"Alexandra! What are you doing down here! It's almost time for evening services!" My brother Justin rushes over to me in his good church clothes looking very panicked. "You can't be late again! You know what happens to stragglers!" Anyone who is late for services doesn't get to eat at whatever the next meal is, except for water.
I sigh, getting up and being careful not to touch my back to the ground as I do so. I wince slightly as I get up, guessing there are probably little bits of blood stains on my dress because Justin gasps as soon as he sees me standing. "You broke another Cardinal Atrocity? Which one was it this time?"
"You were there, Justin," I tell him. "It was at morning services- right after we finished? And then Mom got even more upset just because I told her I wanted to celebrate the Sabbath on Tuesday-"
"You WHAT!" he thunders. I think he's more shocked than angry, mostly because it's nearly impossible for him to actually get angry. This puts him in the perfect position to be a Shepherd when he gets older, although I don't know if he'll be able to be strict enough to send people to the Enforcers.
I shrug. "Yeah. How do we know that the guy who invented the calendar system got it right?"
"Because God would oversee the making of His calendar and wouldn't let that guy make that mistake," Justin says matter-of-factly. He's so brainwashed, it's sad. Justin and I used to be very similar when it came to asking questions; he was so smart and logical that his brain couldn't wrap itself around the ridiculous "truths" we learn. If it wasn't for him, I would just be dissatisfied and lazy, not dissatisfied and rebellious. I never would've given that much thought to the Scriptures if he hadn't already begun to ask questions. So in a strange way I owe my sense of clarity to him. But he couldn't take the punishment of the Enforcers, and eventually he just followed all the rules like a good little boy. We began to drift apart at that moment; I feel as though my brother died when he was eight and all I have now is a little leftover shell. I don't like to dwell on that.
"Humans make mistakes, Justin."
"Not where God is involved."
I stare him down coldly. "Really? Was God involved in the Enforcers' barracks a couple of hours ago when they whipped me twenty-three times for asking a question? Where was God then?"
Justin moves his eyes to his twiddling thumbs. In them, I can see just how uncomfortable he is as he stutters out our motto: "God does what He has to do." Ever since we were young, we've been told that so we'll believe in God's grace no matter what. Shockingly, I think that's a load of horse shit. But that's just me.
I start to walk in the opposite direction, away from Justin and away from the main buildings of the compound.
"Where are you going?" he asks, but I don't turn around.
"The woods," I tell him.
"You'll miss the service- and then you won't get dinner," he says.
I stop in the shady trees, my eyes stinging with tears for what he's become. I turn to look at him, but I'm obscured by the darkness and so far away that he can't see these tears. "And then what, Justin? I'll get another lashing, I'll miss another meal. What more could possibly happen to me?"
"You could die," he says so quietly that I can barely hear him.
It almost fazes me, but not quite enough. "Yeah? Maybe that's not such a bad thing." I begin to walk back into the woods, but my brother's not ready to give up just yet.
"Wait! Alexandra!" He's yelling, screaming, desperate. "Just because... I... even through... You're still my sister."
"Yeah, well, you're not my brother," I spit back at him. "Not anymore."
"What?" I think that he's actually upset over what I've said, like he doesn't even know what I'm talking about.
"You used to have beliefs. Principles. Standards. Now look at what you are." I expect him to start crying, but he seems to be weirdly stoic today.
To prove this, he answers in the most convicted, strong voice I've ever heard him use. "Beliefs can be changed."
"Or they can be beaten out of you." I don't allow him to say any more as I trudge off into the dark forest. I pick up speed while I go, and I can finally drown out his continuous drone of my name in the background.
Going this far into the forest is strictly forbidden because of all the "dangerous" animals. I've been coming into this forest since I was ten, and so far have not encountered anything more dangerous than a squirrel. There's not much back here, except solitude. I like it better that way because everyone out in the compound is either a total asshole or a complete coward. There's a very large part of me that suspects that if I'd been born somewhere that's not Havenwood, I would've been such a different person. I doubt I would be so interested in all of this religious stuff and I probably would've ended up being lazy or one of those "rebel without a cause" people we're so often warned about. That kind of scares me, but being here scares me, too.
I lie down on the ground, still on my stomach. My back has started to hurt again after my little impromptu run and I'm beginning to regret that. I wish there was someone in this stupid compound who gave a shit about me because going everything alone is tough. I have yet to meet a single person in here (besides eight-year-old Justin) who encourages me to be who I am or who is even capable of loving me- really loving me, not loving me because God wants them to. I know that it's beyond my parents capability to do anything like that, and the Mother and Father most certainly look at me as a black mark upon their record. No matter how many times they've beaten me or how many Bible verses they've read to me or how many exorcisms they've performed on me, I know that those aren't out of love. Well, not out of love for me. Out of their love and fear for God, believing me to be a test that they must pass. Everyone here thinks that healing me is a test they must pass to get into the Kingdom of Heaven or something equally as ridiculous. I think that's the only reason they haven't thrown me out yet.
