Dutiful by Ashley Moore Thomas

During a visit to church, only child Claire is told by the loyal Father that she's gravely sick.

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It was the Father who'd told my mom I was sick. I only saw him every Friday night, when we went to the old, corrugated shed to worship. Most of the town was forested, and our church was hidden among those many, densely packed trees. The once shining metal now a rust brown as the entire building seemed to sag into the packed clay it had been built upon.

The inside of the church was a mix of old pews, office chairs and plastic milk crates. We didn't have much money - The Father didn't care for it. We didn't have many parishioners either though, which the Father did care about. He always wanted more people to join his flock, as he called us.

Friday nights were always a chore to me. At fourteen I had better things to do. I would shift, tapping my fingers against the rough bench, sometimes twisting my shirt so much it would wrinkle into an odd, spiraled star over my stomach.

"Claire," mom would hiss, "be still!" She was skinny and a tad haggard, her long, straw-colored hair braided down her back. The lines around her mouth always seemed deeper in the church, and she hated to look away from the Father for even a second, clinging to his every word and chant.

It was during one of these moments when The Father stopped before us. We were in the front seat, as mom was devout and always wanted us to show up early. He was a tall man, with the posture of a vulture, all hunched shoulders, and a skinny, flabby neck. He paused, gazing at me, and then he turned to speak to my mom. I shifted, uncomfortable with the way he looked at me, and nauseous by the odd, sickly-sweet smell than seemed to waft from behind his robes.

"Margery, my sweet, your daughter is sick. Deeply so."

Mom had been bowed in solemn prayer, but with his declaration she straightened with a gasp. "No," she moaned. Even at a young age, I knew my mother was a bit theatrical.

"Stay after the service," The Father murmured, placing a gentle, age-spotted hand on the top of my mom's head. "We will discuss her healing. Do not fear; you are not alone."

He moved away, leaving my mom wide-eyed and breathless. I, however, wasn't feeling sick at all, and wondered how the Father could possibly know that I was. I'd had colds and the flu, and once had even broken my arm - which was the only time my mom had been willing to take me to a doctor. Yet I hadn't felt any of those things: not when I woke, nor at school, and certainly not at all the week before.

After the service my mom went to speak to the Father in his office while I waited on the same bench we'd been sitting on. I'd never been in his office, so I had little idea what happened in there. However, I had the suspicion my mom was excited to enter, as it was so rare that he invited anyone into his personal space.

After, my mom bustled me from the church while giving me a kiss on the forehead.

"Don't worry," she whispered. "You're sick, but the Father will heal you."

---

It was the next day that the injections started. Saturdays were reserved for morning French toast, chores and loud music. My mom blasted Jethro Tull, swaying her hips as she mixed egg batter and fried bacon. I always complained about the post-breakfast house cleaning, but secretly I cherished those crystalline mornings; music so loud it blasted through my knees as I scrubbed at floorboards and vacuumed. I could be shy and passive, too much so, but with my mom there was no hesitation for me to strum a broom, singing into it like the wildest of rock-stars.

It was those moments when the old version of my mom would appear, the one that existed before she joined the church and became so cagey and nervous around government and authority. I loved before-version of my mom the best.

I would spend the rest of the day reading, hanging out with my best friend Renee, or just watching television. After dinner that night was the first aberration. Despite quizzing my mom about The Father's proclamation on my health, she refused to give me any definable answer. I received it quickly enough, when she set a folded leather pack on the table, beaten and frayed. Some parts of it were so oily dark that I thought my mom's fingers would come away black.

"What is that?" I asked.

"This will help you get better," my mom answered.

I stared at the pack incredulously. We sat across from each other, my mom's face shadowed in the dim yellow light of the kitchen, her hair loose and stringy around her shoulders. Foreign, unfamiliar, for a second, I felt unsafe.

"Mom," I said carefully, "I'm not sick. Look at me!" I swept my arms up, gesturing to the entirety of my lanky body.

She sighed shakily. "You are. the Father knows these things. You're sick in body and soul. We're lucky he recognized it before the damage became apparent."

