John 1:1 to 5
* * *
There. In her.
She could feel it, all the time now, deep inside. Building.
It was still, as yet, unfamiliar, for it was not in her nature to feel this way. Always before it had been possible to let it pass by, to just watch and see as in time what happened would happen, as the dance that went on around her swirled and turned, each playing their roles, each doing what they would do.
She remembered the last time. That memory had lain unused for many years now, but now it had reemerged, the way their faces looked, the pain, and then the day that Andrea had turned 18, the day she had packed a bag and walked out the door.
Without a word.
Only that look on her face, that look that said nothing and that said everything, that was anger and rage and pain.
She thought about Andrea a lot these days, Samantha did.
And she felt as the weight grew, hidden beneath her perfect exterior. The perfect daughter, the beautiful daughter.
The daughter they trusted.
Without good cause.
#
It was she, of all of them, who saw. It was she who understood. Perhaps love and faith had made them blind, or perhaps it was not love or faith but fear. Perhaps. But this did not matter, not to Samantha, because she saw, she understood. We may wonder if this was because she was Ellen's twin, fraternal, yes, but twin nonetheless. It was with Ellen that Samantha had always shared her room and her clothes and her toys and her chores and her studies. It was with her that she had shared the intimate talks between sisters, with her and her alone that Samantha had shared the truth of what she did to boys like Simon Camden.
Yes, it was she.
She who saw that Ellen was not Andrea, that the discipline and punishment that had hardened Andrea, that had driven her walk out of her 18th birthday party with a bag, never to return, hard and angry and denunciatory, was she who saw that this same discipline and punishment would not harden Ellen but would instead destroy her. Ellen, Samantha knew, was strong, but not in this way but in another, in her passion and her love of the world, the colors and the sounds and the smells and the feel of it. She was strong in the way a poet is strong, answering her muse and seeking God not in a book but in living, in seeing, in feeling. This was Ellen; she would not and could not hate their parents as Andrea had, would not and could not hate anyone save one.
Save that one she hated now. That one that Mom and Dad told her she must hate, told her that she must pray to defeat, to drive away.
Pray now, Ellen.
"I cast thee out, Satan. I cast thee out, lust. I cast thee out, temptation. I cast thee out, evil."
I cast thee out, Ellen.
#
And the word came to Samantha Shaw, fueled by this new weight within her but fueled as well by every day that passed now, as the red marks she saw on her sister's thighs and buttocks slowly healed but as Ellen never spoke, never said anything unless you spoke to her first, and then her reply came only a short, soft monotone.
In the beginning was the Word.
And now, on this day, Samantha Shaw spoke the word, and in her speaking of it the word became.
No.
That was all, that day, but in speaking that word, that one word, there came a change to Samantha. She knew the new rules, that Ellen was to pray, every hour, was to cast out the devil, and that before bed she was pray even more, kneeling. She did this now, Ellen did, without being told to, kneeling in her nightgown by her bed, her head down, her hands clenched together.
"Please, God, please I'm bad I'm sinful I burn with lust please God save me, please Jesus, forgive me, I'm dirty and in sin ...."
And the Word was with God.
No.
It was quiet now, in the bedroom, and Ellen was there, kneeling, her words soft, rocking a bit as she whispered them.
"Please forgive me, Jesus, I'm bad and I'm dirty and I'm sinful ...."
And the word was God.
"No."
Samantha rose from her bed. Her stockinged feet made no sound in the carpet as she walked around her bed, around her sister's bed, to where her sister knelt.
He was in the beginning with God; all things were made through him.
Samantha knelt beside Ellen, took her hands into her own.
Ellen turned and looked at her. There was no expression there, on her face. And Samantha spoke then, again. She spoke the word that was in the beginning and that was the beginning, the word that was this new truth, and other words followed.
"No, Ellen. Stop now. Stop now."
Ellen stopped praying and said nothing, obedient.
"Come on," Samantha told her now, and she guided her up to sit on the bed, and she sat beside her. Samantha put her arm around her then, held her close. Ellen's gaze dropped and they sat this way for a little while.
And without him was not anything made that was made.
Samantha held her sister close. She could feel her warmth, through the heavy flannel of their nightgowns, could feel the shape of her arm, her back, her shoulders. And now that she had spoken the word Samantha had no others, just now, and so she simply held Ellen close.
And in time it was Ellen who spoke.
"I have to pray."
In him there was life, and the life was the light of men.
"No you don't."
"God hates me. I have to pray."
The words, as before, were a monotone, quiet. There was nothing behind them, nothing familiar. And the wrath that was within Samantha grew, heavy on the vine, heavy for the vintage. She knew its time would come and there would be no mercy in its coming.
But for now, she spoke again.
The word.
"No. Look at me, El."
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
Slowly, Ellen turned her head. Her face was hidden beneath her hair, hidden in shadow in the low light of the room. Samantha reached up and teased away the strands of hair to reveal her sister's face.
"Listen now," Samantha said. "You are my sister. You are my beautiful, wonderful sister. God himself does not know enough words to describe how much I love you. You did nothing wrong."
Ellen blinked.
"I have to pray, Sam. I have to, because ...."
Her voice drifted off. She tried to move from the bed and back to the floor, but Samantha held her. Samantha spoke again.
"Mom and Dad do not own God, El. The Bible does not own God. God is bigger than they are. God knows you and he loves you, can't you see? Like I love you, El; you're my sister. Please ...."
But Ellen had broken free of her hold, and she had returned to her knees, and her soft prayers again filled the room.
