His boots clomped across the tile suddenly. Margaret tensed, trying to prepare herself for the unexpected. But how does one prepare for something when they don’t know what’s coming? Would he hit her? She’d never experienced violence from her father. He’d always been loving and soft when handling his beloved daughter. But perhaps now he saw her differently and therefore would treat her how he saw her. As a criminal. Harlot. Was that all he saw when he looked at her now?
A hand gently laid on her shoulder, the one with the brand. “Margaret, darling,” he whispered. She hugged her knees tighter. “Explain this to me, please. How did I miss this? How could I have not known?”
Margaret sniffled. She shrugged slightly, but she didn’t speak.
“For the last year? Since you were sixteen? Is that true?”
She hesitated but nodded eventually. “I’m so sorry,” she rasped right before a sob that had built itself up in her chest released from her body in shivers and gasps. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated through the convulsions.
He was quiet for a long, long time. He didn’t move his hand on her shoulder, and he didn’t make her look at him. He heaved a few heavy sighs but was in no hurry to lock her away. Margaret wondered why not. Was he contemplating what to do? Did he have a choice? He was the judge of the Highest City in the Province of Deneb. He was expected, more so than any other person there, to follow the rules without fail. And the rules said that anyone who had premarital relations were to be flogged. Twenty lashes. Margaret felt nauseated just considering how painful it would be.
Then, under his breath, he said, “I can fix it,” and he jumped up so abruptly that he startled Margaret. Paying no mind to her, he hurried away into the kitchen. Margaret remained where she was a crumpled mess on the floor, leaning against the wall. She wished it would swallow her up forever so she wouldn’t have to face what was inevitably coming her way.
Her face was wet and flushed from all the emotion that had been shed. Using her skirt, she attempted to wipe her face of all the unbecoming evidence that said she was afraid of punishment, that she was disappointed in herself, and, worst of all, that she was suffering from a sharp pain every time her heart thumped inside her chest.
Mark James was not trying to be discreet in the kitchen. Items clanged together and cabinet doors opened and shut, opened and shut. Margaret wondered what he was rummaging around for in there. A minute or two later, the door to the kitchen swung open again. Curious, Margaret peeked over her shoulder to find her father placing several random items on the dining table. Then, he left the room again, rushing by her without a glance, and reemerged seconds later with the first aid kit he kept stored under the communal bathroom sink as well as several towels and an old bed sheet which he then draped over one half of the table.
Her stomach dropped through the floor when she realized what he must have been thinking about doing. “No,” she choked out, turning away from dining area and scrambling to her feet. She started for the stairs, though they would only lead her to her parent’s bedroom which had no lock on the door. Mark’s arms were around her before she could put one foot on the first step. She quickly and desperately grasped at the banister and refused to let go despite the ache in her left arm from the earlier scuffle.
Mark tugged her away from the banister only slightly, just enough to make her uncomfortable so she’d let go. “I just want to make everything right again,” he told her. “Please, Margaret. Trust me.”
“No,” cried Margaret. “Let go of me. Please!” She kicked her legs in all directions, trying to make contact with any part of him that she could manage, but she would and could never win in a tussle with her father. She noted that he really wasn’t even trying, and that frustrated her.
“I’m sorry, my dearest daughter,” he whispered sorrowfully. “But this is something I must do.” He tugged her away from the banister again, a bit more forcefully, and her grip on the wood slipped. He carried her to the dining table as she continued wailing and kicking and thrashing in his arms.
“Father, please!” she exclaimed. “Please, Daddy! Please !” Margaret wondered if he felt any sense of guilt for even considering what he was about to do. Did her pleas fall on deaf ears or did they make him feel worse about it? Or was she just an annoyance to him now that he knew her sin? Did begging him in the manner she was no longer work on him like it did when he saw her as his innocent young daughter and not a harlot?
