. “This way.”
We follow without question, falling in line behind her as she enters the cathedral.
My eyes scan the inside of the building, and while I can tell it was probably a Catholic Church at some point—we’re one of those families that only attends Mass on major holidays—it’s clearly been converted into something else.
There are no crosses. No statues of Mary or Jesus. No symbols of religion anywhere.
The main room, which I imagine was the sanctuary, is lined with twin beds, all made up the same way with a pillow and those scratchy wool blankets every grandma seems to own.
Two sets of white clothes and a pair of one-inch heels sit on each of the beds—a plain nightgown and a dress in the same style as the older woman’s.
It all looks formal and uncomfortable, like the kind of clothes you would wear to church.
She gestures to the beds, and we all hurry to claim one, each of us standing at the foot of our chosen mattress.
Once we’re all in position, she walks down the aisle with her hands clasped behind her back, the clopping sound of her heels reminding me of horseshoes on a cobblestone street.
“Please number yourselves off, starting with one.” She points to the girl near the closest bed, whose voice shakes as she starts the process.
I’m assigned number ten.
Only once we all have our numbers does the woman speak again. “While you are here, these numbers will be your identity. If you are heard using your given name, you will be punished.”
Some whispering breaks out, but the side conversations are quickly squashed with one stern look.
“You may address me as Headmistress. Here at the Brotherhood’s Institute for Girls, you will learn what’s expected of you as young women, and eventually, as wives.”
I wrap my arms around myself, holding back tears. I’m among the youngest of the girls here, but surely even the teenagers are too young to become wives.
One of the older girls speaks up. “This is bullshit.” Another girl—her sister, maybe—tries to shush her, but she just lifts her chin higher in defiance. Her bravery is admirable, even if her outburst makes my stomach knot with anxiety.
Headmistress approaches the girl, looking down her nose. “Who are you?”
The girl sneers, shaking with anger. “Jane—”
A sharp crack echoes off the stone walls, and I cover my mouth with my hand as I realize she slapped the girl. “Who are you?” she asks again.
The strike to her cheek seems to have shocked the girl. She blinks rapidly to hold back the tears that flooded her eyes, but she answers nonetheless. “Seventeen.”
The headmistress smiles. “That’s right.” She strolls down the aisle once again.
“Right now, you are spoiled, insolent girls. You are nothing.” Her declaration hangs in the air.
“My job is to make you into something. You will live here—at the Institute—until we decide you are ready to fulfill your ultimate purpose as a wife and a mother.”
This time, the room remains silent, despite the shocking statement.
She continues. “Your instruction will include basic life-skills as well as the five main tenets you will live by as a woman.”
At the front of the room, she writes on a chalkboard in flowing, cursive penmanship.
1. Submission is love.
2. Be eager to serve.
3. Obey without question.
4. A woman’s highest calling is to bear her husband children.
5. A woman’s body is not her own.
She turns back to us. “These statues will be the foundational pillars of your lives. Memorize them, and they will serve you well. Ignore them, and, well… let’s just say there are plenty of roles for women that are less desirable than that of a wife.”
I study the board, committing the tenets to memory. I’ve always excelled in school, and I don’t see a reason to stop trying now. If anything, it seems my participation and performance are more important than ever if I want to avoid getting in trouble.
My mother’s words echo in my mind once again. Do as you’re told. Don’t fight.
When no one voices any objection, she claps her hands together once, appearing pleased. “Excellent. You may change into the clothes provided to you, and then we will take a tour of the grounds.”
We’re afforded no privacy—from the headmistress or each other—as we change into the identical dresses, but none of us seem to care about our nakedness when our entire lives have just been turned upside down.
I’m in desperate need of a bath—my feet especially are caked with dirt and the dried blood I walked through last night.
Every time I think about it I feel sick.
We discard the clothes we were wearing on our way out of the room. I stare at my favorite pajamas in the pile, wiping a stray tear off my cheek as I say goodbye to my last reminder of home.
We’re shown the gardens, the small barn that houses the chickens and goats, the kitchen and dining hall, the communal bathrooms, and lastly, the classrooms where we all take a seat for our first lesson. I sit in the front row, just as I always have.
The headmistress begins her lecture by writing the same five tenets that were in the main hall on the chalkboard. “The Brotherhood is not so cruel as to remove you from the lives you knew without explaining why.”
All of us sit up straighter, attention piqued.
Headmistress notices our interest, a sly smile pulling at her thin lips.
“Over the last hundred years, this country has fallen from grace, descended into madness. What started as women’s suffrage transformed into a radical movement of ultra-feminism, where women would rather be highly educated and career focused than be wives and mothers.
For most of human history, women have known and understood that their place in society is in the home, rearing children and serving their husbands.
We strayed so far from the role we were designed for that men have been unable to find and connect with like-minded women, and as a result, the birth rate has declined to unprecedented levels.
The very system that women fought to be a part of betrayed them, leading them to believe that their lives were better spent in an office than fulfilling their biological and evolutionary purpose. ”
The headmistress speaks with such authority—such conviction—that I find myself nodding along, though I seem to be in the minority as some of the older girls scoff.
“That is why the Brotherhood, an organization with a vision for a brighter future, a future where men and women can both thrive in their roles as nature intended, intervened. The entire country is currently being overhauled and redesigned from the ground up, and you have the unique privilege of being a part of this newly improved society.”
“Sounds like a steaming pile of propaganda bullshit to me,” one of the older girls whispers under her breath, too quiet for the headmistress to hear. I remember learning something about propaganda in school, but I can’t remember what the word means.
The girl next to me—a sweet-looking, soft-spoken blonde who’s maybe one or two years older than me—raises her hand. “What about those who resist the changes the Brotherhood is implementing?”
Headmistress stands up straighter, like the girl’s question is offensive.
“As with every revolution throughout history, there are bound to be those who wrongfully disagree. Rest assured, as long as you’re in the care of the Brotherhood, you will remain safe and unharmed.
Any resistance”—she sneers the word with outright distaste—“will be squashed quickly and effectively.”
The flaking, dried blood on the soles of my feet is a stark reminder of what happens to those who resist. To men like my father. I raise my hand, even though I suspect asking this question will get me punished.
Headmistress nods at me. “Yes?”
“Will we ever see our families again?” My voice cracks, but I manage to hold back the tears blurring my vision.
The stern woman’s eyes soften for the briefest moment before her features revert to their natural, dour state.
“In order to ensure a smooth transition, the Brotherhood feels it’s best to sever all ties to your former lives, including any family members.
This way, you will be able to grow into the women you’re meant to be—wives of submission and subservience—without any distractions. ”
I nod. Even though she used some words I didn’t understand, the overall meaning is clear: No.
“It may not seem like it right now, but trust me when I say the Brotherhood has your best interest at heart. They grant us their protection, and in return, we offer them our loyalty.” The headmistress puts her bony hand on my shoulder, and though I find no solace in the robotic gesture, I give her a weak smile.
That night, after we’ve all been afforded a hot shower and a warm meal, I lie in my new bed surrounded by two dozen other girls, all of us crying so hard we can barely breathe.