Part Four
Rebekah wakened slowly the next morning, her eyes opening to greet the morning sun. Confusion and a feeling of grogginess overwhelmed her, as she looked around at her unfamiliar surroundings. Her body felt strange, almost as if she didn't have full control of her limbs. She rubbed her eyes, trying to rid herself of the deep fatigue that plagued her body.
"I see your finally awake," a voice spoke from the corner.
Rebekah turned her head to greet the familiar voice. "Frances?" The boy nodded his head. "What happened to me? Where am I?"
Francis rose quietly from his chair, and sat at the edge of his sister's bed. "You are in a hospital, run by missionaries."
"A hospital?"
His face grew solemn as he looked up at his sister. "Yes, a hospital."
"Where is Mother?" she asked, her voice full of hope. The reason she had gone home was to patch things up with her family; it hurt her to not have them in her life.
"She didn't come."
The news hit Rebekah like a ton of bricks, and for a second she felt as if she couldn't breathe. She forced herself to sit up in the bed, groaning in pain. "She didn't come?"
"No," he answered, his voice full of sadness. "She.she.told me to take you here."
Rebekah laughed, a deep throaty cackle with a harshness that bounced of the sterile walls. "She still looks upon me with scorn, does she?"
Frances sighed, the hurt resonating off his soft features. "Aye, she does. I can not explain it."
Rebekah's cheeks tinged with the color of anger as she pulled the blanket off her heavy body. "I can explain it." She held onto the sides of the bed as she pulled herself up slowly, ignoring the pain that spread through her sides. "She sees me as the spawn of Satan, himself. Piety and Chastity denounced me through their heavenly breath as being nothing but a thing of wickedness."
"You should not be standing, dear sister." The boy got up and walked over to her, holding out his hands for support.
"Tell me, Frances," she whispered, turning towards him. "Do you think I am wicked?"
He looked back at her, his gaze unwavering. "It is not for me to judge you. Only God can do so."
Rebekah flinched at his answer, and pulled away from him. "You do. You agree with her." He tried to grab her, to steady her, but she would not have it. "Do not touch me!" she yelled, her voice rising with anger. She walked over to the window, and looked outside.
"I am worried about you, Rebekah."
She continued to stare outside, rubbing her fingers in strange concentric circles against the glass of the window. "The glass is cold, like my heart," she whispered, as she turned around to face him. Her voice seemed to change as she spoke; it now took on a strange and eerie intonation. "Did she ever tell you why I was cast out? Why she disowned me and left me in the streets to die?"
"No."
Her expression changed, as a veil of sadness fell upon her features. "I loved him, Frances. He came to me, dancing and weaving his way into my heart, and my heart sang."
"So, it is true?" he asked.
"Yes, it is true." She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the look of disappointment etched on his face. "He came to me, and I was weak. I took him to my bed. I sinned. If I be impure, look to no other reason but love." She watched as tears welled up in the corners of his eyes. "Why do you cry?"
He wiped them away with the back of his palm. "Because," he whispered, his voice growing soft, "it is love that has murdered my dear sweet sister."
"Are you mad?" she asked, her face full of shock. "How could you say such a thing? Am I not standing before you?" She glared at him, hurt emanating from her eyes.
He walked over to her and took her hand into his own. "I am not mad." He led her back over to the bed and motioned her to sit. "Why do you think you passed out today? Why do you think you are here, in this hospital, at this very moment?"
"I was weak, is all," she answered, looking over at her brother. She watched as he closed his eyes for a moment, and then looked back up at her, his eyes red with tears. "Frances, my ailment is just one of weakness, right?" Her voice shook, as an unsettling feeling welled up within the pit of her stomach.
He shook his head, the tears flowing freely from his eyes. "No, Rebekah. Your body is not weak; it is dying. You are dying."
Rebekah wakened slowly the next morning, her eyes opening to greet the morning sun. Confusion and a feeling of grogginess overwhelmed her, as she looked around at her unfamiliar surroundings. Her body felt strange, almost as if she didn't have full control of her limbs. She rubbed her eyes, trying to rid herself of the deep fatigue that plagued her body.
"I see your finally awake," a voice spoke from the corner.
Rebekah turned her head to greet the familiar voice. "Frances?" The boy nodded his head. "What happened to me? Where am I?"
Francis rose quietly from his chair, and sat at the edge of his sister's bed. "You are in a hospital, run by missionaries."
"A hospital?"
His face grew solemn as he looked up at his sister. "Yes, a hospital."
"Where is Mother?" she asked, her voice full of hope. The reason she had gone home was to patch things up with her family; it hurt her to not have them in her life.
"She didn't come."
The news hit Rebekah like a ton of bricks, and for a second she felt as if she couldn't breathe. She forced herself to sit up in the bed, groaning in pain. "She didn't come?"
"No," he answered, his voice full of sadness. "She.she.told me to take you here."
Rebekah laughed, a deep throaty cackle with a harshness that bounced of the sterile walls. "She still looks upon me with scorn, does she?"
Frances sighed, the hurt resonating off his soft features. "Aye, she does. I can not explain it."
Rebekah's cheeks tinged with the color of anger as she pulled the blanket off her heavy body. "I can explain it." She held onto the sides of the bed as she pulled herself up slowly, ignoring the pain that spread through her sides. "She sees me as the spawn of Satan, himself. Piety and Chastity denounced me through their heavenly breath as being nothing but a thing of wickedness."
"You should not be standing, dear sister." The boy got up and walked over to her, holding out his hands for support.
"Tell me, Frances," she whispered, turning towards him. "Do you think I am wicked?"
He looked back at her, his gaze unwavering. "It is not for me to judge you. Only God can do so."
Rebekah flinched at his answer, and pulled away from him. "You do. You agree with her." He tried to grab her, to steady her, but she would not have it. "Do not touch me!" she yelled, her voice rising with anger. She walked over to the window, and looked outside.
"I am worried about you, Rebekah."
She continued to stare outside, rubbing her fingers in strange concentric circles against the glass of the window. "The glass is cold, like my heart," she whispered, as she turned around to face him. Her voice seemed to change as she spoke; it now took on a strange and eerie intonation. "Did she ever tell you why I was cast out? Why she disowned me and left me in the streets to die?"
"No."
Her expression changed, as a veil of sadness fell upon her features. "I loved him, Frances. He came to me, dancing and weaving his way into my heart, and my heart sang."
"So, it is true?" he asked.
"Yes, it is true." She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the look of disappointment etched on his face. "He came to me, and I was weak. I took him to my bed. I sinned. If I be impure, look to no other reason but love." She watched as tears welled up in the corners of his eyes. "Why do you cry?"
He wiped them away with the back of his palm. "Because," he whispered, his voice growing soft, "it is love that has murdered my dear sweet sister."
"Are you mad?" she asked, her face full of shock. "How could you say such a thing? Am I not standing before you?" She glared at him, hurt emanating from her eyes.
He walked over to her and took her hand into his own. "I am not mad." He led her back over to the bed and motioned her to sit. "Why do you think you passed out today? Why do you think you are here, in this hospital, at this very moment?"
"I was weak, is all," she answered, looking over at her brother. She watched as he closed his eyes for a moment, and then looked back up at her, his eyes red with tears. "Frances, my ailment is just one of weakness, right?" Her voice shook, as an unsettling feeling welled up within the pit of her stomach.
He shook his head, the tears flowing freely from his eyes. "No, Rebekah. Your body is not weak; it is dying. You are dying."