APRIL

For the second time in my life, I wake up with Jackson beside me. Unlike the first time, though, this instance was purposeful. But as purposeful as it was, I'm still not used to it.

I'm used to my small twin bed at home in my drafty room, the stiff sheets patterned with little flowers. I'm used to my thin pillow, wool blanket folded at the bottom, and wooden bed posts. Every morning, I wake up with my arms curled into my chest, one hand under my cheek, and my knees drawn up. I never wake up tucked against a body alive with heat, both of us nearly naked.

I'm completely naked. He's not all the way there, given he's wearing boxers. But just under his boxers is a bulge that I recognize now, and it's persistent. It's pressing tight against my butt, and his arms are all over me. One is under my head - I'm using it as a makeshift pillow - and the other is slung low on my hips. I'm turned just right so his hand grazes the private spot between my thighs - just slightly, just fingertips. But it's enough.

I adjust a bit to move his fingers away. I'm not sure how their touch makes me feel. Not violated, not in the slightest, but I want my space now. I'm so used to being solitary, and the past twenty-four hours have been an overload of contact. Romantic, physical, emotional; I've gotten it all.

I've gotten so much more than I bargained for this summer. This summer was supposed to be spent finishing school and earning my diploma. It was supposed to be spent quietly with Matthew studying the bible in church and outside it. It was not supposed to be spent wrapped in a tattooed boy's arms at his lake house with cut hair, shaved legs, and absent virginity.

I can't stay in bed any longer. The room is hot with stagnant air, and there's a certain scent lingering that I can't place. My thoughts are overwhelming and making me more fidgety than I'd like to admit. If I keep still another moment, I might explode.

So, as carefully as I can, I unwind myself from him. I start off by lifting his heavy arm off to inch it back towards his body - and as I do so, he doesn't stir. After I'm free of it, I slink out from under the covers and feel the draft hit my skin, so I look for something to wear as quick as I can. I come across the pajama set discarded on the floor and deem it good enough, then step into the shorts.

"Mmm…" Jackson groans, and I freeze. "Kitty… where're y'going?"

My forehead wrinkles with concentration and worry. I know I don't have to feel nervous, it's not like I'm in trouble for being caught, but it feels that way. I'm so used to being punished for every little thing I do; it's not an easy mindset to escape.

"I… um," I stammer. "I can't sleep."

"Come back to bed," he says, but his eyes don't open. "We can cuddle."

"I…" I trail off again. "I have to go to the bathroom."

A lie. Why did I lie to him? My gut sinks with a heavy, sick feeling. He's the one person who I thought I'd never lie to. I shake my head when it dawns on me that there are a lot of people I swore I'd never lie to. I always go back on my promises. What kind of person am I, really? I can't stay loyal to anyone.

I leave the bedroom silently as Jackson drifts off again. I listen as his breathing slows and his body grows slack in the state it had been in, and after grabbing my notebook, I let the door stay open to avoid the sound of it closing.

I descend the stairs with quiet feet. The house is still cool and purple from the night - it hasn't quite woken up yet; everything is calm. Inside, I feel the exact opposite, though. I'm jumpy and prickling with nervous energy. I don't know what's wrong with me, but I know it's a lot.

I have to pass through the living room on the way outside, and the sound of the TV comes from inside it. I pause before entering, wondering if it would be smarter to just go back upstairs, when I hear Catherine speak.

"April?" she calls, very softly. "You don't have to stand there outside the door. Come in, sweetheart."

Taught to do as I'm told, I step forward into her line of sight. She's wearing pajamas and a robe, watching TV with the volume very low. I stand rigid with my hands clasped at my waist, twisting my fingers nervously.

"What are you doing up so early?" she asks.

I shrug one shoulder and avoid her eyes. I can't seem to look at them. They remind me too much of Jackson's; not necessarily the color, but the shape and the expression inside. Like she's trying to see right through and read my mind. I don't want my mind read right now. I want to be alone with my sins.

"Couldn't sleep," I mutter, words tumbling onto the rug instead of towards Catherine.

"You're welcome to join me," she says. "I don't know what's on, but I'm sure we could find something. I don't do much sleeping myself."

"I-I…" I stutter. "That's okay. I was just… I was just going to sit out on the porch and-and… and think for a while. And…" I hold up the notebook. "And write, if that's okay."

Her face softens. "Of course it's okay," she says. "You don't have to get permission from me."

"Okay," I say, but I can't help lingering. I'm not used to being allowed to do things of my own accord.