My mind wanders to what I'd said to Justin earlier about dying: could it be much worse? Could Hell be any worse than here? At least I'd have some kindred spirits in Hell. The pain couldn't be much worse than that of Damien's whip. I can't go much hungrier than I already have. One year, when I was fourteen, I'd managed to go an entire week without any food, just water. It was the week leading up to Christmas, and this is the holiest week of the year according to our beliefs. It's called the Seven Days of Atonement. For the first six days, we do lots of backbreaking work and spend almost all other hours praying for forgiveness. On the seventh day (Christmas), we rest, just as God did. The Mother and Father say that one of the reasons it is proof that we have the correct version of Christianity because we celebrate Jesus' birthday as April 17, not December 25 like most other sects do. Out of protest, I did not eat anything that week. I stayed outside in the freezing cold winter wind in my tiny, inadequate coat and didn't attend any prayer services. It was torture, but it was worth it to see everyone's faces when I walked through the door to the prayer services on April 18. Plus, it makes almost every other punishment I receive seem somehow less intense.
I won't commit suicide, I decide. That would be pointless. Why would I have put myself in the line of suffering for so long only to end my life without accomplishing anything? It seems like martyr might be the next best option, but I'd have to have people believe in what I say before that would mean much of anything. Maybe I'll just escape. But that wouldn't work very well, either, because when I tried to escape last year I ended up with an even 50 lashes. I'd never gotten that many before and I think I might've passed out near the end. I didn't cry, though. Not in front of them, anyway. Afterwards, I assumed a position much like the one I'm in now and cried for hours. I did almost kill myself then, stuffing small clumps of dirt into my mouth in hopes of suffocating myself. But in the end, I vomited it back out, knowing that there had to be something better out there for me. I still hope there is. I really, really hope there is.
I get up from my fatigued nap with just enough time to make it back to the High Chapel for evening service. The High Chapel is closed at all times other than official services, but there's another chapel (the Prayer Chapel) that is always open for people to pray and seek spiritual advice from one of the Shepherds. As horrible as it will be to sit on that cold hard bench for two hours, I realize that I do need the food in my body in order to help heal my wounds.
Slipping into service is never easy, and it becomes much harder when you're a notorious criminal like me. I wriggle my way through the doors that the keepers are just closing, getting my back scraped against in the process. The unpolished wood sends slices of needle-sharp pain throughout my still raw wounds. God, it hurts so bad. I try to ignore the feeling as I take a seat in the back by myself. I see my parents and brothers sitting up front, looking perfectly coiffed in their best clothes. Everyone is in their best clothes. Everyone except for me. I am still wearing my puke green dress with blood stains and bits of dirt from the forest all over it.
The lead Shepherd today is Rosslyn, a woman in her mid-sixties. She was elected to be a Shepherd on her sixtieth birthday as is everyone who makes it to sixty. Most people here die around fifty-five, so if someone gets to sixty, they're supposed to have God's blessing for a longer life. There are other ways to become a Shepherd, of course. This is just the easiest. Rosslyn's sermon is on the infallibility of the Shepherds and the Bible. She's directing this at me certainly. Rosslyn really hates me, which is all fine and dandy because I can't stand her either. Whenever I break a rule and she's giving the sermon, she always makes sure to do it on whatever rule I've broken. That being said, this compound has been subjected to a lot of sermons on the infallibility of the Shepherds and the Bible.
She deviates briefly from this and makes a quick switch to the Cardinal Atrocities in general. "The Cardinal Atrocities are here for a reason. We all know that the deviant behaviors listed in them are horrible, horrible sins and that none of you, my flock, have the wisdom to interpret the Scriptures as the Shepherds do. Some of you"- her eyes bore gaping holes into mine as she says this- "may be confused as to why this is, but I can assure you it is for your own good. Most of the world is not equipped to handle the kind of spiritual enlightenment that is offered here as well as in our sister compounds of Cascadia and Treemont. But you- all of you- are able to recognize the deeper meanings that we present to you here. My friends, you truly are the Chosen." I roll my eyes. Nearly every service ends with us being told how special we are, just to boost up the egos of everyone in the compound. It doesn't work on me. I know I'm not "Chosen" or whatever, and that makes me proud.