Mom flipped the pack open, and in it were carefully aligned glass bottles, small and shining. Some were a viscous yellow, others were a dark and sickly red, like blood. In the middle was one large needle.

"Mom..." I protested weakly.

"We have to alternate the shots, every day. On Fridays, the Father will check your health and give us more if needed. You will get an injection before bed. Please, Claire, don't fight me on this."

"But this is insane! You don't even know what this is!"

"Do you believe the Father would lead us astray?"

I paused. "...No," I finally admitted sullenly. I may have been getting older, but I wasn't a rebellious child. I craved approval, and it made me malleable. And I loved my mom so, so much. Despite reservations, I did not believe she would hurt me.

"We'll start with this one," my mom said, picking up the glass container that held the thick, yellow fluid.

"Do you even know what it is?" I whispered.

Her eyes met mine, dark and glittering. "The Father protects us. We may not understand his ways, but we must have faith in his cure."

I nodded, pulling up the sleeve of my t-shirt, flinching at the pinch of the needle. The injection left a heavy ache in my bicep.

That night I was restless. The dark forest behind my house seemed louder and more ominous than before. Every howl of a coyote and every chirp of a cricket ricocheted through my mind like a nerve-wracking bell. Beneath my thick comforter I was shivering and damp, a cold sweat I couldn't shake. I did finally fall asleep, but my dreams - though unremembered - woke me multiple times throughout the night.

---

I was given the red vial the next night. My mom quelled the first hint of protest.

"You are my daughter; this is not an option."

"But -"

"Enough, Claire! This is done out of love, and you will obey."

I'd wanted to call Renee earlier, but we only had one phone and it was in the kitchen. Mom was always too nearby for me to speak openly to my best friend, so it would have to wait until Monday. It was another restless night, my skin crawling, as through it wanted to burst from my very body. I scratched and picked at my joints, even in sleep, leaving small red marks for me to find in the morning.

When I checked the mirror after waking, circles hung from my eyes like dark crescent moons. Mom said nothing as she ushered me out the front door so I could catch the school bus.

Renee had no such scruples though. I boarded the yellow school bus and slid into the seat next to her, near the front.

"Jesus, Claire," Renee exclaimed. "Long night?"

I groaned, slouching into the brown seat. "I guess. I haven't slept all weekend."

"Uh, it's the weekend. Sleeping is the only thing you should've been doing."

Renee was always the confident one in our friendship. Despite being half a head shorter than me, and petite, she always had the type of personality that filled a room. She wasn't always well liked due to the force of her character, but she was certainly well-known. And she loved me; I thought she would always have my back.

I finally was able to tell her about my weekend: church, shots and all.

By the time I was done we had almost reached the school. The bus was packed with chattering students, and the occasional snore. Our school was small, spanning elementary through high school. Mom had loved the school when we first moved here a few years ago, away from the dangers of the city, the metal detectors and gangs. And, even worse for her, for us, the government and its agencies, the ones who she said tried to take me away. But now even this school she was starting to make negative comments about, which left me on edge. I didn't want to move.

Renee pushed her hand against my forehead. "Well," she proclaimed, "you don't feel hot."

"I didn't feel sick either."

Renee ignored my comment. "Ugh, you are kind of clammy though." She wiped her hand on her faded jeans. Neither one of us dressed up for school like some of the more confident girls. I always envied their floral skirts and flowing blouses, but I hid my discomfort with jeans and baggy t-shirts. I don't think Renee lacked confidence - I just don't think she particularly cared.

"Are you sure that wack-job priest is telling the truth?" Renee continued.

"He's not a priest! And I don't know why he would lie..." Despite my defense of him, my doubt was apparent.

The bus pulled up to the school, a crumbling stone structure that matched the slate gray of the overcast sky. It was a nice enough building, but not aesthetically pleasing.

"Okay," Renee continued as we filed out with the other students. "But you didn't start feeling sick until after the shots. Don't you find that a bit shady?"

