Page 25 of Wanted

Ready to forget the stupid dream and get on with my day, I start to slide to the edge of my bed, but stop when I notice a strange wet sensation beneath me.

A moment of shame washes over me. Did I have an accident while I was sleeping?

Yanking my itchy brown cover back, my vision fills with red.

I’m bleeding all over my white nightgown…

How am I bleeding?

My heart jolts with adrenaline and my stomach cramps again.

Reaching down, I gingerly pluck at the gown sticking to my thighs.

Then realization dawns on me like a punch to my gut.

I’ve started my period.

“No…” I moan as I look down at the mess on my bed, frozen in horror.

I’m unable to move, paralyzed and petrified by all the implications.

For the past ten years, I’ve been living on the razor’s edge of hope. Hope that somehow the Prophet got it wrong. That I’m not the evil creature they say I am.

It’s heretical to say such a thing, let alone even think it, but it’s the one thing that’s kept me going. Living and breathing through all the misery.

In my heart, I’ve secretly hoped they would all come to see the truth one day and I would be set free.

Free from this stone prison. Free from these chains of faith they’ve wrapped around me.

And the one thing that has kept this hope alive inside me, nurturing it and protecting it through everything, is that I’ve yet to manifest.

I’ve been declared tainted in the eyes of the Order, but I’ve shown no signs of it.

I bear no mark upon my body.

There is no red figure eight staining my skin.

When I reached the age of puberty a couple of years after being imprisoned here, Sister Agatha was certain I would show my true nature any day.

She taunted me every morning with all the horrors I’ll suffer in Hell after I die while her hawkish eyes ran over my nakedbody, searching for the mark that would doom my soul to eternal damnation.

But even she eventually gave up, growing tired of waiting.

I’ve gone beyond the point of being a ‘late bloomer’. At the age of twenty, I’ve begun to foolishly hope I will never bloom at all.

Until now…

I’m still staring at myself in horror when the door to my cell bangs open and bounces off the wall. Grabbing my blanket, I scramble to cover myself as Jeffrey comes stomping into my room with his fists clenched.

Wearing only a pair of dark pants, his chest is bare and showing off the holy markings he’s earned in his service to the church.

Words written in a strange language I don’t recognize wrap around his shoulders and biceps, trailing down his arms like vines. Various crosses, both big and small, dot his skin, as if they were randomly placed, but I know each placement has some kind of meaning and significance.

The most significant marking, however, is the symbol of the Order itself. The encircled cross bearing four nails takes up most of his chest space, covering his skin from his pecs down to his abs.

Having such a large tattoo is a point of pride. Not every young man who is chosen and called on to serve will earn the honor of bearing the cross, and those who do may not earn one quite as large.

Whatever Jeffrey has done to earn it, though, is beyond my scope of knowledge.

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