"Go on, then," she says lightly, nodding me along. "Come inside for breakfast in a bit."

I give her a curt smile and continue on my way. When I open the screen door, the air isn't warm but it isn't cool, either. It's a nice wake-up and it makes me feel cleaner than I did before, more untouched now. I know Jackson's fingerprints are still all over me, but the ocean breeze washes them away. God's touch makes me pure again.

I shouldn't have gone along with what we did. I shouldn't have had sex with him. I should still be a virgin right now; I should still be at home right now. This is no place for me. I've made so many mistakes. I've let so many people down; and most importantly, I've let down God.

I'll be punished for what I did, not only by God but from my mother, too. I've come to expect it. Her hand will come down hard when we return. I won't be surprised if she gets physical with me, though she never has before. She will be so angry, and with due right. I've gone behind her back and betrayed our family and everything she's taught us. I'm, once again, the disappointment of our family. She should lock me away for good. That way, I could never do something like this again.

It shouldn't have felt as amazing as it did. I shouldn't have let myself feel all those things for him. I never should've told him I loved him. Because do I, really? Do I even know what love is, or was I just caught up in all the new feelings he gave me?

I lean forward and place my head in my hands. I can't tell up from down anymore. I thought I could trust my emotions, but now my instincts tell me to do the exact opposite. Jackson did make me feel good - physically and mentally. He built me up. He told me I was beautiful, and he saw me for who I thought I was.

But he took something from me; something I've cherished my entire life. My purity and closeness to God, the promise I made Him. Now, it's gone. Tossed out the window. Disappeared when Jackson's body sunk inside mine for the first time last night, between the sheets we shared.

I should be disgusted with myself for the promises I've broken, and I am. I'm disgusted because of the way I've lied and betrayed my family's trust. But the reason I hate myself the most is because I can't force myself to denounce how phenomenal he made my body feel. He knew exactly what he was doing, and made sure I felt good. He thought of me throughout the whole thing. That has to mean he's a good person, right?

Good people can do bad things though. Like join a gang. Like take someone's virginity.

I blink hard against the early morning sun and pull out the notebook I haven't written in lately. Ever since Jackson and I became an item, it's faded to the recesses of my mind. I haven't needed it, because he became my personal diary. That can't be healthy, though. I can't depend on him like that anymore. I used to be so self-sufficient. I knew exactly what I needed to survive and how to take care of myself - and it wasn't much. Now, I lean on him for everything, and I'm constantly thinking about what he needs. That isn't good. That isn't what God wants. I'm not his wife. I have to stop acting like I am.

If I were his wife, though, what we did last night would be the furthest thing from a sin. But as idealistic as that thought is, it isn't true. We're barely boyfriend and girlfriend. We shouldn't have had sex. It was wrong, and it was a sin. I'll be punished, and so will he. In his own way.

As I open the notebook, I try and clear my mind so I can write concisely. As I flip through, I come across the silly list I had written upon Jackson's arrival at the farm. I can't look at it now. It seems immature and stupid.

I avert my eyes from the vapid poems I wrote about him, like some lovesick little girl. That's what I was, I come to realize. I was pathetic. I can't be like that anymore. He made me feel good, but that's it. He also led me to carnal sin. I'm not a lustful person, that's not who I am. And he turned me into that. He's to blame for my fall from grace. I should've obeyed those rules I set for myself, I know that now. I shouldn't have given him a second glance.

He ruined me. By showing me things I never would have seen without him, he wrecked me and everything I've ever been.

I poise the tip of the pencil on the page and try to think of something to say, but nothing comes. It's like there's a block in my brain, preventing any poetry. Usually, it's so easy. I barely have to try. But now, there lies an empty well, devoid of any meaningful words.

I press down hard and the lead cracks, creating a jagged prick of graphite in its place. I manage to scratch down one phrase and one phrase only, but I'm not sure who it's directed towards.

I hate you.

…

I stay out on the porch even though I get cold. I'm not dressed in much and my legs have goosebumps all over them, and I catch the stares of a handful of male runners that pass by. The feeling of their eyes on me makes me cringe, and I can't look back. I look towards the slatted wood floor instead and wrap my arms tighter around my legs, staying quiet until the slider comes open and Jackson appears.

I look briefly toward the sound, but turn my head away when I realize who it is. My stomach jumps with anxiety. I don't know how to face him after all the thoughts that have rushed through my mind this morning.

