A/N: Sorry for the late update. Hope it's worth the wait. And just to warn people (since this is T and all) there's a couple of uses of the f-word in this chapter :0. So if that offends you, don't read. Or just deal with it, cause really it's only like 3 times. Sorry if does offend anyone.

Dinner tonight is going to be a bloody disaster, I can tell. Not for Mitchie, I guess, because judging by Todd's words she was gonna be sitting in a chapel praying all day. I doubt that they would call her super holy and such and then not give her a membership. Although, who knows what shit is going on in these people's minds? I most certainly have no clue. At any rate, Mitchie and I both bolt out of the chapel and head slightly away from the dinner hall. It will take at least 30 minutes for everyone to get over there because of the old and dying people and the super devoted who want to spend time talking to Todd. I sense that he probably wants to talk to Mitchie, though, so he might attempt to follow us.

I check over my shoulder rapidly, many times, just to make sure that Todd isn't following us or sending one of the Shepherds-In-Training (officially called Pages) to do it for him. So far, I see no one, which really doesn't mean much. The Shepherds and Pages are allowed to carry walkie-talkies so that they can keep tabs on the rest of us, which suggests that one of them might be chilling behind the trees, just waiting for us to appear. I decide it's worth the risk to run to the trees and be jumped by some over-enthusiastic Page rather than stay here and get my brains blasted by Todd. I could probably threaten the Page enough to get him away from me and Mitchie; they're all pretty much pansies. Besides, I sense that Mitchie is not at all interested in being around Shepherds and holy admirers right now. I think that I was probably right about her having been through some sort of trauma, because of the way she reacted to my earlier comment about her not speaking and because of the way she acted when Todd spewed out his useless bullshit.

We reach the edge of the woods, going in close enough so that we can see the flood of people going to the dining hall but far enough that someone walking past would have to look real hard to spot us. After I've gotten over the brilliance of my hiding spot, I realize I have absolutely no idea what to do in this situation. Not that I'd have much of a clue what to do in any sort of comfort situation, but this feels so much more weird because I can't ask her what's wrong. But maybe I should try and talk anyway, because I've never been good with touching since most of the touches I've received have ended in pain.

"Mitchie?"

She gazes up at me, but I just see the tears in her sad little eyes and it almost makes me want to cry, a strange feeling in and of itself. I've never cried from raw emotions before; just from physical pain. Mitchie, on the other hand, appears to be used to do so.

"I don't really know what I can say, because, well, I don't know what happened. But I'm bright enough to get that it wasn't all that great, or you wouldn't have been upset with Todd's divinity speech." I take a shaky breath, try not close my eyes too tightly, and place a gentle hand on Mitchie's shoulder. We're both a little confused by the heat flowing from my hand and into her body at first; I suppose that her previous experience with touch isn't much better than mine. "I don't know if you're ever going to be OK or if you're ever going to talk again, and you probably don't know that either, but I did want you to be certain that you're always going to have a friend who will always be OK when she's with you." That last line is sooo ridiculously cheesy that I can't get over it. But I guess Mitchie enjoyed it because right now she's looking at me with just the smallest glimmer of hope in her still wet eyes. I get a little braver, a little stupider, as I push myself nearer to her body and ever so carefully slide my hand down to her waist. It feels so much less awkward for me to rest my arm there, and I guess she must feel a bit more comfortable, too, because she leans over and lays her head softly on my shoulder- so softly that if I hadn't been looking directly at her I wouldn't have noticed it was there until the tears start to fall. I can't deny that this is the sight of her- hair spilled over my shoulder and down onto my chest, tiny rolling droplets spilling from her eyes, hands curled up in my lap with mine tentatively covering them, legs drawn up underneath her and crinkling her dress- is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I also can't deny that it's the most heartbreaking. And I have absolutely no idea what that means.

The last couple of stragglers begin to crawl up the road toward the dining hall and I hear myself quietly whispering that we should be getting up, too. I lift Mitchie's head off my shoulder and something in her clicks, making her get up and send me a smile. I'm not entirely sure what just happened between us- things are always so much more complicated when there are no words involved.

We manage to slip into the dining hall without Todd intercepting us, but my parents catch us soon after. It's not like we can really avoid them, since we have to sit with our families. Mitchie has become part of our family, and it's not like she has anywhere else to sit. The Shepherds wouldn't let her sit with them in the beginning, although now they might because of her new-found divinity.

Sure enough, once they're all seated, Todd strides over to our table with this huge grin on his face, staring directly at Mitchie. It makes me want to throw up. "Ah, Mitchie. Would like to join myself and the other Shepherds for dinner?" The warm, inviting tone in his voice doesn't match up with the cold, hard stare in his eyes. There is no option: Mitchie is expected to go. Todd holds out his hand, which she accepts tentatively. I'm fairly sure that my family's love for Todd blinds them to the blisteringly hard grip he has on her hand, but I notice. And it makes me want to punch Todd in his fucking face.

I'm so busy fuming that I don't even realize my father's been calling my name since the second Todd took Mitchie away. Justin finally leans over and flicks me on the ear to get my attention. "Ow! Justin! What the hell is your-"

"Alexandra!" my father roars as soon as the word "hell" flies out of my mouth. "You know throwing that word around is one of the most insulting things you can say!"

