Anointed

by Charity B.

  Marching over to him with my shirt still in my hand, I point a finger at him while my fury bubbles up again.

  “You should have tried!”

  “Zebadiah!”

  My father’s voice sounds behind me, igniting my vehemence. I spin around on him, and seeing his face propels me forward. I shove him as hard as I can, once, twice.

  “How could you?! How could you send her out there?!” I scream at him, spit flying and tears falling down my face. “You’ve taken everything from me!”

  His response is his fist against my jaw. I fall back only to be yanked up by my hair, hard jabs landing against my ribs.

  “Father, stop! He’s mourning. He just found out about her.”

  Zeke’s hands are on my arm to try and pull me away. His interference switches my father’s focus to him. He’s backhanded so hard his head slams against the wood floor. I try to regain my breath as Father drags him by the shirt and kicks his boot against his back. He looks up at me, his face twisted in a mix of agony and fury.

  “This is not your concern and not your place to intervene. I will deal with you momentarily.” He rips his belt from the loops of his trousers. “Do not ever lay a hand on me again.”

  Landing the first blow across my chest, he pulls back for another, and I spit at him. “Beat me all you want, you hypocrite. You chose to excommunicate her, and I will never forgive you for it.”

  The belt lands against my stomach, forcing me to yell out as I double over. His fist is in my hair, yanking my head back to look at him.

  “I have no desire for your forgiveness.”

  THEY LOOK ALMOST HAPPY IN their life of Godlessness. Picking at the bluegrass, I watch the children in the courtyard. You would never know by looking at them how horrible they really are. In the six weeks I’ve been away from the compound, I’ve learned this place is just as evil as I was taught. The children are crueler and more selfish than the adults. Either that or the adults hide it better.

  I’m used to them all making fun of me. Since I had no clothes or belongings with me, I had to use what was on hand at the children’s home. There wasn’t much I could wear because modesty is not a virtue these heathens possess. One of the women who runs the children’s home took me to a place called a ‘thrift store’. I was thrilled at some of the dresses and skirts I was able to find. I even got a bonnet. The children haven’t stopped teasing me about my clothes since. They call me ‘weird’ and ‘freak’. They mock the way I talk and how picky I am with my food. At first, I didn’t care what they said. Their opinions have no bearing on my soul. Now, my stomach twists, and tears spring up in my eyes. I refuse to let them know they have that power over me, so I mostly try to distance myself as much as possible.

  The buzz that sounds in the courtyard is the signal for lunchtime. I don’t get up though. I’m always the last one to enter the cafeteria and the last one to leave. When the final child abandons the playground, I stand to brush the grass from my skirt and make my way inside. I’m sure to keep my head down, and I still get kicked in line while I await my food. Lifting my gaze to search for an empty table, I am relieved to find a small round one in the corner unoccupied.

  I sit close to the wall, poking at my greasy, square, cheesy piece of ‘pizza’. It’s terrible and can barely be considered food, but it’s either that or starve. Even the green beans are hard to choke down.

  “Hey, you gonna eat that?”

  I look up to see a short girl with black, curly hair pointing at my tray. Plopping down in front of me, she tilts her head, waiting for my answer.

  “What? My food?”

  “Just the brownie. I ain’t stingy.”

  I keep waiting for the cruel comment as I push my tray toward her. “Please.”

  “Wicked. Thanks.” She shoves the brownie in her mouth, bouncing in her seat like she can’t sit still. “What’s the deal with the getup? You Amish or somethin’?”

  I’ve been asked that question multiple times since coming here, yet I’m still not any closer to knowing what it means.

  “What does that mean? Amish?”

  “So, that’s a no… Amish people don’t live like we do. They don’t drive cars or have TVs or anything. They dress funny, kind of like you do.” My heart leaps into my chest, and I feel excitement for the first time since leaving the gates of the Anointed Land. I want more than anything to find these Amish people to ask if they will let me live with them. The thought makes me want to cry with my first sliver of hope. She gestures around the cafeteria. “Why are you in here?”