"Hey, baby," he says. He rubs his arms given he's still shirtless against the crisp breeze. "It's cold out here. Wanna come in?"

I don't respond. I stare ahead, eyes cemented on the lake.

"Mom's making pancakes," he says. "Ever had those before?"

"Of course I have," I snap, under my breath.

"Oh," he says, then shifts his weight from foot to foot. "Didn't know. But… do you wanna come in?"

"No," I say. "I'm fine here."

"Breakfast'll be ready pretty soon."

"I'm not really hungry," I state.

He gives me an odd look. I don't need to see him to know. I can feel how confused he is, but tell myself it's not my job to fix it. I have to stop worrying about him. The reason I got into this mess is because I let him take over my head. I won't let that happen again.

"You okay?" he asks, stepping closer. He drops a kiss atop my head and I stay rigid, not spurning his affection but not accepting it, either. "You're… off, or something."

"I'm fine," I say.

"You don't seem fine," he says. "What's wrong, kitty? Did my mom say something to you?"

"No," I say. "I just… I'm fine, Jackson. I just don't feel very well, that's all. My… it's my stomach."

"Oh," he says. "There's medicine inside, I think. I can get you some Pepto."

"No," I say again. "I just want to sit here." I turn and make pointed eye contact with him. "I want to be alone."

His expression crumbles at the words and my chest shatters. I try not to show it, though. We can't be close anymore. I can't turn into the girl who spirals and can't find her way back to God. God is all I've ever known. Who am I without Him? Who am I if I've betrayed Him? I'm no one. I can't stomach the thought of losing everything in place of something that will inevitably fall through when the summer ends.

I have to trust what I know. I know Jesus. I've been around Jackson for less than two months. God can give me everything, and that's a promise that will always go unbroken. What's a human promise in comparison to one of His?

"Geez, okay," he says, then scratches the back of his neck. He turns to walk inside, but then looks back with one hand pressed to the sliding glass door. "Is this about last night?" he asks.

My shoulders tense. I follow the cresting waves with my eyes. I'm not sure how to respond - tell the truth or keep it bottled up like always?

I decide not to open my mouth at all, and he gets tired of standing there and waiting for me to answer. He sighs after a while, then pulls the door open.

"Come in when you're ready, I guess," he says. "I'm not really sure how to help you."

The door closes behind him and every muscle in my upper body loosens. I let my head fall forward into my hands, and the sobs come freely once I'm alone.

…

As we pack up and get ready to leave, the air in the house is icy. Jackson isn't talking to Catherine for reasons I'm unaware of, and I'm not saying much of anything. When we're in his room together alone, though, he takes another chance.

"What's bothering you?" he asks. "Will you just talk to me? I don't know why you're ignoring me."

I take a shirt out of the dresser, refold it, and put it back in. I'd never be able to wear it at home without scrutiny. It has to stay here, and I'll never see it again. I run one hand over the fabric and close the drawer - the rest of the clothes inside will suffer the same fate.

"I'm not ignoring you," I say.

"Don't lie," he says. "It's not cute. Just spit it out."

I blink hard, hot tears threatening to spill over the edge. I do my best not to let them, though, looking towards the ceiling to keep them at bay.

"Are you upset over what we did?" he asks, a second time. "Are you freaking out that we had sex?"

My face scrunches up hearing the actual word. "Stop," I hiss. I meant for my voice to sound more powerful, but it doesn't come across that way.

"I'm right, aren't I?" he says, tone clipped.

"Jackson," I say.

"If you're upset, we should talk about it," he says.

"I don't want to," I say, waving my hands haphazardly. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Why not?" he says, coming closer with a rumpled shirt that he was about to shove into his backpack.

"I just don't," I say, pulling up the zipper of my bag. "I just want to go home."

"What changed?" he says. "What happened? You said you wanted to do it last night. It was your fuckin' idea, April!"

"Don't yell at me," I say, cowering. I flinch against his hulking frame, and he backs off. "Please. I want to leave."

"I just need you to talk to me," he says. "We can fix this. I can make this better. I just need to know what you're thinking."

I shake my head tersely, lips pinched. If I keep up with this expression, the wrinkles will surely stick.

"Talk to me, kitty," he says, voice growing softer. "Come on. I'll listen."

"I don't want to talk to you!" I say, face growing hot. "I want Jesus. That's who I want to talk to. And I can't."

Jackson squints. "Why? What are you talking about? Why can't you talk to Him?"

