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“You're okay, right, Angel? Tell me you're okay.”

My eyelids flutter as I look up and see Father Daddy standing over me. His teeth are bared as he searches my body, probably looking for signs of injury.

It is all starting to sort of make sense. He must have taken Seth by the scruff of the neck and just tossed him like the mangy little runt that he is. Just tossed him away into the weeds.

“I'm — I'm okay,” I stammer, not entirely sure that's true. I feel the bruise starting above my knee where his hand clawed at me. Another bruise. How humiliating.

“Annie!” Father Daddy barks out. Annie appears from somewhere and comes to me. She looks concerned at first but scowls judgmentally as soon as Father Daddy’s eyes are elsewhere. I see the sneer flash across her features as she sniffs, disgusted. I probably look a mess. I’m dirty, with bits of weeds all over my skirt, crushed into the wrinkles, and now the stink of Seth on me too.

“Yes, yes, Father Daddy,” she mutters obediently, careful to conceal her true feelings from him. “What can I do to help?”

“Take her to her mother,” Father Daddy commands her. He won't even look at me now.

“Right away,” Annie simpers. She holds me gently by the elbow and guides me toward the other side of the barn, but as soon as Father Daddy can't see us anymore her grip tightens cruelly. She's almost dragging me down the path. I stub my toes again and again on half-embedded rocks in the dirt, but I don't even care anymore. What part of me isn't ruined by now?

“You're hurting me,” I finally tell her she drags me toward the quilting shed.

“You're hurting all of us!” she shoots back, then grins to herself in triumph. Annie always has something to say to everybody. The perfect mean thing to say, every time.

She flings open the door, shoving me in ahead of her. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust but when I do, I see everybody is staring at me, mouths open slightly, fingers poised in midair with sewing needles glittering faintly like tiny, lethal weapons.

“What is this?” I hear my mother say. For a moment I'm grateful to hear the sound of her voice. Comforted, even.

“This one almost let Seth rape her behind the barn!” Annie practically yells, outraged. I twist away from her grip and stumble a few steps to my left. Everyone seems to gasp in horror at me and glare their judgments upon me.

“I didn't let Seth do —”

“Sit!” Annie commands me, snatching my sleeve again and jerking me toward a low, wooden stool. Obediently I sit. I try to keep my eyes down, but everyone is still staring at me. Their lips purse and work back and forth as they consider what they could say to me.

“You say that you didn't—” I hear my mother say. Her voice quakes slightly.

“I didn't! I swear I didn't!”

She narrows her eyes at me, looking me over. Taking me in. I'm sure she sees my hair is a mess. I'm sure she see the smudges of dirt on the knees of my shift, right where I was kneeling in the confession shack. I'm sure she's thinking most awful things about me now.

“You're sure!?”

“I'm sure,” I plead. “Father Daddy came and… nothing happened!”

My mother's mouth drops open. She looks at Annie for confirmation.

“Yeah, Father Daddy saved her. Can you believe it? Outrageous!”

I look around, confused. Outrageous? Why? What did I do?

But the aunties all seem to know what I did. They all seem to have some kind of understanding of how I've transgressed. I'm sure it's related to my demon. I'm sure they all suspected all this time. And with all the evil thoughts I've been having, they must be right. I know it.

“Your mother should make you a dress that fits, anyway,” Mary murmurs, leaning closer to me. Her eyes slide back and forth over my shift, taking in the parts that are probably too tight, the tear that seems to be lengthening against my thigh as I sit here.

“How am I supposed to make her a dress that fits every couple weeks when she keeps eating like that?” my mother shouts back, brazenly addressing Mary from across the large, complicated quilt they're all working on. Several of the women drop their eyes back to their patterns and begin sewing again, at least pretending to not get involved.

Mary takes a deep breath and lets it out in a cough. She’s the oldest, so she gets the most respect, usually.

“It's your responsibility, Melissa,” she informs Mama imperiously. “Exactly what do you need to do besides keep your daughter’s flower safe until the ceremony? If making her appropriate clothing is too hard for you, you should've reached out to us.”

I hear my mother draw in a sharp breath, that familiar sound before she goes full warfare on someone. But to my surprise, she seems to change her mind.

“You know how these young women are,” she says in a measured voice, one with the venom almost completely hidden. “As far as I'm concerned that dress does fit her. She's just wearing it wrong.”