Page 1 of Was I Ever Real

Chapter 1

Fifteen years old

Myhandgripsthehandle of the knife, the blade meeting soft skin as I plunge it into their body with the full force of my hurt and rage. Face contorting in pain, betrayal etched deep in their searing gaze. Their body slumps slowly down, nearly lifeless, to the ground with a deafening grunt.

I jolt out of my daydream, slamming back into reality. I’m locked inside this barren room with nothing to do but let my mind wander. I have had this particular vision often but never told anyone. Not even my sister Lucy. No. This, I keep secret. Visions like these could only mean I’ve been kissed by the devil himself.

Sitting listless on the bed, tucked into the furthest corner from the locked door, I shake the lingering images from my head and refocus on the wall in front of me. The metal springs from the thin mattress beneath me dig into my thighs but still, I sit and stare. I have not moved in what feels like hours. I wouldn’t know, there are no windows here. The beige paint of the room is so old it is turning yellow. Cracked at the corners where the bedroom walls meet.

Bedroom.

If you can call these four walls that.

I listen to a fly struggling against the overhead light. The quiet echoes even when there’s nary a sound being made. It bounces off the walls and hurls itself back onto me like small pebbles pelting my skin.

I could always read from the pages of the book left on the small bedside table beside me to pass the time. But it doesn’t matter.

I can recite the words effortlessly from memory. It has been a required reading ever since my mother taught me how to read. It recounts the genesis of our entire existence here on earth. Penned by my father, Jasper Lincoln, leader of Sacro Nuntio. He is the reincarnation of the archangel Raphael, blessed with a healing touch so profound, he manifests miracles at will with just a touch.

His words are Holy. As so are his testaments.

A framed picture of him hangs slightly crooked above the bed. I have that picture memorized as well. His aging, wrinkled white face follows me no matter where I am, thinning gray hair combed to one side, beady brown eyes always watching. In every room I enter, he is there, watching over me. Over us. Always wearing a narrow but serene smile, portraying his devout role as the harbinger of all things good and saintly.

Wringing my hands together and licking my parched lips, I wait. My left thigh twinges, making me wince and resettle on the mattress. I lift up my blue cotton dress gingerly, uncovering the metal-chained cilice wrapped tightly around my thigh. The metal garter pinches and cuts no matter how I sit, the metal spikes digging into my already tender skin. I itch to take it off, if only for a few minutes.

But I need my bleed to have stopped for my atonement to end.

It’s my first.

Just shy of sixteen, I have become a woman.

I wasn’t ready. I had shamefully tried to keep it a secret but my mother found me trying to scrub the evidence off my nightgown and shepherded me into this room as soon as I was discovered. I have known about these rooms since I was a young child. Our mothers and older sisters have disappeared for a week every month for as long as I can remember. Sequestered and hidden until they are cleansed, the elders deeming them worthy of reentry to society.

The chained garter was an uncomfortable surprise, however, one that made my blood seethe with feelings I couldn’t even properly describe.

Just this blunt and hazy knowing that this is somehow wrong.

Finally, I hear the door unlock and my heart jumps into my throat. The hinges creak, and my father appears, his long bony hands unfurling and the same serene smile that adorns the frame above me appears on his face.

“My child, come,” he utters softly.

I stand up quickly, favoring my right leg and finally exit the stale air of the bedroom, my hand tucked into my father’s and the cilice still indented into my skin.

I am to be wed today.

It has been a few lunar cycles since my first bleed, and I have only just turned sixteen. Somehow, I feel different. The rhythm of life has changed now that I have been welcomed into adulthood. Gaining more duties around the commune, added responsibilities, and I have even been privy to conversations I was excluded from beforehand. Most importantly, I was formally introduced to my future husband, Patrick. We have been in courtship for a little over two months now. The introduction was unnecessary since I grew up with him. A brother of sorts. Not in blood but in faith—carefully chosen by our prophet. My father.

My mother clasps the final button of my wedding dress, and takes a step back, beaming. It’s a simple dress in construction, swishing against the carpet as I look at myself in the full-length mirror in my mother’s bedroom, the long sleeves covering my arms to the wrist. The only intricate detail is the long row of satin buttons lining the back of the dress, up my spine and reaching all the way to my neck. My black curls are braided into a crown around my head, wildflowers from the garden weaved into the plaits, and dark brown eyes shining with eagerness for this day to unfold. I am even allowed a touch of makeup, typically forbidden, due to the importance of the day. I cannot help but preen silently and inconspicuously at the sight of my reflection. I look pretty and my heart flutters with the thought, my cheeks flushed with excitement.

My mother squeezes my shoulder tenderly and I find her gaze in the mirror, smiling softly back at her.Patrick is a good man, I think. Of good faith and from a good family. He is twenty-four and builds houses with his father for the community. I do not question that I will eventually fall in love with him.

All in good time, as my mother likes to say.

There is a rustle at the door and my eyes snap to one of my sisters entering the bedroom. She smiles slyly and drifts in, light on her feet.

“Lucy!” I can’t help my excitement and my mother tuts softly to lower my voice. I twirl around, the dress billowing with the movement and I quietly giggle as my youngest sister embraces me with a gentle laugh of her own.

“You look beautiful,” she says, squeezing me tightly in her arms. “I have come to fetch you, father wants a word in his study.”

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