I throw my backpack over my shoulder and move towards the door, ready to storm out. "Because He hates me for what I did," I say. "What we did."

"April, come on," he says. "I asked you if you wanted it a million times. You said yes every time. You can't really-"

"It was a mistake," I spit, tears streaming down my face. "It was a mistake, Jackson. And I want to go home."

…

In the car, I keep my face turned towards the window so neither Jackson nor Catherine see me crying. The tears come fast and hot, but I wipe them away as subtly as I can. I don't want Catherine asking what's wrong, though I'm sure she already noticed the tense silence. It's coming at her from all sides.

With the risk of sounding crazy, I start whispering to myself. I make sure it's quiet, I don't want any questions asked, but I need this right now.

"You are my hiding place; You will protect me from trouble and surround me with songs of deliverance," I whisper. "Psalm 32: 7-8."

I rub my eyes hard. I'm exhausted; it feels like I didn't sleep last night, though I got plenty of rest.

"It is the Lord who goes before you. He will be with you; He will not fail you or forsake you. Do not fear or be dismayed. Deuteronomy 33:27."

I wind my fingers together and twist them until the knuckles pop. I stare at my bare arms soaked in sunlight, and my eyes catch on one of the first things Jackson noticed about me: the group of freckles in the shape of a 'J.'

I squeeze my eyes shut tight and shake my head forcefully. No, no, no.

"In repentance and rest is your salvation, in quietness and trust is your strength. Isaiah 30:15." I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Isaiah 30:15. Isaiah 30:15."

"What was that, sweetheart?" Catherine asks, peering in the rearview mirror much in the way she had when we first pulled away from the farm. "Did you say something?"

Immediately, I duck my chin and shake my head. "No," I mutter.

I lean my head against the window after that and take to simply mouthing the verses. I recite every strengthening phrase that comes to mind, eyes closed, lips moving fluidly and quickly as the words run together in a puddle of faux-courage that leaks and drips to the floor.

A while later, Jackson jostles my shoulder and startles me to consciousness. I blink hard, having almost been asleep, but not quite there.

"Hey," he murmurs, then tips his head to one side. "You wanna…?" He nods towards his shoulder, where I had rested on the way here and been so comfortable.

"No," I say, and my voice comes out firm. I don't know how I expected it to sound, but it wasn't like that. He makes a confused face that transforms into an expression of pain a second later. I've hurt him.

But not as badly as he's hurt me.

"No, thank you," I whisper, and rest my head against the jostling window again and shut my eyes. I won't let myself touch him, I won't let myself be soothed by him, and I won't let him close to me again. I won't, and I can't. I can't do that to myself again.

I owe that much to my mother and Jesus.

…

When the gravel crunches under the tires of the fancy car I've been riding in for hours, my stomach is in knots. My whole body is sweating and the tips of my fingers have gone numb. My mother waits on the porch, flanked by all three of my sisters. Her face is set in a rock-hard scowl, arms folded across her chest, and her eyes are dead.

Alice's smile makes up for everyone else's frowns, though. I wish I could reciprocate, but with Mom's eyes on me like they are, it's impossible. As soon as I get out of this car, I'm finished. She'll see my hair and know my secrets and everything that happened. I'm convinced she'll see through me and know I'm not a virgin anymore. She'll be able to read it in my eyes.

And if she doesn't, will I be able to lie to her? Should I? To protect myself, should I weave yet another web that might be impossible to find my way out of?

I'm shaking when the car finally stops. Catherine takes a moment to look back, assumedly ready to offer advice, but I don't meet her eyes. I don't want it. Whatever punishment my mother has ready, I deserve it.

I can't help but glance over at Jackson, though. He isn't looking at me; he's staring ahead with his jaw clenched, neck veins bulging. I've never seen him so full of emotion, and I'm not sure how to handle it. I know it's because of me. I feel awful, but then remind myself how much pain he's forcing me to feel, too.

As my mind becomes clouded with thoughts of him, I inevitably travel to the night before. The night before, when we were tangled up in each other, making love, when I was crying out his name. When his body was buried inside mine and making me feel things I discovered only recently. When he told me he loved me, and when I said it back.

How I meant it. How I still mean it. But I also know it's wrong to feel these things. I'll go to Hell because of it if I don't stop now.

With my eyes on him, Jackson storms out of the car with his backpack in tow. I watch through the windshield as he stomps down the driveway towards the shed, eventually disappearing inside it. When I look back to my family, I notice no one else watched him go.

