Page 29 of Wanted

The sound of the wooden bar dropping into place reverberates through my small cell a moment later. The sound ensuring my doom.

There will be no escape. They’ll never let me go now.

Mark or no mark.

I’ll probably never glimpse the sun again. Or get to experience filling my lungs with fresh air. I’ll never know what’s it like to not have a few tons of stone over my head, always pressing down on me.

I’ll be kept in this pit of punishment until I pass away.

Then I’ll burn in Hell.

I don’t know how long passes before Sister Agatha shows up. Drowning in my own well of despair, I don’t hear the door open.

“Alena, what are you doing?” she asks in confusion.

Hearing her voice snaps me back to the present. My sobs quieting, I look up to see her standing in the doorway, scowling at me.

Shaking her head, she stalks forward, her black habit snapping behind her. “Come, get up. There’s no time for that.”

Reaching down, she grabs me by the hand and tries to pull me to my feet, but my deadweight keeps her from budging me.

When I refuse to stand for her or obey, her hand squeezes around mine painfully.

“I said get up. There’s no time for such dramatics,” she scolds. “We must see the Prophet before it’s too late.”

Sniffling pathetically, I pull back on my arm and croak out, “Why?”

Why must I stand before him, especially now? So he can declare me tainted again? Or perhaps throw his own shoes at me?

Eyes narrowing with anger, she seethes, “Forgetting yourself already? I do not need to explain it to you.”

Then she yanks so hard on my arm I fear she might pull it out of the socket in spite.

Spite has always been her sin. Her weakness. I know she likes to believe she’s above everyone else. Always scolding, always correcting those around her. Pointing out their failures and weaknesses.

But I’ve witnessed enough over the years to know what makes her tick.

And I know from experience that if I continue to defy her, she’ll find some horrible, awful way to not only get me to do what she wants but also make me suffer for it.

Reluctantly, I let her pull me to my feet, but as soon as I’m standing I try to yank my arm back. “I need to change into something clean first.”

Not having any of it, Sister Agatha turns away from me and begins to drag me to the open door. “There’s no time for that.”

I’m tempted to dig in my heels, to wail and protest, but what good will it do? Beyond angering her more? I have no power here. No allies.

I have no choice in anything.

If I don’t do what they tell me to do, they’ll find a way to make me. A way that usually involves torture and suffering.

Tugging me by the arm, Sister Agatha leads me out of my cell and into the hallway. Her pace brisk, she forces me to keep up with her.

Taking my obedience as a given.

It’s still early in the day, and the hallways we walk are eerily quiet and empty. A few candles and torches have been lit here and there, but without living bodies filling the halls, the place truly feels like a crypt for the dead.

The path we take is one I know too well. One I’ve traveled for years on my knees, scrubbing the floors.

It’s so engrained in my muscles and bones, I don’t even have to think about putting one foot in the front of the other or watching where I’m going. I just follow my body.

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