Page 75 of Pray for Scars
I float in it, the freedom.
But then I see him.
It wasn’t Reverend Wilson,because Reverend Wilson was dead. But it might as well have been. He pushed up my dress, the one I was supposed to wear for Sunday school. The one he bought for me.
“He told me you would be too old for me,” the man says. I can only see his suit and tie. There’s no face. There’s never a face. It’s much easier that way. “But you’re still just a girl, aren’t you?” He cups my chin in his hand and his touch is so gentle, I relax on his bed.
I nod, answering his question. They like it when I answer their questions, as long as I don’t talk too much.
He brushes his thumb over my lip, places a hand on my bare knee. “When we’re done with Sunday service, we’ll cleanse your sins.” His hand, gnarled with age, rises higher, clamping down on my thigh.
I panic,eyes flying open and darting around this crowded club, breaths coming out in pants. I shove the boy’s hand off of my bare leg, stumbling backward.
“What the fuck?” he hisses as everyone near us turns to me, and the club lights make me feel dizzy, out of control. I turn away from him, looking for an exit. Trying to get the fuck out of here. I need air. I need to fucking breathe.
I need my brother.
And as if he can read my mind, his arm is around my shoulder in seconds and he’s shoving people out of our way as he heads to the back of the club, past the dance floor, down a hallway with closed doors. He pushes into one and a girl wearing nothing but fishnet stockings starts screaming, a guy’s dick flashing briefly as she hops off of his lap.
“What the—”
“Get the fuck out,” my brother growls at them.“Now.”
They do, and Jeremiah throws the girl’s top at her as they leave. He slams the door closed, and we’re alone in a small room with dim lights, a couch pushed against the wall, a table with empty drinks on it. I can smell the sex they almost had in the air.
My stomach convulses, but I clamp my mouth shut.
Jeremiah guides me to the couch and together, we sink down into it, his arm still around me.
“You okay?” he whispers.
I nod, taking deep breaths, rubbing my eyes, as if I can scrub the memory away, too. It’s already fading, my pulse already slowing, but my hands are shaking. I don’t want to sit. I can’t be still.
That’s never happened to me before.
Other than that night, at that church…
Jeremiah offers me his calloused hand. I think of the boy with green eyes in my flashback at the cathedral, blood on his hands. I wonder how many men Jeremiah has killed with these hands. Wonder how many women. Wonder what he’s doing now for work, with his hushed phone calls and when he leaves during the day to “handle business”.
I wonder, too, why I take his hand, and let him pull me to my feet, let him back me against the wall.
“You don’t have to pretend with me, Sis,” he says softly. Softer than I think I’ve ever heard him speak.
I force a smile, our hands still clasped between us. “I’m not, Jeremiah, I just...”
I shake my head. I’m justwhat?Losing my fucking mind? Those memories are mine. I know they are. I just…I’ve spent my whole life burying them. Each time they happened, I’d fix it, then I’d delete the scene in my head.
“Really, Sid, you can trust me. What just happened?”
“Jeremiah,” I whisper, unable to call him by his given name. His real name. My brother’s name. Not when his lips are inches from mine, and I can feel him; feel his heat and smell his sweat.
I press further into the wall at my back because I’m afraid if I don’t move certainly in one direction, I’ll find my way to him.
I’m just so tired. Tired of running. Of being afraid. Of being angry.
I’m done with all of it.
His fingers are on my face, holding my head still, other hand flat against the wall. I can hear him breathing. I can see his chest, beneath a tight black shirt, rising and falling with each breath between us. My own heart is pounding so loud in my ears I’m sure he can hear it.