"Just because I know doesn't mean I care," I snap. Suddenly 46 lashes seems like an OK bargain for getting even with my father; it is Cardinal Atrocity #5 (don't question men) that has always bothered me the most. I can never stop myself when it comes to this- never.

Dad abandons his seat and rips me out of mine, shaking me from the shoulders. "Are you looking for a lashing, young lady?"

I shrug, trying to remain calm. "Clearly it doesn't affect me."

"Oh, it doesn't affect you now, does it?" he thunders. He turns to face the Father in a completely confusing move that I definitely didn't see coming. "Father?"

The Father gets up from his chair and slowly makes his way over to us, an evil smile crossing his face. "Yes, my child?"

"My daughter Alexandra has just asked for 46 lashes," he states plainly.

"Did she now?"

"No I didn't!" I protest. Brilliant. Now look where my big mouth has gotten me.

The Father gives me more of his disgusting smirk. "You don't want 46 lashes, Alexandra?"

"Why the hell would I want that?" I burst out at him, trying my hardest not to scream.

He places his hand on my shoulder with a steely grip. "Well, if the young lady says she doesn't want 46, we can cut her a deal." Fuck, fuck, fuck. That does not sound good. "You can have 23." He pauses, long and dramatic. "But your new little friend gets to watch."
"WHAT!" I'm seconds away from exploding, years past caring that the eyes of everyone in the hall are staring me down and boring into my "cursed" soul.

The Father turns to my dad, giving him a curt nod. "I think we have finally found a punishment that works." He claps his hands three times and Damien comes over to him, looking ridiculously smug and happy at this new turn of events. But I'm not happy. I am SO not happy. I'm shaking and convulsing and so close to tears that I feel like Noah's Flood is about to erupt inside of me, but I keep it down. They will never see me cry.

Seeing Damien manhandle Mitchie from her seat is not something I'll likely ever forget: he rips her from the chair, grabs her hair and throws her around. I'm struggling against my father's hold to get at her; she looks so scared, it breaks my heart to watch the terrified tears slowly sink down her pale cheeks and her tiny, delicate hands bundle up into pathetic fists.

"Just give me 46!" I shout desperately as Damien drags me out of the hall and into the night. "Give me 106! I don't care! Just don't punish her! She did nothing wrong!" It's so hard to keep the tears of frustration and anger and hate and fear at bay, but I manage. I've had much too much practice.

Once we leave the relative warm glow of the hall, Mitchie ceases to struggle against Damien in any way. She's become almost submissive, but her breathing's increased dramatically and she looks like she would scream if she could. Suddenly, I wonder if this reminds her of whatever trauma it was that caused her to stop talking in the first place. At this moment, I can't stand myself.

Damien pushes us hard into the Enforcers' barracks and gives me his usual look. "I know: get against the wall, lift up your dress-" I stop there, because Mitchie's eyes get so wide at this and she starts to appear faint. The trauma. Could it be...? I can't think about that now, though, because Damien's whipping me hard with his rope, tearing sharp bloody lines into my back. I feel the sting, even feel the tears in my eyes, but my eyes find Mitchie sobbing silently in the corner and I know I can hold out just a bit longer.

Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. I think I'm done and start to stand up from the wall, but Damien's rough hand pushes my exhausted form back against the stone. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven.

How many more is he doing? Mitchie's sunk to the floor by now, eyes covered in her dress. But Damien kicks her foot, forces her to look at me squirm under his whip.

Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty. Thirty-one.

Shit. He's going to do all 46. All forty-fucking-six.

Thirty-two. Thirty-three. Thirty-four. Thirty-five.

The pain is almost going away, a wash of numbness falling over my body as my mind slips from consciousness.

Thirty-six. Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine. Forty.

Almost there... I'm not sure if I can hold on.

Forty-one. Forty-two. Forty-three.

Slipping, slipping, swirling in the black...

Forty-four.

Just shapes and colors and no feelings; no hands on the stone, no whip on my back, no cracks in my ears, just the sobbing face of a traumatized girl.

Forty-five.

The walls dissipate, the whip is hard to see, and all I can focus on is her fragile body.

Forty-six.

The hand supporting me disappears and my legs give out as my dress flops back down of its own accord. My knees hit the floor, but the rest of me doesn't, as someone has come from behind me and lifted me from my armpits. It's still hard to hear but I do manage to pick out a sentence from the din, the first words I have ever heard him say:

"I gave you all 46 because you are an abomination." Thank God his footsteps fade out and he retreats to the bunks while Mitchie helps me walk outside, because no longer can I hold in my tears. I hardly even feel them as they drip on my dress, on Mitchie's shoes, on the ground.

I don't really know where we walk or how long it takes us to get there, but soon enough my blurry vision watches my aching body lower to the ground. "Put me... on my stomach," I choke out. Mitchie responds only with a caring touch, worlds away from the one I received moments ago. She lays me gently onto the ground and allows my head to rest in her lap as she leans back against a tree.

"Mitchie? I am-I am sorry," I whisper, just managing to hold onto consciousness right now.

Her response is obviously not verbal, but a very hesitant kiss on the back of my head that lasts long enough for me to keep awake and ask, "Mitchie? Could you lift my dress up? So they're not... suffocating." She complies, pulling the cloth up slowly so as not to hurt the wounds that sting and feel so wonderful simultaneously as the cool night air hits them. "Thank you."

She doesn't respond, but I know that she's terrified, because I feel a lone tear fall warm on my skin.