Prologue
Mara Age Fifteen
Bible camp is bullshit.
Well, my whole life has felt like bullshit, if I’m being honest. It’s always felt like there’s something inside of me begging to be released. Something dark that is just lying dormant, just wanting to claw its way out of my flesh and finally be let free. I have this deep yearning to be my own person, to finally let whatever this is inside me take over.
But it’s hard to be an individual when I’m surrounded by a bunch of freakishly zealous camp counselors and a hoard of horny teenagers who think touching themselves is a sin. Summer camp is worse than being at the orphanage, by far. Right about now, I’d basically cut off my right hand to be back home instead of sitting around this campfire.
At least at Saint Joseph’s Home for Wayward Children I can hide; I can sit in a corner and be the weird feral girl everyone thinks I am. At camp, I’m expected to participate in activities, and unfortunately, the indoctrination is cranked up to level one hundred for whatever reason. Something about the summer heat must make the fear of eternal damnation increase tenfold.
Idiots.We’re all fucked, no matter what. There’s nothing after this life. We die, and then we’re gone. There’s no point in this stupid charade. We should just be able to live our lives how we please because we only get one.
I pick at the cracked and chipped nail polish on the tips of my fingers as we sit around the campfire. We aren’t telling any spooky or creepy campfire horror stories; no, it’s much worse. They want us to go around in a circle and talk about how we feel about God.
“Mara, what are you grateful for? What abundance has our Lord given you?”
“If I’m being honest, Marge, I’m not feeling much love from the big guy upstairs.” Marge is in her late forties and is a total die-hard Jesus-Freak. The woman is nice enough in front of people, but it’s fake. Apparently, practicing what you preach isn’t a lesson Marge learned when she attended bible camp herself.She pushes her short blonde hair from her face and tries to control her frustration with me before speaking.
“Surely, that isn’t true. You have a home, you have food, and friends.”
My so-called “friends”hate me. For a bunch of people who are supposed to be one with the holy spirit, they sure love putting me down every chance they get. I’m used to being called names, left out of every activity, and generally treated like a pariah.
But at the end of the day, I’d rather be true to myself than conform to what these people want from me. I know I’m meant for more, and in two short years, I’ll age out. I’ll be able to experience the world the way it was meant to be explored, with an open mind and complete freedom.
“I have food and somewhere to live… you’re right, Marge,” I state, placating the hypocrite.
Marge clears her throat and looks at me with discomfort. “Right. How about you, Paul?” She ignores my little outburst and continues asking the same question to all the other pathetic little orphans who came to this camp. We’re supposed to be grateful because they took us in by the kindness of their hearts even though our parents didn’t want us.
You’re not allowed to be upset over your circumstances; gratitude and subservience are the only emotions you’re allowed to feel. I’m a crotchety, ungrateful little shit in their eyes, and I wear the title proudly.
You would think the treatment of my peers and counselors would be the worst part of camp? Nope, it’s absolutely the singing. It’s dark in the woods, and the fire crackles in the center of the circle as they sing some horrific song about their God and how all-knowing and generous he is. I’m not sure what I believe, but I certainly don’t buy into God being all good. If that were the case, why would I feel like this? Why were we all abandoned by our parents? What type of God would allow all the suffering that happens in the world?
Nothing can be that black and white.
The song trails off, and there’s an overwhelming sensation of irritation and warmth tingling up and down my spine. I’ve felt off lately, but this sensation is unlike anything else. It feels like I want to scratch my skin off.
My irritation levels have also peaked, every little thing getting under my skin deeper than it did before. I’ve been able to tolerate the orphanage and camp for most of my life, but now all I want to do is scream.
My thoughts have been getting darker and darker with each passing day of suffering. It should scare me—the things that I think about—but they don’t. I find myself welcoming the darkness with eager arms.
Anything is better than living my life the way I am now.
I leave the fire and walk through the woods. A few twigs snap under my feet along the path, some of them digging into the soles of my shoes. They’re raggedy hand-me-downs, and I can’t wait for the day I can buy some of my own, something that is finallymine.My life, my belongings, where I live… none of it is truly mine. Maybe it’s vain to want things that are mine and only mine, but I can’t help wanting more than this basic existence I’ve been “blessed”with.
The summer night air is humid, but a cool chill tingles on the back of my neck, making me turn around.
“Mara!” Marge barks my name in a demanding tone, forcing me to pay attention to her.
“Yes, Marge?”
“Your behavior during circle time is unacceptable. You need to participate in bible study, song, and group sessions.” I roll my eyes, and before I can even blink, her hand strikes my face. “We give you shelter, food, clothing. Do you know how many children wish they could go to a summer camp? You’re an ungrateful little brat. And that simply won’t do.”
The ensuing slap doesn’t even phase me at this point. I’ve grown accustomed to pain… at least, it feels real. Pain makes me feel more alive than anything else in my life does. I just stare at Marge and blink at her; maybe she’ll hit me again in frustration.
This woman who is supposed to be a Shepherd of wayward sheep is actually a wolf in sheep’s clothing. She doesn’t care about me, love me. No, she only cares about how she looks to others. She wants others to see her as a devout, loving person; she couldn’t be further from that. I can’t help but smile in her face, the irony not lost on me over the whole situation and the hypocrisy of her actions and words.
“I’m sorry, Marge. It seems like the Holy Spirit isn’t with me tonight,” I reply, which only enrages her further.