I did, but I couldn't admit it. I loved my mom, and we'd been going to that church for almost as long as we'd been in town. "My mom's probably just trying to reassure me. And maybe it's like cancer, you know? How the cure is almost worse than the disease?"

Renee was supremely skeptical. "You don't have cancer."

"...I might."

She snorted. "Alright, whatever. See you in bio?"

"Yeah."

---

My sleeplessness continued throughout the week, leading up to Friday. We settled in the front of the church, as close as we could be to the Father's pulpit. I couldn't stop glancing around, as it felt like there was a curious breeze in the church, tickling my skin and causing the hair on my arms to prickle. My mom's eyes shone with a feverish, pious light, but I couldn't help being more restless than usual. It seemed every other word, every prayer, the Father would look at me with his own glassy stare.

After the service we waited. The Father greeted the other congregants, clasping forearms and delicately touching bowed foreheads. They were all quite curious about us, and I was surprised my mom hadn't told them. She had tea with most of the other women in the church, and it shocked me they would be unaware of my illness.

The Father approached after the last of them filtered out, leaving a heavy echo as the door clanged shut.

"Margery, Claire," he greeted warmly.

"Father," we both murmured.

He reached to grab my chin and I flinched back. "Don't fear," he comforted, "only the Lord guides my hand. Have faith."

"Yes, Father."

Like livestock at market, he grabbed my chin, inspecting my face as he turned it from one side to the other.

"How is she?" my mom asked, concerned and impatient.

"Not yet cured, I'm afraid. You must continue the path."

"Father," I ventured hesitantly, "what is wrong with me?"

He sighed and glanced at my mother. She lowered her eyes to stare at the floor, face pale.

"You poor lamb," he sighed. "It's not your fault. It's natural, for Sin to worm its way into our hearts, especially at your age. It sickens, rots us, from the inside out. But with my help, the flame of purity will once again lighten your soul."

He stared into my face, his eyes glittering in the drooping, wrinkled skin of his face. There was something there, something that caused me to want to wrap my arms around myself like a shield. I wanted to run away and curl up in a small place. I resisted the urge to take a step back. Nothing that he said many any sense.

My mother broke the silence. "We can never be thankful enough, Father."

"Your faith is all the thanks I need."

---

The injections continued, red and yellow alternating, blurring together as my sleep worsened. The sleepwalking began during my second week of treatments. I woke up shivering in front of my window, staring out into the forest. My eyes were already opened. One second, I wasn't aware, and the next I was.

I told my mom, but the faith she had in the church, and the Father particularly, was too strong to be swayed.

"Why would the Father harm you, Claire?" she asked, leaking exasperation as she scrubbed the kitchen counter.

"I'm not saying he would intentionally," I replied, though even then I was doubtful. The passive acceptance I'd had for church before had transformed into a niggling fear that I couldn't quite shake. "But maybe," I continued, "maybe I'm allergic to something and he doesn't know it! Or something."

My mom rolled her eyes. "I've raised you to have faith. And faith is tested during the hardest of times."

"But... this isn't normal, right? I should be going to a doctor. I'm just... I'm so tired..." I couldn't help the burning of my eyes, or the few heavy tears that rolled down my cheeks. I sniffled, staring resolutely away from my mom.

She sighed, dropped the sponge and drew me in her arms. Her gentleness melted my anger, but it also caused me to cry, a heavy sobbing that was embarrassing and relieving at the same time.

"You know how much I love you," my mom whispered into my hair. "The Father has never led us astray, and I will do anything to keep you with me, no matter how hard it is for both of us." She paused. "You know we can't trust any doctors. You know what they'll do."

I nodded, trying to stifle my tears.

"I love you," she said.

"I know," I replied. "Love you too."

My mom won that battle through her gentleness. I may have doubted the church, but I never doubted my mom's love for me. But, even so, the symptoms did not improve. The following Friday was much the same, with the Father brusquely inspecting me, reassuring my mother, and giving us more injections.

Renee was certainly concerned. What had started as derogatory comments about my religion had turned into the quietly whispered questions asked when scared.