I wrap my fingers around the handle and brace myself, tepidly breathing as I lick my lips and stare at my hand. I have to do it. I have to go out there. There's no other option.

So, I push open the door wearing the outfit I left in. My mother's eyes burn into me as I come up the walk, and I keep my head bowed. I can't look her in the eye. Not only am I afraid, but she'll be upset if I do. I don't want to do anything that seems like a challenge.

"Sissy!" Alice cheers, and her footsteps come closer before they're stopped. When I look up, I see Mom grabbed her wrist and kept her back.

"All of you," Mom barks. "In the house. Now."

No one questions her, not even Alice. I feel my youngest sister's eyes on me, but I don't meet them. That'll just be trouble for both of us.

"Karen," Catherine says, approaching. "She-"

"Thank you for your hospitality, Catherine," Mom says, coldly. Colder than I've ever heard. "But it'd be best if you left now."

But Catherine stands firm, unmoving. My mother takes me by the elbow and holds tight, fingernails digging into my skin. I resist the urge to cry out, but I can't help my wince. As soon as I flinch, though, she slices me deeper. I knew she would.

"Karen, it's just a haircut," Catherine says. "Please. Consider what you're doing."

"I've fully considered it," she growls. "And you have no right to tell me how to parent my daughter or to make decisions for her. I offered your son a place to stay out of the kindness of my heart. I did not offer up my daughter to be groomed and preened for the eyes of men!"

She grabs me even tighter, if possible. My lips part and a soundless whimper escapes. Catherine sees, my mother doesn't.

"You know what happens-" Mom cuts herself off with a violent shake of the head. Her face has gone crimson, teeth bared. "No! No!" She waves an arm almost as if to act as an invisible forcefield in front of us both. "I want you off my property. The boy can stay, or he can go. I don't care. But you will not step foot near my April again."

I cower, leaning into my mother almost as if to be protected from her rage by her rage. She wraps a solid arm around me and pulls me closer - but with no warmth. She holds me for power, to show Catherine she still has me, to show her whatever liberation I've experienced did not stick.

"Leave," she orders again.

Catherine gives her a hard stare. She's probably the only person who's not afraid of my mother, and I admire her for that. Being brazen and unafraid is brave, but stupid. She has plenty of reason to be afraid. I've been taught to be afraid. Being meek and mild is important. If I had stayed that way, I wouldn't be in this mess.

"You know exactly what you're doing to her, Karen Morgan."

Mom flinches. I put two and two together and deduce that 'Morgan' must have been the name Catherine knew her under. Her maiden name.

"And that makes it even worse. Take a moment to look at your little girl. She isn't a child anymore. You can't keep her in this bubble forever," Catherine continues.

"Tell me I can't," Mom says, clutching me still. "Leave, before I call the police."

Catherine doesn't open her mouth again, but she throws one last look at my mother that chills me to the bone. She doesn't need to say anything - her eyes speak louder. She walks to the car, gets in, and makes eye contact with me for a split second. Her gaze is laced with emotion - despair, guilt, anger, pleading - but I give in to nothing. I am my mother's daughter. No matter what Catherine told me before, no matter what she made me believe, that's what I am. My mother created me, I grew inside her belly. She suffered a horrible trauma when she was my age. Who am I to take that away? Who am I to disobey? I momentarily forgot where my loyalties lie, but now, standing next to the woman who gave me life, I feel like a traitor. I lied and sinned, all for what? Because it felt good? And that's supposed to be enough?

"Mama," I whimper, once the car door shuts and Catherine backs out of the driveway. We stand in utter silence, left only in each other's company. I feel horrible for what I've done. I'll do anything it takes to repent, to build myself back up in her eyes.

She turns to face me and lets go of my arm, only to take a fistful of my hair instead. "What did you do?" she bellows. "Whose idea was this to cut off your beautiful hair?"

Do I lie? Do I tell the truth? Put on the spot, I don't know which will get me into deeper trouble. Catherine meant well, but her words led me astray.

"It's all gone," she says. "It's so short. Your womanly grace has disappeared. Where is your femininity? Where is your glory to God in how He created you? You've cut it all off. You went behind my back and chopped it."

"I'm sorry, Mom," I say, head bowed. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Did she make you do it?" she demands.

I tremble, the quiver beginning at my fingertips and spreading throughout my limbs. It's pure, bodily fear.

