Slain

by Harper, Livia

  “Is this how you want to meet the Lord, Emma? Buried in your own sins? Pray over her, ladies. Pray that her pride doesn’t get in the way of her eternal salvation.”

  I feel the tiny pressure of hands laid upon me, then voices raised in prayer, then the faintest whisper, “Just say it.” It’s Tessa. “It’s not worth it.”

  My air is nearly gone. And she’s right. It’s not worth the fight. It’s not worth my life. I know what I believe. A few words can’t change that.

  “Jesus! Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!”

  Immediately, the bags are pulled off me and the other girls are hoisting me upright. Mrs. Hemple starts singing.

  “Amazing grace. How sweet the sound. That saved a wretch like me.”

  The other girls join her.

  “I once was lost but now am found. Was blind, but now I see.”

  Mrs. Hemple pulls the blindfold off my eyes. There’s a pile of sacks, big rice sacks, stacked inside the circle.

  “Isn’t that better, Emma? Isn’t that easier than fighting? All you have to do is accept Christ’s love, and He immediately takes away the burden of our sins.”

  Her face is so earnest, so joyful that, for a second, I want to believe her. I want to think that all I have to do is ask Jesus for help and all of this, all my problems, will go away. But then I remember the last two years of struggle and prayer and asking. There was no help then, and there will be no help now. I glare at her with every dagger in my eyes.

  “What do you have to say for yourself? Are you ready to accept Christ’s love?”

  “Oh please,” I say. “This is all bullshit.”

  Everyone gasps, but out of the corner of my eye, I think I see Tessa smile.

  “It sounds like Emma needs some time to pray.”

  Mrs. Hemple grabs my arm and drags me out of the room, down the hallway, and into a room that must be her office.

  She swings open a closet door and shoves me inside. Everything is black. I hear the door lock and feel around in the dark.

  “Ow!”

  My finger comes back with a splinter. Plywood, on all sides. The floor so small there’s not enough room to stretch my legs out all the way.

  Then there’s a crackle from above. Speakers. Music. “Amazing Grace.”

  It’s a chorus of girls, probably ones stuck here at some point, because it sounds folks-y, not professional. The volume spikes, so high I have to shove my fingers in my ears to avoid the sting. This must be the Grace Tank.

  I spend the entire song hoping for just an inch of silence, but when it ends, it plays again. And again. And again. By the tenth repetition, I know I’ll be in here for a while.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  TIME MOVES SLOWLY. AFTER a while I lose track of how many times the song plays. Eventually, my ears grow numb to the sound, and I risk pulling my fingers out of my ears. But it’s still so loud it’s uncomfortable.

  I take off my T-shirt and rip out the neckline, then stuff the fabric in my ears. The sound dulls to a manageable level. My head clears, and I decide to find a way out of this place. I don’t know how yet. But I will find a way.

  I wad up the T-shirt and stuff it behind my neck, leaning against the wall. I try to sleep, but my head is churning with so many thoughts it makes it impossible. I think about Jackson, about what to say to him the next time I see him, about what I’ve decided about us after being here.

  Most of my thoughts are about June, though. And about me too. Theories dance around, twisting and untwisting until everything is tangled together in an unmanageable heap. I decide to think through things from the beginning again. I sort people by motives. I sort people by opportunity. I sort people by whether or not they had something against June. I sort them by whether or not they had something against me. I lay out the timelines of that night, of my past, of June’s.

  That’s when something, a little tiny something that might be nothing at all, clicks. Two thousand and five. Jay Peterson died in 2005. What if Lee was right? What if…?

  It’s a long shot, really long. But it’s not impossible, is it? No. It’s not.

  There’s no way to know without proof, and I’m stuck here. Which makes it even more important that I find a way to escape.

  Eventually, my mind running itself into the ground with the idea, I fall asleep.

  I don’t know how long I’m sleeping, but my dreams are dark twisted things. Guns and blood and chests torn apart by bullets. And June, her face twisting away from me on a wisp of smoke.

  I’m awoken by light. Streaming through the doorway, cutting my pupils into painful slivers.