Mark James shoved his loud flailing daughter onto the table and forced her so she’d be face down on the old bedsheet. He pinned her arms behind her back, and, using medical wrap from the first aid kit, he hogtied her so she was completely immobile. Margaret screeched her protest and pleaded louder for him to let her go. He sighed heavily, keeping his hand on her head, and he leaned over to see her face. He brushed away the hair that had fallen out of her bun and had stuck to her wet skin crimsoned by emotion as well as all her failed attempts to get away from her father. “Margaret, stop for a moment and take a breath. Inhale and exhale. Take a deep breath, darling.”
Margaret was getting lightheaded. She hadn’t realized she was hyperventilating until that moment. After protesting loudly a couple more times—her father silent through all of it—she finally obeyed and took a deep, shaky breath.
Mark continued. “I know you’re afraid, Margaret, but I promise I’m on your side. I’ll always be on your side.” He took a moment to allow her to process his words. After she inhaled deeply again, he asked, “Do you trust me?”
She didn’t answer. Her eyes wandered away from him and caught a glimpse of the assorted array of serrated knives, a knife sharpener, multiple bowls and plates, a bundle of paper towels, and a cheese grater he’d gathered from the kitchen. Her breathing quickened again. “Don’t. Please, please, Daddy. Don’t do this to me. Don’t do this.” Her voice felt too small.
“Shh.” He pet her hair. “Close your eyes. Don’t think about it. I have some numbing medication in the kit. I’ll use all of it, I promise. I will try my best to not hurt you. Honey, I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Then don’t!” she howled at him, voice cracking. “You don’t have to!” She tried to wrestle out of the medical tape that bound her four limbs together, but it was useless. He pressed her a smidge harder against the table to discourage her from fighting, and it worked. She stopped only a few seconds after she’d started. She was starting to feel a wave of exhaustion overcome her.
He didn’t argue with what she had said. He must’ve known she was right to some degree. He didn’t have to do anything to Margaret. But perhaps he believed what he was doing was the best option for his daughter. Margaret wondered as she laid there, cheek pressed firmly against the tear-soaked bedsheet, if that was what he was thinking as he prepared for such a deranged procedure.
He continued petting her hair for a couple of moments more before he reached for the first aid kit and pulled out the numbing ointment. Margaret closed her eyes, heeding her father’s words for the first time that evening, and vowed to keep them shut as long as she possibly could.
Mark pulled her blouse down to reveal her shoulder once again. When the whole of her brand was exposed, he opened the medicinal tube. The ointment was cold on her skin. Mark was careful to rub every last bit of it into Margaret’s shoulder. He continued until she answered his question of whether or not she could feel him touching the brand anymore with a small, broken no .
Margaret dared to peek after he cautiously removed his hand from her head for the first time. He poured rubbed alcohol into one of the large bowls he had collected earlier. Then, using the towels, he laid them out around and on her. One smaller towel he let soak in the bowl of alcohol.
“One day you’ll understand why,” whispered Mark James as he reached for the cheese grater and pressed it firmly against the center of the brand that bound Carson and Margaret together. With the very first scrape, it was evident that the numbing ointment was utterly useless. And even though Margaret screamed in agony and be
gged him to stop, he wouldn’t allow her to move, and he continued his attempt to erase the sin his daughter committed.
To be continued in…
MERE MORTALS
Book II
THE BRAND OF ANEM
is approximately a 34,000-word novella published independently by Kaitlyn Deann.
Please help support indie authors by leaving a short (or lengthy; either is greatly appreciated) review and/or a star-rating on Amazon!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kaitlyn Deann has been telling stories since she was very young. She decided to try her hand at writing when she was eleven, and it became a part of her in an unexplainable way. As a writer, Kaitlyn hopes to keep readers turning pages late into the night and give them something to think about long after they finish the last page. She lives in the great state of Texas with the people that matter most to her in the entire universe. Her debut novel, The Witches’ Sleep , won the Gold Medal for Readers’ Favorite 2013 Annual Book Contest.
OTHER WORKS BY KAITLYN DEANN
The Witches’ Sleep Trilogy
The Witches’ Sleep (Book I)
World of the Beasts (Book II)
The Brand of Anem Page 11
