Page 4 of Whispers of Fire

The man grabs a jacket and puts it on the woman’s shoulders. A name floats on it, “Shadow,” and I wonder what it means to them.

They are laughing and chatting, looking like a strange family. I wish I could experience something like that, something light, without rules and punishments to fear.

The man I saw behind the window enters the garden. My eyes are glued to his arms. Massive and muscular with veins making my belly churn in a way I never felt before. He's greeted by other men giving him what looks like a plate of meat and vegetables. His smile illuminates his face, and I suddenly wish I could see him closer.

Are you insane, Rose?

There’s something about his attitude that exudes confidence and calmness. I have to stop myself from putting my hand on the window and sticking my nose on it like a child watching through a window shop. All I see is his back now that he's talking to another person.

But he suddenly interrupts the banter and turns slowly, tilting his face towards… me .

Can he feel that I'm watching him?

I freeze while he turns his body toward my house and locks his gaze with mine. We stay like this for a few seconds. Frozen in the moment like time has paused, both stuck in a silent exchange. He doesn't turn away, so I step back, my heart racing.

He saw you, you idiot!

If my parents saw me, or worse, if the Shepherd knew, I would face great consequences.

Thank god they’re not here.

I sigh and sit on my bed, taking a look at my room.

There's a game I play alone every night before falling asleep. I close my eyes and imagine my bedroom filled with books, posters of music bands, and a closet full of colorful clothes, even jeans. I would stick fluorescent stars on my ceiling like I saw once in a movie before my dad threw it away. It carried only “evil work from the outside world,” as he said.

It just helps, sometimes, to daydream about what it could have been, what freedom could feel like.

Watching the stranger through my window tastes like that too, like freedom encapsulated in a manly body I shouldn't even dare to look at.

We ate early with another family of the Faithful Lambs, so I put on my long brown nightgown and prepared myself for bed. Brushing my blonde hair, I try to look at them in the window reflection, wishing I had a mirror to try to style it. But vanity isn't right, so I don't have one. I step outside my room to wash my face and welcome the cold water on my skin, which I didn't notice was burning me since I saw the stranger.

Then I take the stairs and join my parents in our living room.

Is it me or is it chilly down here?

Almost every piece of furniture is made of wood and comes from my grandparents on my father's side. The gray walls and the beige curtains swallow the light, making the room smaller and darker. There are no photographs or decorations except for one poster on the chimney quoting the words of our leader, “The Ascension awaits those who do not fear death.”

I kneel next to my parents, like every Sunday evening for our last prayer of the week, and my father starts to read a passage from our holy book, the Ascendium. I close my eyes and unite my palms. This takes an hour before I can go to my room and sleep. Tomorrow will be another long day, just like each day, where I'll go to the Faithful Lambs Institute. The idea of having to stay put for hours on a chair makes me hurt already.

I’d rather be gardening.

Thankfully, I can daydream, this, no one can take it away from me. That's the only thing helping me get up in the morning. Knowing that freedom can exist in a part of my mind even if I never get to experience it in my reality.

Before reaching the stairs to go to my room, my father's voice echoes behind me.

“Daughter, temptation has spread its roots next to our home. This is a test from the Divine. Don't, ever, talk to those people. They're not like us. Lost souls who will burn for eternity.” His gaze is cold and threatening as if he was unsure of my reaction.

He must have seen it, the flames that took root in me and kept spreading since the accident. Nothing can tame that kind of fire from burning inside you.

He knows it, and perhaps, it scares him.

My mother signs “Good night, daughter” behind him before stepping into the kitchen. My father doesn't say anything more and steps back into the living room.

He didn't sign like my mom. Not because he doesn't know how; he's a smart man, I'm sure he's figured it out by now by observing my mom and me interacting. No, he doesn't want to sign to me. Doing it would acknowledge the fact that his daughter is now mute because of him, and he refuses it, probably denying the truth he played a part in creating.

I go back to my room and take a last glimpse at the garden outside. They're still out there, enjoying each other's company, playing cards and fake punching each other when they talk.

It looks fun.

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