"Maybe we should go to a doctor anyway," she finally said, on my third week of injections. We were at lunch, sitting on the steps outside and soaking up the weak sunlight. She was munching on the dubiously greasy school pizza, while I stared listlessly at my sandwich. It wasn't just sleep I was losing now, but also my appetite.

"I know you love your mom," Renee continued, "but this is starting to get kind of scary. You really look sick now, ya know?"

"I can't. Who would I go to, anyway?"

"The nurse, for a start!" Renee snapped. "Or child's services. Or anybody!"

"I really can't. What if they took me away?" Even at fourteen I recognized the wrongness of this situation, but it was also the only life and family I knew. My mom had been wild in her youth. My dad has disappeared during the pregnancy and her parents had disowned her long before I showed up. It had always been my mom and I against the world.

The only time that had been threatened was when I had broken my arm falling from some monkey bars. The doctors had said I could be taken away, that they would separate us, that I didn't have to be afraid and I could tell the truth now. CPS visited, but then we moved, and I didn't see them anymore.

And then we joined the church, and mom said the Father would protect us.

Renee calmed. "I dunno, Claire... maybe that wouldn't be so bad."

My stomach dipped. Renee didn't know about the broken arm incident. "You wouldn't say that if it were your parents."

She sighed. "No, you're right. I wouldn't."

I picked at the crust of my sandwich, creating a small, crumbling pile on the paper bag. I had the definition of a sack lunch. "Can we talk about something else?"

"I know," Renee announced slyly. "You should come over Saturday. We can do makeovers and watch movies!"

Now that was an idea I could get on board with. My mom thought I was too young for makeup; thus it was Renee who introduced me with her own makeover kit.

"Yes," I agreed. "That's a great idea! Let's do that."

"You think your mom will be chill with it?"

I shrugged. "She usually is, but I'll ask just in case."

I asked later that night, over dinner.

"Okay," my mom acquiesced, "but you have to be home before bed."

The injection. Of course. "Alright, mom." I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't help but be a bit giddy, even with the ominous shadow of my nightly shots.

---

Thursday night I woke up in the kitchen. My arms were burning, and through the moonlight filtering through the sink window I could see long scratches running up the length of my forearm and biceps. I stumbled to the downstairs bathroom, blinded as I flipped on the fluorescent light. When my eyes adjusted, I was faced with raw gouges, red and pink. They weren't deep enough to bleed freely, but my skin had torn.

I struggled to comprehend this. Some were even scabbed over. How long has I been standing in the kitchen, hurting myself? I had never been prone to self-harm.

There was blood and grime beneath my fingernails, which had been fresh and clean before I crawled into bed only a few hours earlier. My hands shook as I blankly stared at them. They didn't even look like my hands, the nails thick, more white than sheer. With deliberate slowness I washed them, blasting the hot water and carefully cleaning underneath my nails. The mirror steamed up so much I couldn't see my reflection. I was grateful for that. I didn't want to look at myself any more than I had to.

After that I went up to the bathroom my mom and I shared. I clipped my fingernails to the quick, mentally not thinking how much more difficult this was than it used to be, how my nails had thickened and calcified in a way I couldn't understand.

I should be crying, or panicking. I should wake up my mom. Instead, I was curiously empty. I don't think I could quite face what was happening to me. My mom wouldn't disobey the Father, even with these marks.

Have faith, she would tell me.

I didn't. I was scared, alone, and faithless. But I also didn't know what else to do.

I went to bed after that, but I didn't sleep. I just stared at the ceiling until the weak, gray dawn began to lighten the walls of my bedroom.

---

It's remarkable what children can put out of their mind when they don't have a choice. I went to school that Friday and acted as normal as I possibly could, giggling with Renee over makeup and what risqué movies we would watch in her room. Renee's parents showed their affection through material means, which made her house significantly more exciting than mine.

I focused on our Saturday girl date, so I didn't have to think how intently the Father watched me during the sermon, eyes twinkling with a feverish light. I didn't think about how his fingers were so tight on my jaw I thought I would bruise, and how my loving mother seemed blind to all this.

