“I had several duties, but my main responsibility was to listen and share the burdens of the congregation. And it was important for me to stay pure. I was supposed to be an example of how our followers should strive to be.”
“What did ‘staying pure’ mean for you?” she asked.
I closed my eyes for a second, rubbing my touchstone furiously.I could do this.
“Being untouched. Keeping the mind clean of any dirty thoughts. Being obedient and quiet.”
The words sounded rehearsed even to my own ears, like something I’d been taught to recite instead of explain.
“When you say ‘untouched,’” the attorney said carefully, “what did that mean in practice, Mr. Ransom?”
My fingers tightened around the stone.
“It meant I wasn’t allowed to touch others, and they weren’t allowed to touch me,” I explained. “I… We weren’t allowed to touch ourselves either—l-like in a sexual way—or even think about it. Father… Father sometimes would put his hand on my shoulder or pat my head, but that was very rare. It was sinful to want affection.”
“If you or one of the other community members broke these rules, what would happen?”
“There were consequences,” I said. “Um… Like kneeling in rice, fasting, extra chores, and—and physical correction. But the physical things weren’t until this year.”
“Can you describe to the jury what you mean by ‘physical correction?’”
I held in a whimper, instead taking a deep breath and finding Jace in the crowd of people filling the courtroom.
“It happened twice to me. The first time, Father declared that he needed to whip one of the boys because he’d been struggling with lust. Even though the boy hadn’t touched himself, Father was angry because he’d thought about it. I didn’t… He’d never whipped anyone before. I couldn’t let it happen to Silas—I just couldn’t. So I volunteered. Father let me take the punishment because he thought it would hurt the congregation to see something like that happen to me. I was… held down by two men while Father whipped me. I passed out from the pain and woke up in my room. The second time was the day the FBI came. He was caning me. I don’t remember much about it; my therapist says I’ve blocked some of it out.”
A ripple moved through the jury. Someone shifted in their seat. I kept my eyes forward.
The attorney didn’t speak rightaway.
She walked back toward the prosecution table, picked up a small remote, and turned to face the judge.
“Your Honor,” she said calmly, “the State would like to introduce photographic evidence documenting injuries sustained by the witness as a result of the abuse he just described.”
My stomach tightened.
The judge nodded. “Proceed.”
I heard a soft click.
The screen behind her lit up.
At first, my brain refused to make sense of what I was seeing. The image was too close, too detailed—skin filling the frame, pale and bruised, crisscrossed with dark, angry lines. Red had faded to purple and yellow in places. Some marks overlapped others, layered.
I stared.
That’s… a back,I thought distantly.
Then recognition hit, slow and nauseating.
That wasmyback.
My breath stuttered.
I hadn’t known pictures were taken.
The courtroom seemed to tilt, like the floor had shifted a fraction to the left.
“Mr. Ransom,” the attorney said gently, “do you recognize what is shown in this photograph?”
