Catarina
My body had nothing left to give last night by the time I made it back to my room. After slipping in, I didn’t even bother locking the door. I thought if someone wanted to come in, just let them. I didn’t mean to look, but I still caught my reflection in the mirror above my dresser. The person looking back at me didn’t even look like me. Blotchy skin and swollen eyes. Dried streaks of salty tears left the skin on my cheeks irritated.
Once I found a position that didn’t make my backside scream, I curled in on myself and tried to take up as minimal space as possible. I don’t want to exist like this. I wanted to be less. Less pain, less present, less me, less everything. I’m not a crier, but last night, all the times I was told not to cry no longer mattered. So I cried until the fabric of my pillow clung to my face from my tears. I plead with my mind to think about something, anything, else. I tried not to think about the night I had or the eyes that watched me. But I couldn’t get rid of it. The worst part replayed over and over again. The moment I realized that no one was going to stop it, not even me. Yet somewhere between theshame and sting, I swear I could see it. Zedediah’s eyes and the pain behind them. It was gone before I could hold on to it, but it was there; I know it because I could feel it.
It’s not until the light changes outside my window that I force myself to the bathroom and stare in the mirror, taking in my reflection. The bags under my eyes, the eyes that are glazed over and red. In them I see shame, which only fuels my fire. This shame? It isn’t mine. It’s theirs. I’m not going to hide. Today will be a normal day. I will make it a normal day out of spite. I look at her. The woman Fenris thought he could beat out of me. The one he wanted to bury beneath the bruises. But, she’s still here.
The disgust I see in my stare is exactly what I saw in Zedediah’s before he finished what his father started. The hatred for this place and these people. Maybe there’s something buried inside of him that wants to burn this place down too.
A slow smile crawls across my face, but I frown when I notice the dimples that are carved into my cheeks, the ones I got from Dad.
But these aren’t his, they’re mine, and no one—especially not him or Mom—gets to claim any part of me. They all tried to break me, but all they’ve done is piss me off.
They should’ve known better.
I finish getting ready and head toward the laundry room but stop by the dining hall long enough to snag a granola bar. My stomach growls, but I ignore it until I step outside and spot a bench. When my ass connects with the unforgiving steel, I instantly regret it, the soreness beneath me brought back to life.
In an attempt to distract my mind, I look around while trying to bite back the pain. My eyes gravitate to the barn I spotted on my way in before I scan over the nine small sheds that have been converted into tiny homes.
I spot two black vans, carbon copies of the one I rode in, and a building that’s trying too hard to look elegant with a decorativeiron gate surrounding it. The entire property is caged in by trees, and if this wasn’t my personal hell it would be a nice place. It’s secluded and the land looks to be well taken care of. I guess it’s easy to manage when you have a flock of people to keep occupied, just make certain they’re too tired to do anything else other than their chores.
I finish the last bite of my granola bar before slowly pushing myself up, being as careful as I can be to not move too fast. The fire in my backside reignites with every small shift, but I keep walking until I make it to the laundry room and switch the lights on after I manage to push through the door. After tossing the wrapper into the trash, I move through my pain to grab a hamper. Just as I dump the clothes into the washer and press the start button, the sound of the door opening behind me has me jerking around. A woman about my height with long, soft blonde hair walks in. I open my mouth to speak but clamp it shut as she rolls her big blue eyes at me. “Well, nice to meet you too,” I say under my breath.
Her spine snaps straight, her posture now stiff with defense. “Excuse me?”
It’s a shame, really. She’d be hot if she wasn’t dead set on being such a hard-ass.
I raise my voice, making sure she can hear me this time. “I said, it’s nice to meet you too.” I give her a smile. She squints her eyes and glares at me before smiling back. But the smile she gives isn’t one of friendliness. It’s the kind the mean girls in high school give you right before they spill their lunch tray in your lap.
“Bold of you to speak to anyone like that after last night.” She leans up against the door and crosses her arms, eyeing me up and down.
I try to mimic her and lean against the dryer, sucking down the urge to whimper in pain. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed butthe hierarchy is clear here. The men…” I pause and lift my hand up, bringing it flat above my head. “Are here. And everyone else—those of us who don’t have a pencil dick between our legs”—I balance myself and place my other hand flat, level with my hips—“are about right here.”
Her snort fills the small space. “Not all of us.”
I relax back against the unforgiving metal. “You can’t be serious?” She studies my face for a moment. “Oh. You are serious.” I watch as the red begins to bloom through her cheeks.
“Well, a dog is still a dog. Just because you listen and are fed treats for sitting or rolling over, you’re still on a leash. However, I have this gnawing feeling, that you’re not just a dog, you’re a bitch.” She grits her teeth before stalking forward.
“What did you call me?” Her hands give me a light shove into the washer, causing my breath to catch, and I flinch at the pain thrumming in my backside. Adrenaline numbs my pain as I feel the urge to twist my fingers in her long hair and slam it into the washer. Instead, I steady my body and mind before raising both hands, palms out. “Don’t get your panties in a twist. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
She just looks at me, her chest rising and falling. She’s mad, and I don’t blame her for her anger, I feel it too. But hers seems to be pointed toward the wrong people—those like her—instead of those responsible for whatever problem she’s obviously going through. Her nostrils flare, and I shrug before turning back around to the hampers full of items needing folded. “Okay, don’t tell me.” I continue with laundry, only looking back when I hear the door slam behind her as she stomps out.
Chapter Nine
Zedediah
The glow of streetlights cast long shadows on the pavement. I turn off the ignition of my rental car once I’m parked in front of Rylan’s apartment complex and hit the push-to-start button a few times before getting the accessory light to stay on so I can run the heat and radio. Lowering the volume of the radio, I recline my seat and look back over to the black folder on the passenger seat. I reach over to pick it up and open it, my eyes trailing over what little information I’ve been given.
Rylan M.
22 years of age
Outreach Minister in Training
Last date of contact, July 15th
So, we’re the same age and they haven’t made contact with him in over four months. I lay them to the side and stare at the only picture that was included, scanning his features, imprintingthem to my memory. He’s wearing a tailored suit; the jacket, undershirt, and pants are all black. The suit fits well, but is taut, showing off his wide stature. He looks to be all muscle. His jaw is defined and clean shaven. Blonde hair is slicked back, but you can tell it’s shaggy and on the longer side rather than clean cut. There’s something behind those dead blue eyes that isn’t sitting right with me.