"April Olivia, was this your idea or hers?" She takes pause for a moment as another idea dawns on her. "Or was it his?"

"It wasn't Jackson," I say, leaping to protect him though I have no idea why. I can't stomach the thought of my mother going after him like she is me right now. No matter how he's confounded me, he doesn't deserve that. No one deserves it but me. "It was me. It was my idea. I asked, and I was shown where to go. It was me. It was my fault."

She takes a step back and scrutinizes my appearance, seemingly disgusted by it. "Who are you?" she asks. "One trip outside the farm and you disappoint me so. This isn't like you April. What has gotten into you?"

I shake my head, eyes on the warped wood of the porch. I don't know how to answer, so I decide my safest bet is silence.

The air changes as she cranes her neck to try and catch my eye. I know better than to look at her, though. Meek and mild, meek and mild, that's what I need to remember. As much trouble as I'm in right now, it would only get worse if I were combative.

"He touched you, didn't he," Mom snarls. She grabs my shoulders with both hands and jostles them so my head bounces once. "Did you let him touch you? Did you allow him to bed you and take your purity, April?"

She's screaming now, her voice risen to the breaking point, and I start to cry. I don't know what to say or how to respond. Her hands are all over me, manhandling me roughly in a way Jackson would never touch me. He was gentle, showed me kindness, doted on my every need when we came together. He saw me. But I sinned with him.

And I'm about to sin again. One last time.

I open my mouth to respond, to lie, and she slaps me. Out of nowhere, her hand flies across my cheek and leaves me stunned, folded to the side, holding the stinging side of my face. She's never laid a hand on me before, and I had forgotten to expect it.

"No, mom!" I shriek, crumpling while trying to resist defense. If I put my hands up, she'll only rip them down and hit me again. "He didn't touch me, he didn't do anything! I don't know what you're talking about. Please, mama. All I did was cut my hair. Please, please, please… I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have done it. I'm sorry, please forgive me, I'm so sorry."

She gives me a scornful look, one that I wish I could permanently erase from memory. But once it sets in, the complete opposite effect takes hold. That look sears behind my eyelids and makes an imprint. I know when I try and fall asleep later, I'll see it in flashes.

"It's not my forgiveness you have to worry about," she barsk. "It's God's."

I rest my chin against my chest, her loyal, dutiful servant. His loyal servant, just as well. Even more so.

"I'll do anything," I mutter, staring at my feet and dingy shoes. I can't help but feel the tug deep in my stomach, longing for the flip flops I wore on the beach. I can practically still hear the slapping sound they made as I walked.

I remember the smell of sunscreen, the sweet spark of ice cream on my tongue, and the sun beating down on my bare shoulders. I remember how tiny my shorts were, the way Jackson's hand felt in mine out in public, and how carefully he dragged the razor up my legs.

One of two things my mother still has no idea about.

I still feel his fingers gliding over my skin, still feel the sturdiness of his groin under my thighs and, in his words, feel 'sand in places I didn't want it.' I still feel his lips and tongue in the most intimate place, his hands on my breasts, and his body moving inside mine.

I shake my head to clear it. Those thoughts have to go away and leave me. Leave me forever.

Jolted back to reality, my mother drops a cracked rubber band into my palm. "Put it up," she orders. "And out of sight. I don't want to see your sin any longer."

I nod, carrying out her order straight away. I put my hair into a modest bun at the base of my skull, low and unassuming.

"Good," she says. "Now, get up to your room. I don't want to see your face."

Without waiting or questioning, I turn and keep my eyes downcast while walking through the front door. My sisters all stand right there, but they scatter as soon as I appear. Alice reaches out, but her grip on me is weak. She lets her hand fall away, realizing that now isn't the time. I don't know when 'the time' will be. I'm not sure when, if ever, I'll be allowed out of my room.

But I go. Alone, up the stairs, to a place I know. I disappear into the nest that I've had to make my sanctuary, given no other choice. It's here or nowhere.

I drop to my knees and pray as soon as the door closes. I squeeze my eyes shut and clasp my fingers together so hard the knuckles strain and turn white. I mouth the words but say nothing aloud - I don't have the energy for that.

I get into bed after being on my knees for a long time. I don't bother to change into pajamas. I don't deserve the comfort. Instead, I stare, wide-eyed and unblinking, at the wall inches from my face with only one thought crossing my mind.

I wish he'd never come to the farm. I wish I'd never met him. That way, I wouldn't know the white-hot, debilitating, unimaginable pain of losing him.