Deep Redemption

As I clutched the spray, I could not stop trembling. It is truly happening, I thought as I stared at the painted stranger in front of me. I recognized nothing of this woman. I felt nothing like my true self.

My body suddenly felt weak. Drained of any remaining hope. Drained of the calm I had found in Puerto Rico during my short reprieve from this stifling “Cursed” title . . . drained of the temporary happiness I had found in Rider’s arms. Rider, the mysterious, broken man who had stolen what was left of my shattered heart.

I allowed my mind to drift to the man who had become the focus of my every waking thought. I wondered what he was doing at this very moment. I felt like crying when I wondered who would treat him and care for him after his daily punishments from now on. My heart lurched with sadness as I recalled how his weary eyes would watch me as I washed away the blood and dirt collected on his skin. As if I was his savior, as if no one had ever shown him such care and compassion in his life . . . as if afraid I would leave him, as everyone in his life always had. From today he would be alone again. I could barely breathe as I thought of him sitting day after day in that cell, lonely and defeated.

It broke my heart.

I glanced up at my foreign reflection, and I felt the life seeping from me with every breath. In a better world I would belong to a man such as Rider. We would choose to be in each other’s arms. I had heard the stories of the outside world from Brother Stephen and Sister Ruth, how people were free to live as they wished, with whomever they wished. But in my life, I had only ever experienced hurt and pain. And loss. Such loss that I could not let myself remember those I had loved so fully, yet lost so tragically.

Just the memory burned me alive from within.

These past five days, Rider and I had barely spoken a word. I knew it was the wedding that had occupied his mind. It had clearly occupied my guardians’ minds, and Solomon and Samson’s too.

When I had left Rider this morning to begin my wedding preparations, there had been no great goodbye. Instead, there had been unshed tears of frustration in his eyes. I had held him close, willing myself to commit his touch to memory. When his twin took me, I wanted to picture Rider’s version of their shared face above me. It would make the situation easier to bear.

As I left, Rider had silently pressed a gentle kiss to my lips and run his finger down my cheek. With that, he had turned around to face the wall, fists at his sides, and I had walked out of the cell.

I had left him all alone.

Suddenly, my bridal garment was wrenched up my legs from behind, baring my naked lower half. My arms moved instinctively to try to stop whoever had touched me. But they were then pinned to my sides by the sister whose name I did not know. Sarai moved in front of me, blocking my view of the mirror. Her eyes never left mine as her hand reached out and cupped between my legs.

“No!” I protested. I felt Sarai’s deft fingers spread a cool liquid along my core. “Please,” I begged, trying to get free from the other sister’s grip. I could not move. I wanted to close my eyes. But when I saw the victory in Sarai’s eyes I forced myself to keep them open. She met my challenge by curling her fingers and inserting the liquid further inside me. My nose flared at the unwanted intrusion, but I breathed through the discomfort.

I would not show my weakness.

Sarai put her mouth to my ear. “It is to make you wet and able to take him in the ceremonial bed. He is big, and this joining needs to go to plan. Nothing can go wrong.” I fought back the bile that was racing up my throat. Sarai withdrew her hands, leaving my inner thighs damp.

The door opened, flooding the room in daylight. A guard stood in the doorway.

“Move,” he ordered sternly.

I did as I was told. I passed where he stood, to where another guard was waiting outside. Even from back here, in the small quarters near the prophet’s mansion, I could hear the excitement of our people in the air. They would be in their ceremonial whites. They were only asked to wear their ceremonial whites when something truly special or important was happening. However, I was sure that they would never expect what was coming this day.

The guards sandwiched me between them as they led me along a path to the patch of land in front of the prophet’s residence. With every step my heart beat faster and faster. The supposedly joyous music coming through the speakers only sounded ominous to my ears. My steps faltered when suddenly the music was cut and a familiar voice came through the speakers.

The guard in the front suddenly stopped and held up his hand to someone I could not see. I realized that we must be at the end of the aisle. My hands tightened on the stems of my bouquet.

The prophet began to speak. “People of The Order. You have been gathered here today to witness a miracle. A hope we thought had been lost.” In the long pauses between his words, the commune was deathly silent, the people hanging on to every word the prophet spilled. His voice sent shards of ice down my back. I breathed in slow breaths to compose myself.

“Today, you will all bear witness to an answered prayer. Just when we thought a prophecy would not be fulfilled, God showed us he would never desert his people and delivered us a gift . . . the gift of salvation. Today, we celebrate that gift!”

The guard ordered me forward with a wave of his hand, but my legs began to shake so much I was unsure that I could walk. Sarai appeared in my peripheral vision and motioned with her finger for me to look down. I bowed my head.

Making sure I breathed steadily, I stepped forward until the path turned to green grass under my feet. The guard placed his hand on my back and steered me until I knew I faced the congregation. A collective gasp sounded amongst the people, and in that moment, I was glad my orders were to keep my eyes downcast. I would not be able to move if I had to look my people in the eyes . . . people that detested me as much as they believed they needed me to save their mortal souls.

“Walk,” the guard behind me said quietly, too quietly for anyone else to hear. “The prophet waits at the end of the aisle.”

I slowly made my way down the aisle. The people were sitting on the ground, dressed in white. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see some of their faces. The few I caught actually looked me in the eye, and their mouths dropped in shock. “A Cursed,” they whispered, confirmation traveling through the congregation at lightning speed.

I heard people crying, rejoicing for the salvation they believed me to be. Worse, I heard them praising the prophet, speaking in tongues and wailing in delight.