I certainly didn't think about the dreams of blood and shadow that tore through my mind so viciously I woke up panting, and how I was once again standing at the kitchen window, moonlight falling over my body like a cool veil.

I did, however, think about how there were no more scratches on my arm, and how I couldn't remember those dark dreams, even if my body still feared them. A saving grace, I supposed.

I was able to sleep after that. I wished I could say, "Thank God," but I wasn't sure I believed in him anymore.

---

After completing our Saturday chores, I was able to go to Renee's. She only lived a few blocks away. Despite the chill I took my time, taking forested pathways dappled with beaming sunlight, leafy shadows blurry against the dirt trails.

Renee's house was in a neighborhood similar to mine, but with better upkeep and larger homes. Each house was a splash of pastel with vibrant green lawns, and even the occasional - and stereotypical - white picket fence.

The houses were cookie-cutter though, all a different version of the same house, and I only knew Renee's because of the wilting and barren rose bushes that overtook the front lawn. Renee's mother had always been a more ambitious gardener than a dedicated one.

Renee greeted me at the door. We didn't bother to greet her parents, instead rushing up to her bedroom with heavy feet and stifled giggles.

"Finally!" Renee said, slamming her bedroom door shut behind us. "I've been waiting all day!"

"It's only noon!" I rolled my eyes, but couldn't help the grin that curled my lips.

"All. Day," she emphasized.

"Whatever. So, what are we starting with?"

Renee rubbed her hands together in a rather villainous fashion. "Hair, then make up, then nails! And some rom coms. Adult ones."

The day was relaxing, but even with that a shadow lingered. As Renee was brushing my hair she commented. "Your hair has grown so thin. What have you been doing? It's like brushing oily straw!"

Defensiveness rose up in me, tense and heavy in my chest, but I suppressed it. I shrugged.

And then when she was doing my make up. "Your skin is so rough! God, it's almost like touching bark."

"It's fine!" I snapped, trying not to move as a mascara brush hovered dangerously near my eye.

There was a slight pause, then Renee muttered, "Touchy..."

I was far from soothed, the irritation flowing through me like cresting waves. I was fourteen, and already highly self-conscious about my looks. Renee may not have been attempting to be cruel, but her comments were still barbed enough to cause me to want to lash out. I knew I looked rough lately, worn and sickly, but I didn't need to be reminded of it.

By the time we got around to our nails I was surly, and barely paying attention to the movie playing in the background. I insisted on doing my own, despite Renee being far more proficient than me. I didn't want her to see my nails, how they were abnormally thick, and white all the way to the cuticle. I could hardly face it myself, much less have someone else see it.

Even so, Renee was observant, and I was just adding the last shaky touches to my left hand when she noticed.

"Did you already paint your nails?" she exclaimed.

"No," I said dumbly. I immediately wished I had said yes; it would have deterred her interest.

"Then what's... Claire, what's wrong with your nails?"

I clenched my right hand, trying to hide it from her. "Nothing!"

"Let me see your nails," Renee demanded, capping her polish and setting it down.

"There's nothing wrong with them," I denied, despite my eyes beginning to burn with embarrassed tears.

"Claire," Renee said, gentling her voice. "Please let me see your hand."

I was always a bit of a pushover. I slowly put my hand in hers, and she uncurled my fingers to inspect my nails, gnarled and clawed as they were.

"What the...? Claire..." Renee trailed off, and I said nothing. There was nothing for me to say. She collected herself with a deep, steadying breath, staring forcefully into my eyes. "It's the injections, isn't it?"

"I don't know... maybe."

"You can't keep doing this. There is something very wrong here. We have to report this!"

"You know I can't."

"Then I will! I don't know what they're putting in you, but it has to stop! This isn't healthy!" Renee's voice was getting faster and louder.

I tore my hand from hers. "I'm dealing with it!"

"Uh, no, you aren't. Not even close! You're just taking it because your mother," Renee's voice lowered with disgust, "says you have to! Dammit, stand up for yourself!"

"You just don't know!" I snapped. "You have a bigger family. You don't understand!"

