Page 2 of Was I Ever Real

“A word?” I repeat as I pull away. “But it is almost time...”

She shrugs her shoulders. “He says it is urgent. He needs to see you before the wedding.”

My stomach falls suddenly, I’m not sure why, but my throat goes dry as I look towards my mother. “But—”

“Go,” she responds flatly, her eyes harder than ever before. Then, she clears her throat and smiles. “You do not want to make him wait now would you?” Waving her hands towards me, she effectively shoos me out of the room.

Thankfully, everyone has already gathered in the gardens readying themselves for the ceremony, lowering the chances of someone seeing me in my wedding dress. I still hug the walls in precaution, shuffling quickly to my father’s quarters located in the north wing of the main house. I climb the few sets of stairs quickly while still trying not to perspire. Finally, I reach the third floor and knock on the door of his closed study. I hear his booming voice telling me to enter.

“My child. Please,” he says as I walk in, brandishing his hand which still holds the pen he was writing with. “Close the door behind you.”

I do as I am told, my throat even tighter than before, an eerie—yet unfounded—feeling beginning to crawl up my spine like a slithering snake.

“Sit, sit,” he coaxes.

Nervously, I settle into one of the chairs facing him.

He steeples his hands together on his desk and rests his chin atop his fingers, a knowing smile appearing on his weather-worn face.

“It is your wedding day,” he states.

The urge to say something insolent is hot on my tongue while I sit before him in my white dress. “Yes,” I simply answer, “it is.” My fingers dig into the aging chair cushion under me as I wait for him to continue. Eventually, I realize he is waiting for me to speak again. I clear my throat, digging my nails further into the foam cushion. “I am quite pleased with your choice of husband, Father. Thank you.”

“Good. Good,” he mutters, standing up. He crosses the room in a few short strides and locks the door behind me.

My heartbeat skyrockets, body motionless. The air fills with an ominous chill that I cannot understand but can onlyfeel.

“Now. We need to discuss the matter of your maidenhead.” He sits back down, facing me with that same serene smile he always carries and I suddenly feel sick.

“My…” I cannot even utter the word out loud without my cheeks burning.

“As you should know, your virginal state is a gift meant only for God. It is not for your husband to take,” he says, studying me with an expression I have only seen him use when watching one of his wives. I swallow hard, not able to understand why I’m suddenly so uncomfortable. He stays silent while continuing to observe me until finally, he speaks again, his voice lower, almost secretive but curt. “And so as a shepherd of God, I make it my sacred duty to become the vessel for this offering. Now. Before your union with Patrick.”

The dress I’m wearing suddenly feels two sizes too small, choking me at the neck.

“I do not understand,” I utter, my voice slightly trembling.

My limbs are frozen as I watch my father stand up and slowly close the space between us, his fingers trailing against the small sliver of skin still visible near my nape. The goosebumps that rise from his touch are not...righteous.

I still do not understand what his words really mean, but if I believe the fear rising up my throat, and this deep subconscious wail telling me to run—then something here is deeply wrong.

“Come.” My father’s voice is lower than before, his hand reaching for mine.

The part of me that is shocked and utterly disturbed by what is slowly unfolding is locked somewhere inside of me, letting him pull me up from the chair and towards the couch facing us. My body trembles, my skin crawling with foreboding but I follow and sit down while he crouches in front of me.

I stare at my knees and listen to his breath hitch while he pushes my dress up and up and up.

My vision begins to blur at the edge, my chest feeling like it is about to collapse.

And yet, I cannot help but think bitterly about my mother, wondering if the small speck of darkness I saw in her eyes before I came here was her knowing what was to come. Knowing she was allowing this, and still leading me to my slaughter.

I cannot hear a thing by the time he uncovers my thighs, the left one now permanently marked by months of cyclical repentance. He swipes his gnarled index over the scarring and finally stands up.

I am a statue, stone carved from shame.

How can this be? How can this be right?

But then my hearing returns. Sharp and crisp.

---