A/N: I felt inspired. I wrote this all in like 3 hours total writing time. It's shorter than usual, but it felt like a good place to end. Mitchie's name in this chapter kind of upsets me- it just doesn't go with the flow for some reason. But what can you do? Anyway, here's chapter 5.
I must have woken up at least a little bit last night because when the sunlight streams down on me I'm on my stomach in my scratchy, horrible bed. And it would be next to impossible for Mitchie to carry me all the way up the hill and into my room; well, now it's our room. Sure enough, she's sleeping in her own bed on her side, almost curled up into a fetal position. I can't help but just stare at her; she looks so peaceful. I don't want to wake her and force into facing whatever will be going on this morning, what with the Shepherds not announcing their decision of what to do with her last night. As quietly as possible, I get myself out of bed and go into the one bathroom we all share, just down the hall. The clock beside it reads 7:34, which means there's a little less than an hour before morning services. Everyone else is probably already downstairs, doing early morning family bonding or prayers or something. I stopped getting up for those when I was about 10 and no one really took notice.
As I do the morning after every beating, I limp into the bathroom to put on some cream I, uh, "liberated" from the nurse years ago. It's kind of difficult to do because the wounds are on my back, but if I twist my body into just the right, crooked position and open the shower door just so, I can see the reflection of my back on the mirror over the sink in the shower door mirror.
The cream stings a little as I put it over the longest one, but it's difficult to tell where one cut ends and the next begins. Usually I end up just rubbing it over my entire back, though that's extremely painful and I like to try everything else first. I've never had to do this many, not since-
The tube drops to the floor, and suddenly I'm not in the bathroom anymore.
Night. I am fourteen years old, staring out at the winter sky from my bedroom window. It's just about time for lights out and I am counting the seconds for just after the compound goes to sleep, I will be sneaking out and getting away forever. I've never been so excited.
I've never been so scared.
I am running, running, running across the melting snow and sopping grass into the dark depths of the woods. I know that once I am in the woods, I will be free. I know them better than anyone in the compound, and I know that they lead to one of the ends of the giant fence surrounding this dastardly place.
I am tripping, falling, stumbling as hands grasp at my dress. The men behind me shout curses and prayers, all at the same time. They've caught me before I've reached the woods, and it is over. It is all over.
I am leaning up against the wall with my dress completely off this time, and I am shivering. The winter wind has always been bitter here. The Father gives the newest member of the Enforcers the honorary task of giving me 50 lashes, 50 cuts, 50 scars. Damien steps behind me, and never having done this before, he raises his whip-
I am in complete agony as the whip slices my back and snakes around to the softer skin of my stomach and my chest. It curls around me, all around me, leaving at least one mark on every part of my body, save for my face and upper arms-
I am screaming out, but I am not crying-
I am fainting, slipping, losing it-
I am standing up outside in the forest, completely naked. My clothes are bundled at my feet, which turn blue and brown and green as they sink into the mud-
I am being caressed by the winter wind, wrapped in its icy hands-
It swarms around me like an old friend.
I am on my hands and knees in the bathroom, panting, my hair dropping down in front of my face. The tube rolls around on the floor next to me in an almost mocking way. I shut my eyes tightly in hopes to forget what I'm thinking about, but shutting down just makes me see myself, broken and bruised, in flashes. I never want to be like that again.
A soft hand brushes on my back and a body leans down next to mine. Wordlessly, someone picks up the tube and stands back up. I know instantly it's Mitchie; everyone else would've yelled at me.
I open my eyes, staring at the rugs on the floor. I see Mitchie's bare feet standing still beside me, her hand extending downward to help me up. As much as I don't want to, I let her be the strong one this time around and lift me into a standing position. And even more uncharacteristically, I let her cover my body with hers, her arms encircling my shoulders loosely, our feet practically on top of each other, her hair cascades over the entire left half of my body it's so long. I just stand mostly still, unsure of what to do. Hugs and I have never best been friends but right now my brain can't comprehend why because this feels so unbelievably good. Confused, I simply put my arms around her waist with my pinkies looped together, drawing her even closer to me. And shockingly, this makes the whole thing only feel better.
"Mitchie?" I don't expect a response, but I pause just to make sure she's paying attention. "I-it's not- I like this, I really do, but I need to fix my back..." I hope she's not hurt as she pulls away. She's not, it's easy to see, what with the smile on her face as she picks up the tube from the side of the sink.
I hate feeling this weak almost as much as I love having her help me. It's such a strange sensation to me, to have someone else doing for me what I've always done myself. But I guess maybe what's bothering me is that she really cares- despite it all, she really, really cares about me. I've never experienced that before. "Hey, Mitchie? You really don't have to do this-"
She stares at me dead on and I know from her determination that she's trying to say, "But I want to." I think that she probably feels the same way as I do about all this affection; maybe she's trying to pay me back for helping her. I don't like being helped nearly as much as I like helping, but I think I can handle it. For her.
"Just, um, try to get it on the cuts, like, in a line or something," I mumble awkwardly. "Don't just, you know, rub it over my whole back. It hurts more like that." I brace myself against the sink, ready for the first jolt to hit my exposed skin.
Mitchie pulls up my dress again with a gasp. I lift my head so I can see her shocked face in the mirror; she never realized how bad it is. But with a quiet strength, she regains her composure and begins to shakily put the cream over my back. It hurts like hell, yet I can't let myself cry; I can't let her see that it's hurting me, otherwise she might stop and that'll just make it worse later.
In no time at all Mitchie has finished fixing my back and drags me back into our room to get dressed for the day. I check the clock on our way back: 8:08. 22 minutes until morning services. I shed my old dress and quickly put on a new one, find some shoes, and I am ready for the day. Mitchie finishes up lacing her own shoes and we silently go downstairs, hand in hand.
My parents and brothers haven't left yet, but instead they are simply sitting on the ground and quietly praying. Well, Max isn't. Not really; his hands are clasped but only barely and his open eyes stare straight at the wall in front of him. I don't think he's taking in a word of my father's prayers.
"Oh, Lord," Dad says in his most annoyingly devout way, "please bless all of Havenwood and her sister compounds, and allow the ignorant to come worship within our walls. Thank You for providing me with such a wonderful wife; You could not have made a more perfect choice. Thank You for my sons, who are growing into fine young men. Thank You for entrusting us with the care of Mitchie, who we understand is one of your holiest devotees. We pray that she finds the peace to speak and share Your wisdom with us all. Amen." Justin and Mom let out a resounding "amen," while Max only mumbles it. It does not escape Mitchie and my notice that I'm not mentioned in Dad's prayers. Maybe he's trying to replace me with Mitchie, which would not surprise me.
"Hi, Dad." I figure it will catch him off guard- me being ready early and all.
"Alexandra?" He checks his pocket watch. "You're... early."
I walk down the stairs all the way trying to make it appear as painless as possible. "Yeah. And it sounds like you're gunning for Shepherd-hood with that prayer."
He's totally bewildered. It's funny. "Um... well, good morning, Mitchie. Did you sleep well?"
Mitchie just nods her head. Dad has no idea how to respond. It's still funny as hell. "Good. Good. That's- good."
"Jerry," Mom begins, trying to keep the weirdness out of the room, "we should probably be leaving."
My dad snaps out of whatever funk he was in and says, "Yes. Yes. We should... go." I have no idea what just happened but it makes me laugh, and it makes Mitchie smirk a little, and that's good enough for me.