Everyone else is proud to be Chosen as they all stand up and begin to chant, "Chosen! Chosen! Chosen! Chosen!" I remain seated, my mouth closed. I hate this chant even more than the "God is great" one. Rosslyn moves her hands up, causing the chanting to escalate. It's clear from the smile on her face that she's a narcissistic, sadistic little bitch, enjoying the worship she receives from the flock of clueless people in front of her. Eventually, she sweeps her hands down and like an orchestra conductor causes everyone to whisper, "Amen." This is the sign to leave the chapel, and I waste no time being the first one out.
I go into the Mess Hall, grab one of the pre-proportioned plates, and head over to our family's table. It is important to the Mother and Father that we eat our meals with our immediate families to encourage bonding. We are forbidden to leave the Mess Hall until forty-five minutes after each meal officially starts. It's the worse forty-five minutes of my day.
By the time the rest of my family comes over, I've already finished my mashed potatoes. The scene that ensues is very typical for us: my father yells, my mother sparingly lets out a disappointed sob, Justin interrupts my father with his own wisdom, and my younger brother Max sits and eats silently. Max doesn't actively believe in this stuff (or at least I severely doubt it), but he doesn't actively protest it either.
"Honestly, Alexandra, we're going to have to ask the Father for more punishments," my father says through clenched teeth. "Clearly all the beatings aren't taking effect."
"Maybe you should make her pray all day long, Dad," Justin suggests. "No one's ever tried that one before."
My mother sobs and then chokes out, "Perhaps we should ask the Father for guidance. It is he who would know the answer."
My father nods his head slowly. "Yes... yes, I believe you're right Theresa." His contemplative tone of voices switches to rough as soon as he turns his eyes on me. "Come, Alexandra. We are going to speak with the Father."
It's during everyone else's meal times that the Father and Mother are available to be consulted freely. They don't have to go to service, which I've always found a bit hypocritical, but then again, this entire place is hypocritical. Anyway, they eat during service and give out advice during meal time. My father drags me up there, to where they sit at the front of the room.
"Ah, Jerry," the Father says like they're old friends. They're totally not. "I wish I could say I was delighted to see you, but judging by the circumstances, I do not think this meeting will be very delightful at all."
The Mother looks down at me, her eyes trying to effuse a fake kindness. I'm not buying it. "Alexandra, I hear you went to the Enforcers today. 23 lashes? My, my, that's quite a lot for a girl your age to handle."
I shrug, not letting my eyes drop from her own. "Eh. If I can handle 50 at fourteen, I can handle 23 at sixteen." There's an awkward silence during which my father groans in frustration.
"Father, Mother, these lashings clearly have no effect on my daughter," Dad begs. "Please. Is there another way we can help her to understand the grace of the Lord and the teachings of Havenwood?"
The Father bites his lip in deep thought. "Hmm. There is..." He glances over at the Mother, whose eyes widen in shock. It's such a huge act I can't believe Dad would buy it at all.
"Oh, Father, should we?"
"Yes, dear Mother, I believe we have no other option." That sounds grave. Maybe I'm getting kicked out.
"Are you throwing me out?"
"No, Alexandra," the Mother replies with a sweet expression. "We would never do that."
Damn. "Then what are you doing with me?"
The Father extends his hand to me. "Come with us. We will show you." My father looks ecstatic at this: his own daughter, off to spend time with the Father! What a great honor! Whatever.
I'm very curious about this offer. "I'll come with you, but I'm not touching you." In a rare moment of anger, the Father reaches out and grabs my hand. He squeezes it so tightly that I feel as though he might break something.
"Let's go, Alexandra. I have someone I would like you to meet." He drags me out of the Mess Hall and into the Grand House where he and the Mother live. I've never been inside- most people haven't. He leads me into what appears to be a guest bedroom with very little furnishing and no one in it.
"There's no one in here..."
"Look closer." As soon as he says that, a girl who I thought was a statue turns around from her position at the windowsill. The first thought I have when I see her is how can this girl be a punishment? She's absolutely stunning, I think. Something about her just radiates a quiet, tragic sort of beauty and immediately I'm captivated.
The Father walks over to her, ruining the magic of the moment for me. "Alexandra, this is Mitchie. She is from Cascadia and needs some help adjusting. Punishments do not work for you, so perhaps some responsibility will." He leans in closer to me and says quietly, "And anything you do, I mean anything, will result in double the punishment while she is in your care." He stands back up, trying to make it seem like everything is normal. "Also, Alexandra, Mitchie is mute."
I smile. "You mean, like, she can't talk?"
"More like she won't."
I look right at her with what I hope is a comforting look; I'm not exactly well-versed in giving those. "I think I already like her better than anyone else here."