  “Have you had the time you need to pray?”

  I have. There’s been no praying, but I’ve thought a lot. I put on my best Christian-zombie face: eyes blank, mouth slack, and say, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And what have you learned?”

  “To ask Jesus for forgiveness for my sins.”

  “Which sins?”

  “Lying and doubt and fornication.” I say it like a mantra, without feeling, without meaning. Even though I know it’s a lie, even though I know it’s just a means to an end, saying it out loud hurts.

  “Good. Put your shirt on and have a seat.”

  She motions toward the chair across from her desk, and I climb out of my hole and into bright daylight that beams through the slats in her window blinds. I look around the room. Sparse, mission-style furniture, simple but expensive. She’s probably making a load off this little brat camp of hers. A bookshelf with Christian-themed books about raising youth to follow God. Pictures of her family—a husband and three toddlers. The clock on the wall reads 7:40 a.m. I’ve been in there for over fifteen hours.

  I sit in the chair, stretching my neck and my legs. Everything is cramped and tight. I daydream about a massage, a pedicure, and especially Jackson’s touch—anything to make my body stop hurting. Mrs. Hemple’s voice breaks into my mind.

  “I know the punishments here seem harsh, but I truly believe they are effective. By the end of your time here, I hope you’ll be able to call me a friend.”

  She believes this shit. She really does.

  Mrs. Hemple gets out her scissors and walks toward me. I try not to flinch as she cuts the other side of my hair.

  “There. A reward for your attitude. See? I can be fair, can’t I? My daddy named me Mercy for a reason.”

  “Your name is Mercy?”

  “That’s right. Pretty, isn’t it?”

  Well, at least I know whose idea it was to send me here now.

  “So your sister is Miss Hope?” I ask, though I’m fairly certain of the answer. She and my parents must have been whispering it outside the door after we talked, which means this little plan has been in the works for at least a week, before they even saw the video. If only I had seen it coming. I would have run away.

  “Yes. I thought you knew. She was very concerned about you. Called me personally to discuss your case and convinced me to take you on. I’m very selective about the girls I accept here, Emma. I only choose the ones I know I can help. And I believe that about you. I truly do.”

  I bet she does.

  I reach up to touch the short spot on my scalp and feel only uneven chunks. I can’t imagine what I must look like now.

  “Hair can grow back, Emma, but we only have one chance to lead a life worthy of God’s grace. I know it seems hard right now, but God puts obstacles in our path to make us stronger. That’s what my daddy always said. And he was right. You will come through to the other side of all of this.”

  Mrs. Hemple lets me join the rest of the girls in the bunks as they prepare for the day. I wash my face and hands, trying to avoid the mirror so I don’t have to look at what Mrs. Hemple has done to me, to my hair. But it’s inevitable. It looks like I’ve been attacked by a weed whacker. I brush it and put on one of the elastic hair bands the girls with short hair are allowed to use.

  When I’m done, I line up at the door, ready to go to breakfast, but Chloe yanks me out of line. />
  “Change your shirt, Emma, or you’re going to get me in trouble,” she says.

  I look down and realize that I’m still wearing the shirt I tore up in the Grace Tank. Apparently, deconstructed fashion hasn’t hit the halls of New Mercy Ranch quite yet.

  I go back to my bunk and climb up on the side rails to change. I unzip my suitcase. Then I stop.

  I hear something strange, see a movement beneath my clothes. Is it a trick of the light?

  Gently, I pull back my nightgown.

  The tail of the rattler stands straight up.

  It bears its jaws and hisses as angry venom drips from its fangs.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  I SCREAM, REAR BACK, and tumble off the bed frame onto the floor.

  The other girls run over to see what happened, and soon I’m not the only one screaming. The sound is like a fire alarm.

  I get up and race toward the door, but it’s still locked for the morning. Some girls climb on top of the bunks across the room and huddle together. A brave soul named Stephanie whips the blanket off her own bed and throws it over the snake.