  Lies have poured from my lips more in the last few weeks than the rest of my life combined. Philistines are not to know of the compound. They would most certainly try to take it, defiling it with their modern devices and evil ways. This girl though, she doesn’t seem like much of a threat. What is she really going to do? She’s the first person my age to talk kindly to me. I want her to continue doing it.

  “I come from a place called the Anointed Land. I rebuked my God and was excommunicated because of it. That’s why I’m here, living outside of grace.”

  Her eyebrows jump to the middle of her forehead. “Whoa…ease up. You’re a serious one, aren’t you? If they kicked you out, then why do you still dress like the cast of Little House on the Prairie?”

  “Because I believe in spiritual law. It’s forbidden for me to allow a man that is not my husband to see the skin above my wrists and ankles. Though I may be cast into a world of sin, I will still follow the commandments of Zaaron.”

  Her eyes widen, and she leans back, crossing her arms. “Um…okay. That’s cool. Whatever paints your pallet. What’s your name anyway?”

  “I’m Laurel Ann Henderson. What’s yours?”

  Her lip quirks, making her appear mischievous. “Kaila Paisley.” Sparkling nails covered in chipped, glittery polish are in my face as she holds out her hand. I’m hesitant, but I shake it anyway. “Want a cigarette? We won’t get caught if we go by the trash bins.”

  I’ve only stayed at one other place besides the children’s home since coming here, and it was with a family. It was only for a week and that was more than enough time for me. The father of the home smoked something called cigarettes. I hated the way he would blow the smoke in my face as he spoke. While I definitely don’t want one, I do want someone to talk to, and she is interesting…for a Philistine.

  I miss my family, I miss Zeb, I miss my friends, and I miss my life before the blood of innocence ruined everything. I don’t have the choice to not associate with these people. If I must spend time with a filthy Philistine, I think I’d like it to be her. Besides, from what I’ve seen, she’s the best option by far.

  “Okay.”

  I follow her out of the mess hall and through the lobby. It’s meant to be cheery, when instead, it’s utterly depressing. She stops by the front desk, greeting Jaida, one of the women in charge. My heart trades places with my stomach. She’s setting me up. She’s going to get me in trouble somehow. I should have known. None of them are trustworthy.

  “Hey, Jaida,” Kaila sings.

  Jaida’s skin is the same stunning dark color as Kaila’s. I’d never seen skin that color before leaving the Anointed Land. Philistines may all be evil, but that doesn’t mean they can’t be beautiful.

  Jaida looks to Kaila, and her expression is a paradox. Her eyebrows are scrunched together, yet her lips are upturned in a smirk. “Uh-oh. Here’s trouble.”

  Kaila presses her hand to her hip, blowing her a kiss. “You know you love me, Jaida.”

  “What I would love is for you to call me Ms. McElroy.”

  Kaila claps her hands together. “Ooh! I like this game. My turn. What I would love is…another TV in the rec room. I need my ‘American Idol’ fix. Okay, now you go.”

  Jaida shakes her head and laughs. “Get out of here, Paisley.”

  Grinning, Kaila hooks her arm in mine. “Let’s go. I know when I’m not wanted.”

  We walk through the doors that always know
when we’re coming because they open for us every time. All by themselves, as if being controlled by the Devil.

  Walking outside, we pass the playground where there are young children swinging in the middle of the yard. A few boys, including the ones who have picked on me, are playing a game where they bounce an orange ball, and then try to throw it through a net. Bucketball, I think.

  Kaila sings some ridiculous song about getting her ‘sexy back’ as she takes us further from the yard, around to the side of the building. There are three large, blue, metal bins where the trash is disposed of. She leans against the wall next to them, removes two white cigarette sticks from a white box, and hands me one. I’m curious what brought her to this place of unwanted children. Why isn’t she with her parents?

