Without her, I wouldn’t be here.
Without her, none of this would have happened.
I get to my feet, and this time, I stay up long enough to take a small step forward, drawing out the inevitable.
A hand in the center of my back shoves me forward. Weak from too little food and water, I go down with a cry and grunt when I graze my knees as I land. Dirt flies into my face, burning my eyes and causing them to water.
Coughing, I brush away the dirt and the tears.
All around me, everyone watches, doing nothing to help me up.
Seren stands with the other women, her once warm expression cold, and her brown eyes hard. It wasn’t long ago that the women were cruel to her, and I spoke up to defend her. Now she looks through me. I ran from Jeremiah, and now I’ve become the enemy.
With my hands on the ground, I push myself to my feet, and the acolytes start walking to the small wooden cabin in the heart of the compound.
Jeremiah’s cabin.
I pass the others, and one by one, they turn their backs toward me.
No one says one word, and even the loudest child is silent.
Shunned.
No one wants to be shunned, not even by the people they ran from.
Maybe I’m weak for my eyes to burn as they turn their backs on me, but I remember how warm and friendly they were when Mom first brought us here. People took my hands and smiled as they showed me around, including me and involving me in a way no one had before.
For a girl dragged from school to town and town to city by her flaky mom, bullied for my threadbare clothes and my awkwardness, it had felt like the best kind of homecoming to be in a place where people wanted me instead of telling me I didn’t belong and chasing me away.
An acolyte pushes Jeremiah’s cabin door open and steps aside. He isn’t just there to hold the door open. He’s there to stop me from running back out of it.
It was his job before.
Jeremiah has six of them. Big, strong men with thick beards, navy shirts, black combat trousers, boots, and piercing stares.
Jeremiah stands beside his wooden desk in the cabin that was once ours. I keep my eyes on him and not on the bed where he raped me.
In his mid-forties, he’s handsome in a quiet, intense way. He’s in his usual blue linen shirt, black baggy linen trousers, and barefoot. His dark brown beard is thick but cut short, and his eyes are silver.
I loved his eyes when I first met him. I thought they were sincere and mysterious and wise. It wasn’t long before I learned better.
Now I look at him, and I feel cold all over.
The acolytes followed me in, and I feel their hot breath stirring the back of my hair.
Jeremiah is calm, his expression placid as he stands with his arms folded behind his back.
“Do you repent?” he asks, his voice almost gentle.
I dart a glance at that hated bed and lift my chin. “I did nothing wrong.”
“Do you repent?” There’s no change to the volume of Jeremiah’s question.
I shake my head this time. “I did nothing wrong.”
He holds my gaze for two beats.
In the silence, I feel him quietly judging me. My life is in his hands, and he takes his time to deliver my punishment. I’m not naïve enough to believe it ended with the sweatbox.