  The rattler snaps at the blanket, twisting out of its cover and falling hard to the floor, where it slithers under Chloe’s bottom bunk. It moves so quickly and smoothly into the darkness that it’s hard to tell what direction it was headed. Will it stay under there or come out somewhere else? I was scared when I saw the snake. I’m even more terrified not seeing it.

  I bang on the door, “Help! Help! Let us out!”

  Baldy opens the door, and we rush to get out, but his broad body blocks us from leaving.

  “Hey! Back inside!”

  “Please, there’s a—“

  “What’s going on in here?” Mrs. Hemple asks, appearing behind him. “What is all this ruckus about?”

  “Snake!” Me and several other girls shout. “Rattlesnake!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,”

  “That’s odd. Long way from their nest. Where’d you see it?” she asks.

  “Under Chloe’s bed,” I say, pointing to the last place I saw it.

  “Just the one?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  Mrs. Hemple charges forward. She grabs a broom from where it’s resting against the wall and hands it to Chloe.

  “You. Go to the other side and poke the broom under. I’ll be waiting at the other end.”

  “But Mrs. Hemple—,“ Chloe says.

  “Do as I say. Right now.”

  We all hold our breath as Chloe creeps toward the bed, the broom held in front of her like a weapon. She stands a few feet away, too scared to move.

  “For goodness sake, girl, do it now,” Mrs. Hemple says.

  Chloe timidly stretches the broom out in front of her. Then, in a rush of fear, she thrusts the brush end under the bed. There’s a hiss, but sure enough, the snake races out the other end toward Mrs. Hemple.

  Everyone screams as it rushes past her and bolts toward the door.

  Straight toward me.

  But just as I think it’s going to bite, Mrs. Hemple snatches the thing by the neck, behind its jaw.

  She holds it into the air, squirming and hissing and terrifying. The grin on her face is triumphant. I doubt anyone has seen her happier.

  “There’s a reason the devil takes the form of a snake in the Bible, girls. Snakes are runners. They don’t confront their problems. They’re weak.” She turns to Derrick, whose mouth is as wide open as the rest of ours. “Don’t just stand there. Fetch me a potato sack.”

  Derrick races out of the room.

  “Better get on to breakfast before it gets cold,” Mrs. Hemple says.

  We file out past her, the snake hissing as each of us passes.

  I eat my gruel in a daze, thinking, my thoughts churning to peaks of anger, making my stomach roil with anxiety and fear. That was no accident.

  Miss Hemple said it herself. How did a snake make it into my suitcase? There’s no food up there. And with all the cleaning we’ve done, I can’t imagine the property attracts mice. Not to mention how difficult it would be to even get into the room in the first place with only one door and one window.

  If it did get in, why would it skip a lower, quieter area, like under a bed, and go up into a top bunk? And then my suitcase?

  There’s no way that was an accident. Someone just tried to kill me. Here.

  I wanted to leave the moment I arrived. Now I have to. I’m a sitting duck.

  The ever-present question pokes me relentlessly. Who? Who? Who? My mind lists the people who know where I am: my parents, Miss Hope, Pastor Pete, Mike, Paige, their parents. And who else? It wasn’t exactly a private display, their taking me. The word likely spread to the entire school before lunch. And my parents had to have told other people at church too.

  My gut is telling me something, but I need more information before I’ll know for sure. And to get it, I’ll have to get out of here.

  The rest of the day goes by slow and cloudy. I move through my chores and meals mechanically, watching, plotting, waiting for my chance. When we go into our dorm for the night, everyone triple checks every nook and cranny for snakes. No one finds anything.

  And then it’s time for lights out, and I wait.

  Eventually, the room goes soft with sleep. Quietly, the rhythmic breathing of twenty girls blends into a gentle hum, like the constant pull of the wind only without the ebb and flow that marks its arrival and departure. I listen, wide awake, until I can clearly hear Chloe’s droning snore, then sit up and reach for the suitcase at my feet.