  I copy her actions and put the stick in my mouth. She holds up the little, pink cylinder containing the flame. A lighter. She lights mine, though instead of catching on fire, it suppresses the flame like charcoal. Smoke that tastes like burnt toast floats into my mouth. It fills up my throat, blocking my airway, making me cough and choke. Tears burn my eyes, and I crouch over to ease the attack on my body.

  Kaila laughs. “Haven’t you ever smoked before?” Every time I open my mouth to speak, I cough again, so I shake my head. She puts her cigarette to her mouth, blowing the smoke out without even clearing her throat. “Don’t feel like you have to smoke it if you don’t like it.”

  Oh, thank goodness. I hand it back to her. “I’m sorry.”

  She snubs it out on the side of the building and puts it back into the white box. “No worries.” She smiles, and her cocoa eyes sparkle in the sunlight. “I still like you.”

  “Why are you here? Where are your parents?”

  She has a relaxing energy about her, so I ask before thinking. Just as the words fumble out, I regret them. I’m being intrusive. She did ask me, yes, but she’s a heathen. You can’t blame her for not having social manners.

  The smile falls from her face, and she kicks the rocks off the sidewalk with her ‘flip-flop’. I think they call them that because of the sound they make when walked in. I’m told it’s a shoe. Hardly. It doesn’t even qualify as a sock.

  “My mom’s in rehab. She’s been in and out for years. And my dad…well, my dad loved me a lot.” She raises her eyebrow. “Too much, ya know?”

  I’m completely lost. I have no clue what a rehab is or how a father could ever have ‘too much’ love for his daughter. I wish my father had loved me more.

  “That’s bad?”

  She sighs and squints into the sunny sky. “It wasn’t real love. He did things. Made me do things. Ya know, sex stuff.”

  My fingers still smell like smoke when I cover my mouth. My stomach twists at the thought. Her own father? I know people in the outside world are evil and wretched, but this is repulsive.

  I suddenly want her to know that while it may not have been with my father, I know what it’s like to be made to do those things with someone you revere and love.

  “I, uh…I had to have sex once. It was horrible.”

  I’m grateful for her consciousness to blow the smoke in the air above her and away from my face. Her eyes go wide as she cocks her head to the side.

  “With who?”

  Why am I telling her this? She is a Philistine for goodness sake! Yet, I continue to speak. “My husband. He was my Prophet.”

  “No shit? Now that’s messed up. What are you? Like thirteen?”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “Damn. Are you still married to him?”

  “Not in the eyes of Zaaron.”

  “Who the hell is Zaaron? Is that his name?”

  “No, that is my God.”

  She blinks a few times. “Right... Anyway, I eventually told my gran about it. She took me away and called the police. I haven’t seen him since.”

  “Why aren’t you still with your gran?”

  She drops her cigarette on the ground before stepping on it. “She died last year.”

  “Oh…that’s sad.”

  She sighs as she wraps her arm around my shoulder. “Come on, prairie princess. You said it’s only men that can’t see your arms and shit, right?” I nod, and she does a shake with her hips. “Good, because I am going to give you a secret makeover.”

  Her room is shared with five other girls, two of which are in the room with us. One has on a pair of the electric earmuffs that play music, the other is flipping through pages in a book, and both are ignoring us.

  Kaila wraps a band around my hair to make a ‘pony tail’. Why everyone around here wants to make their head look like a foal’s backside is beyond me. Philistines. I don’t try to understand them. She pulls a basket out from beneath her bed, digging through it as she tosses articles of clothing in disarray around her. She hands me her choices before rummaging through a small, blue bag with yellow stars on it.

  I hold up what she gives me, and I’m disturbed that anyone would wear this. There is hardly any fabric here at all. What exactly are these going to conceal? I lift up the heavy, blue bottoms that appear to be some kind of bloomer with pastel rainbows on the back pockets.

  “These are covered in holes.”

  She chuckles, arranging an array of colorful powders and brushes on her bed. “Just put ‘em on.”