"You're right, I don't. But you have me!" Renee grabbed my t-shirt to pull me up. "Come on, let's talk to my parents."

I pulled back. "No!"

She didn't let go, tugging so the seams of my sleeve began to tear. I know she loved me, and her fear, just like my mom's, stemmed from that love. But even so, I felt trapped; angry at her, angry at my mom and the Father. I felt like a cornered and injured animal, and I didn't know who to trust or what to do, so I snapped.

My hand whipped out, open and fast, smacking Renee away from me. I didn't intend to harm her, but that didn't stop me from doing so. We were frozen, staring at each other mutely until she glanced down at her arm.

The marks were white initially, the skin still shocked by the blow, but then they began to melt red, the score deepening until four lines began to drip with blood. It was much deeper than what a normal girl could inflict with a single smack.

"Renee," I whispered, "I'm so sorry. Oh my god, I..."

She said nothing, just staring at me as though I was a monster and not her dearest friend.

I couldn't be in the room any longer. I collected my stuff, bundling my purse and sweatshirt into a messy pile in my arms. I wanted to say something, anything, to make this okay. But Renee clutched her dripping forearm, and I knew there was nothing I could do to make this better. So, I fled.

Numbness stole over me as I walked home, slouched, empty. How could I blame any of them? In the end, I was the monster.

---

I didn't watch my mom inject the yellow vial into my arm that night. A certain numbness had flooded me, alongside a storm of antipathy. I was angry with the Father, my mom, even Renee, but most of all I was angry at myself - for submitting, for lashing out, and for being weak enough to let this all happen to me.

The shadows were extra dark that night, my room dimmer than it had ever been before. Perhaps I was defending my mindset, my simple mindedness, but how does someone expect something... unnatural to happen? You question yourself, because the other option is everyone else believes you're crazy. And I was young, so I would rather hide my insanity than let the world see it. I justified it by thinking my mom wouldn't believe me anyway. If she was denying the physical changes, what impact would the mental ones really make?

So when the shadows took shape in my room I hid beneath my blankets like a terrified child. They never moved closer, and finally I peeked over my comforter to watch them in the corners of my room. While they shifted and swayed, they never approached me, and as the darkness watched me, I watched the darkness.

---

Everything ended a week later, and if it hadn't been so horrific maybe it would have been a relief. Renee ignored me throughout the week, and when I did see her, she was whispering to other girls she was friends with, glancing at me and clutching her arm.

It was salt on an already festering wound, and I had to blink away angry tears and look elsewhere.

I almost embraced nighttime, the confusion of it. The sleepwalking didn't stop. By Wednesday I found myself hovering next to my mom's bed, though she never woke. Sometimes my arms were scratched and damp with blood, but never as bad as that first night. I took it as a win.

The shadows never left, but after my fallout with Renee they were almost welcome. After all, they were the only thing in my life that didn't pressure me or argue. They just hovered and watched.

My skin itched, like little, tiny creatures crawled beneath, stretching and morphing my limbs. My hair was dark and lank, a bristly thing that more resembled an electrified, greasy bush than any type of mane. I grew subdued; I was tired of fighting.

This, more than anything, is what finally caught my mom's attention. It wasn't my weight loss, the paleness, nor the begging. I was no longer recognizable; feral and tired. None of that mattered until I stopped talking at dinner or fighting the shots. I just sat there, blinking slowly, hardly noticing that she watched every bite and breath I took.

She didn't take me to church that Friday, instead urging me to stay in bed and nap.

"The Lord forgives the infirm," she whispered, brushing a damp kiss to my forehead. "I'm sure He'll be fine with missing a service."

"And the Father?" I asked.

Her lips tightened. "I'm sure he will forgive too." Her tone was a little less generous on this pronouncement, but I didn't question it. I was just relieved to forego my brusque inspection by the Father.

A few hours later my mom returned, wide-eyed and pale. I crawled out of bed to greet her. She ushered me to sit at the kitchen table, and then went to go stand before the stove. There she stood, not moving, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around her stomach while facing away from me.

