Still nicer than the house I grew up in.
I keep my guitar and other things in a plastic tote under my bed. The same clothes I stole months ago. Plus, a new hoodie from my diner job.
My roommates don’t ask where I’m from. I’m too weird. I don’t smoke. I don’t party. I don’t wear makeup.
I haven’t sung in almost a year. Not since I ran out of places willing to pay me to play. There’s nowhere to sing here anyway. Gigs require a network, transportation, belief in your own worth.
I don’t possess any of those things. Even if I did, I’m scared of what might happen if I let myself feel too much. Music still lives under my skin, but now it terrifies me.
As for the money I do earn, I wear it strapped to my body. I don’t trust banks and there’s no way I’d leave it at home. I’ve nearly saved enough for a decent car. Then I’m leaving Washington. Moving somewhere where I can start fresh. As to where, I haven’t figured it out yet.
In any case, there’s no point in worrying about it now. Moving is months away and my shift at the diner starts at six a.m.
I walk to work in the dark. Forty minutes down back roads, past boarded-up gas stations through rough neighborhoods. I used to keep a rock in my coat pocket. Now I carry a kitchen knife in my boot. I don’t think I’ll need to use it, but it makes me feel less helpless.
The work isn’t bad. I pour coffee. Wipe counters. Memorize breakfast orders and pretend diner’s small talk doesn’t make my stomach tie up in knots. Sometimes they leave good tips. Sometimes they don’t. It all evens out in the end.
The regulars call me “quiet girl” or “baby doll.” I don’t mind the nicknames, sometimes it’s the only part of my day I feel like anyone notices me. My boss and workmates are nice enough, but we’re from different worlds.
Marcy, one of the waitresses, is blonde and sharp and perpetually wears bright-red lipstick. She offered me a vape once, then laughed when I held it like a crucifix.
“You ever think about stripping?” she asked me two days ago while stirring powdered creamer into her coffee like it wasn’t the most jarring sentence I’d heard in my life.
Speechless, all I could manage was to shake my head.
She shrugged. “You’ve got the face and body for it. So much mystery. Your quiet-church-girl thing? Men go wild. You’d make an absolute fortune. Let me know if you change your mind.”
I went home and vomited in the toilet. Then I cried for an hour, curled around the idea of being touched. Watched. Desired. The idea of taking off my clothes in front of strangers made my skin crawl.
Worse, it made something inside me spark. Like a match I was never allowed to strike.
The spark scared me most. Not the disgust.
The curiosity.
Later, I prayed harder than I ever have since leaving. Cried from shame and confusion. It wasn’t the first time I thought about going back to my old life. Most nights, I’ve wonderedif they’d take me back. Marriage to Brother Gideon would at least be predictable, if it was still on the table. Maybe I could repent, do penance, earn back my place.
The truth is, I know what would actually happen.
They’d punish me. Beat me within an inch of my life. Disfigure me. Probably sterilize me too. Anything to make me permanently undesirable. Strip me of any chance at a future. I’d never be allowed to marry. Never be allowed children. I’d be a cautionary tale brought before the congregation during sermons.
A living, breathing example to keep the rest of the women in line.
There’s no going back and, truthfully, even in the most challenging moments I don’t want to.
I’ve made my bed, so to speak.
For now, I’m suspended. Hollowed out and waiting for my life to begin.
Today, the diner is quiet. A few booths full of truckers scarf down huge breakfasts and a couple old men read actual newspapers. I move through my section without thinking, hands robotic, lips stitched in a polite smile as I refill coffee.
I notice a woman at the far corner booth. She’s been coming in every morning the past couple of weeks. Mid-forties, short brown hair streaked with silver. Wears a thick flannel jacket over a white T-shirt and jeans. Her eyes track me gently, not in a creepy way. More like she’s studying something she remembers.
She tips twenty on a six-dollar bill.
When I thank her, she asks, “Could you meet me outside for a moment when your shift’s over?”
Panic flares. My first instinct is to flee. Is she from the compound? I don’t recognize her. Will she try to bring me back?