  My undergarments cover more than these do! The frayed edges are the only reason they’re as long as they are. I pick up the next item. Is this a brassiere?! I yank the flimsy, black fabric over my head and hold out the bright pink shirt. There are no sleeves, and it says ‘Another Day of Not Being Rich and Famous’ in curly black letters. The material is thin and doesn’t cover my stomach. The arm holes almost dip to my waist, and I don’t know if there is even a point to wearing it. These clothes are so bright. My dresses at home were never flashy colors like this. Wearing such things is a clear sign of vanity. She puts goop and powder all over my face before tying a pink bow in my hair. She throws me a pair of pink and black sparkly sneakers with white toes and laces. A clunky, multicolored necklace finishes her ‘makeover’.

  She brushes something off her shoulder before pushing me in front of the mirror. “Ta da!”

  I hardly recognize myself. I can’t help but think how horrified my family would be if they saw me right now. I look much younger than I normally do, and though I hate to admit it’s kind of cute, I still want to cover up the exposed skin.

  “Whatcha think?”

  “Uh…I don’t know. What do you think?”

  She taps her chin. “I think you look adorably uncomfortable.”

  I laugh. “Yes, a little… Thank you. This was fun.”

  “That’s what friends are for.”

  The smile refuses to leave my face.

  Friends. With a Philistine.

  I never thought I’d see the day.

  I have spent every day this week with Kaila, and while she seems to break a lot of rules, they are Philistine rules that I have no use or respect for. Even now, we’re sneaking to the basement with a bunch of other kids, and it’s well past lights out.

  Their loud whispers and snickers are going to get us in trouble. An uneasiness rolls in my stomach, and I hold my knapsack tighter to my chest.

  “Relax,” Kaila whispers. “If we get caught, all they will do is send us back to bed.”

  I nod to her as we descend the stairs. The room is large, mostly filled with boxes and storage. Following Kaila, I copy what the other kids do by laying my knapsack on the floor.

  Everyone seems to like her. The boys are always smiling at her and the girls seem to mimic her. She either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care because she mostly ignores them.

  One of the boys with a shaved head comes over to us, holding out a bottle to Kaila.

  “You want a drink, K?”

  She takes it, bringing it to her lips and taking a large gulp. Her face twists up, and she wipes her mouth. “Ugh.” Holding the bottle to me, she says, “Here.”

  I take it from her, but it didn’t look li
ke it tasted too good. “What is this?”

  “Tequila.”

  “Alcohol? No, thank you.”

  I hand it back to her, and the boy snorts. “Your loss, Bible thumper.”

  Biting my tongue, I settle for glaring at him. In the short time I’ve been here, I’ve heard plenty about their false God and blasphemous text. I don’t appreciate being compared to that.

  Kaila scoffs, “Thanks for the liquor, Patch. Now go away. I’m not into guys who talk shit to my friends.”

  “Oh, come on. Don’t be like that, girl. I was jus’ playin’.”

  She smirks at him, and lifts the bottle back to her mouth. “See ya later, Patch.”

  He grabs his chest like he’s wounded before grinning and turning back to his friends.

  “Thanks for standing up for me.”

  She plops down on her blanket. “I wouldn’t be much of a friend if I didn’t.”

  “You’re not like them, are you?” I ask her. I don’t know how she’s different, she just is.

  “Like who?” She gestures to the other kids. “Them?”

  I nod. “You’re not as evil as the rest of the Philistines in this place.”

  She takes another drink without looking at me. “They’re my friends, too, ya know. You calling them evil is no different than them calling you a freak.”

  Guilt presses against my chest. Is she right? Zaaron teaches us to be kind, but he didn’t mean to them. Did he?

  “I apologize. It was not my intention to offend you.”

  She shrugs. “I mean, they can be assholes.”

  I narrow my eyes in confusion, and she starts giggling.

  It’s getting really late, and I can’t believe we haven’t gotten caught with how loud they’ve gotten. I think I’m the only one who can still speak and walk correctly. It amazes me that there’s a couple openly kissing and touching in the corner. Any one of us could look over there and see them. I can’t believe their lack of shame.