Page 4 of The Preachers' Promise
“You’ve allowed him back in.” I hit my head on the side of my palm. “I can’t have him back; I can’t bear it. He’s so nasty. The things he says.”
“Darling, please.” Mom reaches for me.
I can smell your pussy. You’ve been playing with it like a dirty, sinful girl. When I get you back, I’ll be the one to do that.
“Shut up,” I scream. “Shut the hell up.”
“Oh, God, what’s wrong with her?” Mom sobs and puts a hand against the wall, steadying herself. “She’s worse than ever.”
“Take me back,” I cry. I turn to my dad, tears and snot running down my face. I must look like a total mess, but I don’t care. “I need to go back. They made him go away. It worked, butthen you hauled me out of there, and now he’s back. I can’t live like this. Take me to Verona Falls.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” My dad reaches out for me, but I stagger back.
“The Preachers made it okay. They made him leave me alone. I need them.”
“Who are the Preachers?” Mom asks, shooting a worried glance at my dad.
“My friends. They helped me.”
I’ve completely lost control, and instead of fighting to rein myself in, I’m leaning into it. Iwantto lose control. Maybe if I can lose who I am, the Prophet will forget me, too.
My legs give way, and I crumple to the floor. I wrap my arms around my knees and rock. I sing a song from the commune, softly, because I need to make a noise to keep his voice from overwhelming me.
“Oh, God.” Mom sobs, her hand over her mouth.
“I’m calling the doctor,” my father says quietly.
I laugh, and know I sound crazy, but I don’t care. Does a little part of me want to scare them? Am I trying to punish them for taking me away from Verona Falls? “That won’t do any good. The stupid doctors can’t make him stop. Onlytheycan, and you made me leave them.”
Father strides out of the room, and I hear him make a call. I stay where I am, crying, softly singing to cover up the voice, and rocking myself gently to soothe my overwrought mind.
Mom sits on the floor with me, and as I sing, she talks. A stream of nonsense about what people I don’t care about have been doing and plans we can make. All the shopping we can do, and iced teas we can share as we stroll in the park. None of it will happen because I’m being haunted again, and I’ll end up hanging from the rafters sooner than later. I can’t go on like this.
I’m not sure how much time passes—it could be ten minutes or perhaps it’s an hour—but then a slender man in his mid-forties walks into the room. His eyes are gray, as is the hair around his temples. He’s wearing a suit, but I recognize him as one of the doctors my father uses when any of his men are injured.
He glances at me, at Mom, and then at Father, and nods once before taking something out of his bag. His expression is serious.
I see the needle and I panic more. “No, no, no. You can’t. I need to keep singing, so I can’t hear him.”
My father grabs my upper arms. It’s not lost on me that his fingers grip where Roman’s were. The same place as my men made me theirs, my father holds me prisoner. He keeps me firmly in place, and the doctor presses the syringe into my arm. I cry harder, feeling as if I’m about to shatter and lose what is left of my mind, except I don’t.
Instead of breaking, I float. I drift, and soon I can’t recall why I was crying in the first place.
Perhaps it’s better this way.
The doctor helps Mom get me on the bed, and she covers me with a blanket. I hear them, see them, but I can’t fight them anymore because, while I’m still awake and aware, I’m all floaty light, and my limbs are useless.
My parents and the doctor file out of the room, and I overhear the doctor tell my parents I may need to stay in a residential mental health place for a while.
“Did you see the bruises on her arms?” my father asks.
“They are consistent with a man grabbing her,” the doctor says.
I giggle softly to myself. Yeah, a man grabbed me, all right, and I liked it. I try to say that, but the words are slurred and mushy, like I’m talking through a mouthful of cotton candy.
“A few weeks of rehab,” the doctor says, “just to let her rest her nervous system.”
No, this is bad. I should move, but I can’t, and the floating is getting more intense. I’m smiling. I don’t know why I’m smiling when they’re discussing sending me away, but I can’t stop myself.
