Page 3 of Whispers of Fire

"Bless our hearts, Emerson." She puts her hand in the air, as if she could be seen by the higher power above us. "Thank you, thank you! We won’t disappoint you; the word will spread through our family. Finally, it’s our time." She's smiling like I've never seen before.

But I’m not.

All of this, it doesn’t sound right. I can’t talk about it to anyone, not that I know anyone on the outside, and not that I can talk too.

Becoming mute gives you a new perspective on life. What you used to look at, now you see. What you used to question, now you doubt. I used to give my trust to anyone around me, convinced they would make the best out of it, protecting and cherishing it. I used to obediently submit to the Shepherd and the Elders, trusting their decisions as if it was words from the Divine itself. Singing the songs of the Faithful Lambs until my hands cramped from signing so much. But the accident changed it all. And now, a small crack that used to live inside me is growing bigger each day, making me question everything and everyone around me.

"Rose! Smile, daughter, the Divine sees you right now, you must smile," my father orders me, his threatening eyes watching in the rearview mirror. I shake my head. No, I don’t want to smile, I don’t have it in me. And I… I doubt the Divine sees me, or really exists at all.

"If you don’t smile, daughter, I will hold your head in the tub for as long as you wait to obey me." My body shivers.

Not the tub.

He’s done it so many times, I can’t even count anymore. And each time I thought I was about to die. He always tells me it’s for my own good, to prepare me for the water ritual on my wedding day.

I learned very early on how to fake happiness, so much so that I almost fool myself sometimes. It’s unbelievable how people never look beyond a smile to see how broken you are, how alone and hopeless you feel having to hide behind a mask every single day of your life. My smiles are very convincing, that I know for sure, because no one has ever asked me if I was really as fine as I look.

I keep a frozen grin on my face the whole way home, until my father parks and they walk out of the car.

With them out of the car, I can finally relax my jaw. I take a deep breath and follow them.

That’s when I hear unusual echoes of voices from the house next door.

Did the new neighbors arrive?

From where I stand, I can catch a glimpse of their garden where a lot of people are eating and laughing. They're dressed in strange leather jackets with a skull on the back and bold writing, “Raven Sons.”

Is it some kind of community like we have with the Faithful Lambs?

I turn my face to look at the window on my right, and my eyes lock with another man's. He looks as if he's holding his breath to stay still. I can’t see much from my distance, but he’s tall, with short brown hair and a jaw that could cut glass. His massive shoulders make me look at his arms, but I turn my face immediately, wishing I hadn’t succumbed to the sin of looking at a man's body, and even worse, a stranger. If anybody knew what I did, I would have to face punishment to cleanse my soul from lust.

Turning away, I head to the door, remove my shoes in the entry and rush to my bedroom.

Out of breath, I stop.

Would it be so bad to take a look at the window view?

My room is located on the second floor of the house, and I can see the garden from it, ours and our neighbors' too. My parents' bedroom is on the first floor, thankfully. Walking as slowly as I can, annoyed by the roughness of my wool dress, I reach the window.

There must be ten of them, all wearing the same kind of uniforms, jeans and black t-shirts or leather jackets. Some of them have tattoos all over their arms, and some even on their faces. The Shepherd always says changing our appearance is a sin; it tells the Divine we’re not content with what he gave us.

A woman is there too, and I blush at the sight of her clothing. A mini red pair of shorts and a black top showing her belly button. Even my undergarments have more fabric. Her clothes are glued to her skin, something I’m not used to seeing.

I wonder how I would look dressed like that.

We make our clothes ourselves by following specific rules of the shapes and colors each member can wear depending on our place in the hierarchy. I must wear brown because I’m not married yet, and brown is the color of the soil. It’s a way to remind ourselves that we are not worthy until we get married, that we are lost lambs walking in the mud until our day comes.

Once I get married, I will have to wear a long black dress, symbolizing the grief of my childhood and the gift of my soul to my husband. Mostly, our clothes are different between men and women of our community. But I got to understand with time that ours restricts our movements and hides our bodies while men have practical outfits that can easily be worn in the outside world.

From the look I get each time I walk in the street, I know mine are anything but normal.

My curiosity gets the best of me, and I keep studying her.

She’s so pretty.

Her long black hair dances on her shoulders, smiling and laughing next to another man who grabs her hips from time to time. Displays of affection aren’t something I’m used to. Actually, it is forbidden in our community unless it’s for the sole purpose of making children.

I can't even remember the last time I saw my parents touching each other, or god forbid, kiss.

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