"I've relied on our faith, my trust in the Father absolute."

For the first time in a week I sat up, my gaze focusing on her faster than a loosed arrow. I remained silent. The only light on was the one over the stove, which cast my mom in warm amber, and me in shadow.

"But I failed you." She turned around, the light behind her making it hard to read her face. "I didn't listen. The Lord gave me signs, and I was blind. And now... look at you."

I stared, shocked. My emotions whirled: joy that she was listening, fear at what would come next, and finally rage. Rage, that she didn't apologize for ignoring me. In the end, it all came down to her faith, and she only listened to the signs because she thought her Lord had sent them.

"How... how could you?" I finally whispered, not even really knowing what I was asking. "How could you?" I stood, hands flat on the smooth oak of the table.

"We can fix this," my mom cried, a tremor in her voice, a vibration that indicated more than guilt, more than sadness. I couldn't put my finger on what it was though.

"Fix this?" I laughed harshly. "How? Look at what you did to me?"

"We will pray. And there will be no more injections. The shots are done now."

I stepped into the kitchen, and she pressed against the stove. That's when I realized what that tremor in her voice was.

She wasn't sad. She was afraid.

"What did you do to me?" I hissed, only a few feet away from her now.

"I didn't know," she whispered. "I promise. You're my daughter. I didn't know."

"What did you not know?"

The shadows in the kitchen were darker than they should be. The figures from my room were here now, with me as I confronted my mother. Tears streaked her cheeks, delicate rivulets that caressed her face, down her sharp jaw and skinny neck.

"You were never sick," she admitted.

"But. What. Did. He do. To me?" Each word was issued between grinding teeth. My need for an answer like bubbling flame in my stomach, my anger itching to burst free.

She didn't stay anything, her reddened eyes searching my face. Then her gaze flicked past me, into the darkness. A single, harsh sob tumbled from her lips. She could see the shadows too.

"I'm sorry," she said, so quiet I could barely hear it.

It was the wrong thing to say. My anger burst forth, consuming me.

It's an odd thing, violence. I had never hit someone, nor been in a fight. I wasn't an intentional pacifist; it just wasn't a thing I thought of much. The worst I had done was punch my pillow when I was in the throes of a silent fit. Time slowed when I reached for my mom, my mind disconnected from the moment. It was almost peaceful.

And then my hands gripped my mom's shoulders, and I slammed her back - once, twice. The worst she would've suffered was whiplash if it weren't for the hood above the stove, which her skull connected to twice with a wet crunch.

I released her, and she slid limply to the linoleum floor.

---

There's an emptiness there, when a person is faced with that level of horror. It's a magnitude that cannot be comprehended, and so the heart and mind don't try. They just shut down, leaving you numb and in shock, never truly able to finish a thought, any thought.

I walked in the forest, putting one foot in front of the other, avoiding roots and bracken. The shadows followed, silent and hovering.

I couldn't think of my mom's slack face, or the hair and tissue left on the stove hood. I couldn't think of my whimper, "...Mom?" Or, when I went to check her wound how my fingers dipped into her head, because there was no skull left to stop them.

I walked, and the moon and the shadows led my way. I was a girl in flannel pajamas and fuzzy socks, with blood literally on my hands and a dead mother.

The forest eventually opened, and my destination came into view. A corrugated shed slumped and rusted with an aged and crooked cross at its peak. I didn't know if the doors would be locked. Normally they would be, but tonight they were not. I entered with ease, the shadows following.

The only light was the fluorescent beams that streaked from the Father's open office door near the dais. It soon became the only light, as the shadow figures flooded the church so deeply the walls were impossible to see. I walked through a void of recycled pews and milk crates until I reached the front.

"Father?" I called.

There was a rustle of sound, the squeak of an old office chair, and then the stooped figure of the Father appeared in the doorway. With the light at his back, he looked just as shadowed as the figures following me.

"Claire," he greeted, and it was warm and genial like a grandparent.

I could only stare at him. I couldn't form the words, on my tongue or in my mind.

