After those five years, I’m given first choice of raising the children, and if I choose not to, they’ll be adopted out to very willing homes, including those of the biological fathers. Until then, they’re raised by the church.
My genetics, scholastic aptitude and medical history made me an all-too-fitting candidate to bear as many children as I can over the next five years, before I’m no longer considered prime. It was my father who shielded me from this my whole life, and upon his passing, I became the coveted--an honor for which my mother was more than happy to oblige.
Only problem?
I apparently can’t bear children, at all--a secret my mother would sooner take not only to her own grave, but that of the woman who diagnosed me with a faulty uterus, as well. My genetics might be considered superior, but my luck is crap, as far as she’s concerned, and it’s only a matter of time before the church finds out, too.
My mother follows behind me, as she’s supposed to, but also to make sure I don’t act on my compulsions to escape. Though I’ve been careful not to outright decline, particularly in front of the congregation, I’ve not hidden the fact that I detest this. The woman knows me too well enough to understand that if I feel cornered, I won’t hesitate to run.
And I’m definitely feeling cornered.
Another of the Chosen waits for me, a young dark-skinned girl, two years younger, named Aaliyah. The smile stretched across her face is all for show, I’m certain, but the one her mother wears matches my own mother’s. As the two older women clasp hands and smile in tearful joy, the urge to puke churns inside my stomach.
We wait in the middle of the road for the third and youngest girl, Lily, who I’m guessing is only sixteen, and once we’re assembled, it takes a good ten minutes to walk to the church. Every step weighs heavy on me, and though this is meant to be a parade of celebration, I can’t help but feel as if I’m marching toward certain death.
The church smells of nauseating incense and freshly polished wood when we enter. Mother Chilson greets us in the nave, the warm smile on her face a stark contrast to her purpose. My eyes are drawn to the crucifix dangling from her neck, over the white coif and neckerchief against a pitch black scapular. Her job will be to observe the blood on our dresses once the sanctification, or deflowering, has taken place. And, oh, what celebration that will be!
Except, there will be no blood on my dress tonight. Because, unable to bear the thought of some wrinkled old man robbing me of what doesn’t belong to him, I willfully handed over my virginity to Will nearly two weeks ago. My one slap to the face of the church, before the entire community brands me an undeserving harlot.
The crowd from outside files in, filling the pews, the sight of which wrings my nerves like a damp cloth, and I glance back at my mother, taking in the last of that beaming pride before the truth turns her into the vision of despair I’ve grown familiar with in recent months.
Can’t say what will happen after this, seeing as I’ve never gone out of my way to defy the woman to this extent.
I and the two other girl are led into a room at the back of the church, where a bench is lined up against a wall in the hallway, outside the door. The door that leads to a room where a sterile pastor waits to break our hymen. To confirm that we are all virgins.
Nan always ridiculed this ceremony, referring to it as an outdated display of human ignorance and persecution. Half this community labeled her a witch, including my mother, though she’d never admit to it. If not for my father, her only son, and his high-ranking position, I’m certain they’d have all petitioned to have her strung up and burned at the stake.
Mother Chilson directs us to sit on the bench, as she takes Aaliyah by the hand and leads her into the room as if she isn’t some glorified brothel keeper.
God, my heart pounds against my ribs with the fury of a caged animal.
Mother Chilson exits the room, closing the door behind her. Seconds later, soft whimpers bleed through the tired wood. I recall those same sounds from just weeks ago, only mine were steeped in care and compassion, and, more importantly, free will.
Minutes pass before a bell rings from the other side of the door, and Mother Chilson opens it, disappearing into the room once again.
Rubbing my sweaty hands together in my lap, I swallow a cold gulp, my chest hollow.
Aaliyah appears in the doorway, the shine of tear tracks down her cheek capturing my attention, as Mother Chilson leads her by the hand down to the other end of the bench. As she passes, I catch the spots of bright red blood staining the fabric of her dress, and my hands ball into fists.
How did this come to be acceptable? Who decided defiling girls this way was okay?
Warm skin brushes over my arm, and I look up to find Mother Chilson staring down at me with the same pride as every other mother tonight.
Disgusting.
She urges me to my feet, and when I glance back and see Aaliyah hiding her face in her palms, I wrench my arm away. The warmth in Mother Chilson’s expression hardens.
“It’s time, child. Let’s not delay the ceremony.”
No. We mustn't delay the molestation of young girls.
This isn’t the same church I attended as a child. This isn’t the God I’ve come to love. This is a cult. No God, nor Father, would find this acceptable.
The new religious movement began about seven years ago, after Father James passed and the new pastor took over. It’s become far more political, its purpose more obscure.
Questionable, but perhaps only to me.
“I can’t.” Shaking my head, I take a step back from her. “I can’t do this.”
Lips tight with frustration, she leans in. “Your mother and brother are counting on you. What would your father say, if you refuse?” Voice low, as if to keep the other girls from hearing the threat in her words, she tightens her grip on my arm.
Instinct tells me to run.
It’s only the thought of what will happen to my mother and brother that gives me pause, and I blink to hide the tears.
“It’ll be over soon.”
Mother Chilson’s words fail to bring me comfort. Because it won’t be over soon. This is only the beginning. There will be other men. All will be expected to be gentle, but some won’t. A rumor circulated a year ago, about a Daughter who was brutally violated by one of the men who called upon her. As I understand, she’s now living the high life in one of the big mansions, relieved of her duties, but even so. Lucky her.
Your mother and brother are counting on you.
Grant will surely suffer the worst of it, as protective as he is. Whores are shunned. Brothers of whores are ridiculed and bullied, to no end.
I step into the room that’s lit only by candles around what looks like an altar. An older man with white hair waits beside an ornately-carved wooden table. The craftsmanship is flawless and looks sturdy enough, likely to hold both sacrifice and sacrificer.
By the time I reach the table, my muscles feel as if they’re on the verge of giving out on me.
Hands grip my shoulders, turning me toward the old man, Father Parsons. The Shepherd, as he likes to call himself, whose eyes sparkle with twisted fascination as they cruise over my body. As if I haven’t known this man as a father for the last seven years. As if he’s seeing me as something else entirely right now.
“Such a beautiful, nubile creature.” He ushers me onto the table, and with a small bit of hesitation, I climb on, allowing him to lay me on my back. The cold wood, where Aaliyah lay just minutes ago, presses into my spine, and he adjusts my dress to ensure the back of it is spread beneath me to catch the fallen drops of blood. As soon as the door closes behind Mother Chilson, the old man climbs the few steps at the other end of the table and allows his robe to fall from his stark naked form.