* * *
There. In her.
She could feel it, all the time now, deep inside. Building.
It was still, as yet, unfamiliar, for it was not in her nature to feel this way. Always before it had been possible to let it pass by, to just watch and see as in time what happened would happen, as the dance that went on around her swirled and turned, each playing their roles, each doing what they would do.
She remembered the last time. That memory had lain unused for many years now, but now it had reemerged, the way their faces looked, the pain, and then the day that Andrea had turned 18, the day she had packed a bag and walked out the door.
Without a word.
Only that look on her face, that look that said nothing and that said everything, that was anger and rage and pain.
She thought about Andrea a lot these days, Samantha did.
And she felt as the weight grew, hidden beneath her perfect exterior. The perfect daughter, the beautiful daughter.
The daughter they trusted.
Without good cause.
#
It was she, of all of them, who saw. It was she who understood. Perhaps love and faith had made them blind, or perhaps it was not love or faith but fear. Perhaps. But this did not matter, not to Samantha, because she saw, she understood. We may wonder if this was because she was Ellen's twin, fraternal, yes, but twin nonetheless. It was with Ellen that Samantha had always shared her room and her clothes and her toys and her chores and her studies. It was with her that she had shared the intimate talks between sisters, with her and her alone that Samantha had shared the truth of what she did to boys like Simon Camden.
Yes, it was she.
She who saw that Ellen was not Andrea, that the discipline and punishment that had hardened Andrea, that had driven her walk out of her 18th birthday party with a bag, never to return, hard and angry and denunciatory, was she who saw that this same discipline and punishment would not harden Ellen but would instead destroy her. Ellen, Samantha knew, was strong, but not in this way but in another, in her passion and her love of the world, the colors and the sounds and the smells and the feel of it. She was strong in the way a poet is strong, answering her muse and seeking God not in a book but in living, in seeing, in feeling. This was Ellen; she would not and could not hate their parents as Andrea had, would not and could not hate anyone save one.
Save that one she hated now. That one that Mom and Dad told her she must hate, told her that she must pray to defeat, to drive away.
Pray now, Ellen.
"I cast thee out, Satan. I cast thee out, lust. I cast thee out, temptation. I cast thee out, evil."
I cast thee out, Ellen.
#
And the word came to Samantha Shaw, fueled by this new weight within her but fueled as well by every day that passed now, as the red marks she saw on her sister's thighs and buttocks slowly healed but as Ellen never spoke, never said anything unless you spoke to her first, and then her reply came only a short, soft monotone.
In the beginning was the Word.
And now, on this day, Samantha Shaw spoke the word, and in her speaking of it the word became.
No.
That was all, that day, but in speaking that word, that one word, there came a change to Samantha. She knew the new rules, that Ellen was to pray, every hour, was to cast out the devil, and that before bed she was pray even more, kneeling. She did this now, Ellen did, without being told to, kneeling in her nightgown by her bed, her head down, her hands clenched together.
"Please, God, please I'm bad I'm sinful I burn with lust please God save me, please Jesus, forgive me, I'm dirty and in sin ...."
And the Word was with God.
No.
It was quiet now, in the bedroom, and Ellen was there, kneeling, her words soft, rocking a bit as she whispered them.
"Please forgive me, Jesus, I'm bad and I'm dirty and I'm sinful ...."
And the word was God.
"No."
Samantha rose from her bed. Her stockinged feet made no sound in the carpet as she walked around her bed, around her sister's bed, to where her sister knelt.
He was in the beginning with God; all things were made through him.
Samantha knelt beside Ellen, took her hands into her own.
Ellen turned and looked at her. There was no expression there, on her face. And Samantha spoke then, again. She spoke the word that was in the beginning and that was the beginning, the word that was this new truth, and other words followed.
"No, Ellen. Stop now. Stop now."
Ellen stopped praying and said nothing, obedient.
"Come on," Samantha told her now, and she guided her up to sit on the bed, and she sat beside her. Samantha put her arm around her then, held her close. Ellen's gaze dropped and they sat this way for a little while.
And without him was not anything made that was made.
Samantha held her sister close. She could feel her warmth, through the heavy flannel of their nightgowns, could feel the shape of her arm, her back, her shoulders. And now that she had spoken the word Samantha had no others, just now, and so she simply held Ellen close.
And in time it was Ellen who spoke.
"I have to pray."
In him there was life, and the life was the light of men.
"No you don't."
"God hates me. I have to pray."
The words, as before, were a monotone, quiet. There was nothing behind them, nothing familiar. And the wrath that was within Samantha grew, heavy on the vine, heavy for the vintage. She knew its time would come and there would be no mercy in its coming.
But for now, she spoke again.
The word.
"No. Look at me, El."
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
Slowly, Ellen turned her head. Her face was hidden beneath her hair, hidden in shadow in the low light of the room. Samantha reached up and teased away the strands of hair to reveal her sister's face.
"Listen now," Samantha said. "You are my sister. You are my beautiful, wonderful sister. God himself does not know enough words to describe how much I love you. You did nothing wrong."
Ellen blinked.
"I have to pray, Sam. I have to, because ...."
Her voice drifted off. She tried to move from the bed and back to the floor, but Samantha held her. Samantha spoke again.
"Mom and Dad do not own God, El. The Bible does not own God. God is bigger than they are. God knows you and he loves you, can't you see? Like I love you, El; you're my sister. Please ...."
But Ellen had broken free of her hold, and she had returned to her knees, and her soft prayers again filled the room.