  The zipper is plastic, and I’m thankful for its quiet buzz as I gently pull it open. My eyes have finally adjusted to the almost total blackness, but still I can barely make out my dirty clothes smashed on top of everything else. I pull them out and feel around to see if there’s anything else useful inside the suitcase. I wish for a knife or scissors or a hanger or anything I could use to help me escape, but all I find is a nail clipper inside a small toiletry bag. There isn’t much in there, just the basics: shampoo, toothbrush, toothpaste, tampons, hair ties, a compact brush. But it could be useful. It would be easy to carry, and who knows how long I might be on my own? I set it aside.

  I keep digging. There’s a Bible and a notebook and a new metal water bottle. There’s also fresh underwear, socks, my fluffy bathrobe, and some other clothes I can’t identify as my own. They feel stiff and new, unworn. More khaki skirts. I don’t need them. I set aside the water bottle, the toiletry bag, and a fresh set of undergarments. Everything else is useless to me.

  I strip off my nightgown as quietly as I can and dress. Each swish of fabric over my skin feels like the echo of a gun. Out of habit, I grab a ponytail holder and reach to wrap my hair into a bun. The shock of the short hair hits me again. It’s jarring to reach up and feel nothing. It spurs me on. I have to get out of here.

  I dig in the suitcase for my shoes, but don’t feel them. My hands hit something else—my mother’s note. I don’t take it with me. I don’t care what’s in there. Nothing my parents can say will ever make up for this.

  I look for shoes, then remember that they’re nestled at the foot of the bed, right by Chloe’s head, another measure against me trying to run. Dammit. There’s no way I’ll get anywhere barefooted.

  As quietly as I can I climb over the edge of the bed, then I think of something. I scramble back up and pull the nightgown over my head and roll up my jeans. The nightgown is big and billowy enough to conceal my real clothes. I grab my bathrobe too, and stuff my small stash into the giant pockets, then slip it on as an added layer of concealment, even though it’s way too warm for a robe in here. The room is stuffy, airless. My temperature shoots up, but the robe will help if anyone sees me. I can ditch it later.

  I slip my legs over the edge of the bunk, using every muscle in my body to make my movements slow and controlled. Chloe and Tessa cannot wake up. They just can’t.

  Finally, I feel the floor beneath my feet and ease myse
lf down. My shoes sit right under the bed, directly beneath Chloe’s gaping, drooling mouth. I tiptoe lightly over. One step, then another, until I’m close enough to crouch down. I reach for them, my face level with Chloe’s, my eyes only inches away from hers. I hold my breath and feel my hands close around my sneakers.

  Then I feel a hand on my shoulder.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  IT TAKES EVERYTHING IN me to stop the scream before it reaches my throat. My head snaps up. Staring at me, from the bunk above Chloe’s, is Tessa. Her green eyes nearly glow out from the darkness. Her brow is furrowed. Her hair, at some point, has been cut on the other side too, just like mine. A reward for good behavior.

  “I’m going with you,” she whispers. Then adds for good measure, “Please.”

  I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to say anything at all, for fear of waking Chloe. Can I trust Tessa? Will she hold me back?

  It doesn’t really feel like I have a choice, though. If I tell her no she’ll wake Chloe, I’m certain of it. I nod my head yes and motion her to hurry. Tessa shoots up to a seated position, her eyes wild, excited. Chloe stirs. I whip my fingers to my lips, motioning Tessa to be quiet. She stills, and I can see the wildness behind her eyes retreat. Chloe smacks her lips and breathes deep, then rolls over and tugs the pillow under her head. Her snoring resumes.

  I motion to Tessa to come down. Carefully, she swings out of bed and grabs her entire suitcase. I shake my head violently. She can’t take the whole thing with her. We need to be fast. She lifts one finger, motioning for me to wait, then points to the bathroom. She’s right. It will be quieter to gather what she needs in there. I grab her shoes for her, and we make our way to the bathroom.

  Once inside, Tessa carefully closes the door behind us.

  “Thank you,” she says. “I can’t stand being here even one more day. You don’t even know.”

  “I know enough,” I whisper. “Hurry up. We need to go before anyone needs a midnight pee break.”