He sighed. "I wondered if I'd be seeing you tonight. Margery was not at peace when she left the service earlier."

"What..." my throat was dry, and I stumbled. "What did you do to me?"

"I was afraid she wouldn't tell you. It is a true test of her faith, to know her daughter is sullied so."

"...Sullied?"

He finally stepped out of the doorway and on to the dais.

"Yes," he murmured mournfully. "Sullied." His eyes studied me, lingering over my hands. They itched with dried blood. "I thought with how faithful your mother is that you would be the perfect candidate. Did she not explain this all to you?"

"No."

"Ah," he murmured. "How unfortunate. I did try to instill hope in her, but we all stumble occasionally. Her faith was shaken."

I couldn't help how my voice shook. "What did you tell my mom?" And then. "What did you do to me?"

"Now, don't cry," he admonished with irritation. "I instilled you with the essence of purity. It was a mix. The blood of an angel, and the ichor of a saint. It was supposed to make you... lovely."

"Lovely."

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, not physically, you silly girl. Spiritually. You were supposed to become... godly." He was near breathless with passion at this. It disappeared quickly as he once again made eye contact with me. "I miscalculated."

"But why?"

"Children!" he huffed beneath his breath. "Naive girl," he said to me, "the world has need for a god. For the God, and we needed to make that happen. You, however, are a failed experiment."

Like a frozen river at the beginning of spring, my numbness cracked, and beneath that ice the rage still existed, stronger and more turbulent than before.

"How could you?" I cried. "How could you? I never wanted this! My mom didn't even want this!"

He ignored me. "We will pray for you, but you're not what we want or need. I'm sure the injections will soon be flushed from your system, and then you can return to your life as it was. We need a more devout subject."

"You've ruined my life. I can never return!" I took another step towards him, and the shadows shifted.

His gaze once again returned to my stained fingers. "What has been done can be undone."

I was sobbing now, near hysterical as the loss of my mother set in. "No, it can't."

"Anything you've done was done under your own conscience!" He was shouting over my keening, but he started to look around in a panic, finally noticing the unnatural darkness of the church.

"This is a holy place," he whispered.

"You took my mother!"

"Claire, you must listen," the self-assuredness was gone, and in its wake was a fearful man, who's claim to faith made him uglier than the worst sinner in my mind. "I can help you!"

"You can't bring her back! I want my mom!"

"I will take you in," he stammered. "We can fix this. I can fix you. I promise you, Claire. The Lord serves all."

I sniffled, and then straightened. "Your God isn't here."

An odd expression crossed his face, a mix of fear and anger. It didn't matter, because when I approached him, he shrunk back. This wasn't like my mom, a pause in time and a loss of control. I very much knew what I wanted to do to this man.

I grabbed his shoulders and forced him to the floor, ignoring the way he scratched and scrabbled at my arms. He left no marks though. The only marks marring my skin were the ones I'd inflicted in my sleep.

"Why me?" I whispered, my lank hair trapping both of us in a darkened tunnel, our faces close, more intimate than any sermon or prayer.

His eyes were wide, yellowed in the corners with age. The crevices of his skin were deep with fear and shock.

"Did it work?" he said, not answering my question at all.

I stepped away, never releasing eye contact. And then the shadows converged, and there was no one to make eye contact with.

---

I wasn't charged with my mom's murder, nor the Father's. By the time they found me I was too much of a gibbering mess to give any kind of comprehensive statement, dirty and lost in the forest. The Father was never found. It was never resolved who killed her, me or him, but that didn't stop them from putting me in an institution.

Only until I settled, they said, and my relatives were tracked down. I needed help after my trauma.

I didn't know what I needed, but no doctor could give it to me. They cleaned my skin and hair, tutted over my nails, attributed it all to malnutrition and neglect. But that didn't stop the shadows from hovering in the night.

The Father thought the changes would reverse. I don't know if he was lying or just misinformed, but the shadows have only gotten blacker and more defined.

Sometimes I look for my mom among them, but all I see are glowing white eyes in the overwhelming dark.