Page 55

The insults thrown at me walking from the Center to Serendee come rushing back. I’d always fought it. I never believed it but now, as I remove the tank and shorts, exposing myself to the room, I know it’s true.

Wearefreaks.

It’s in the clothes, the conformity, the secrets. It’s in the lingering bruises inside and out. It’s in the scars etched into my body.

It’s in the brand.

“Jesus,” the social worker utters when she sees it. Her eyes widen after the words slip out, aware of her error. She swallows. “Did they do that to you?”

“Yes.” I ghost my fingers over it. It’s mostly healed now, the scabs are gone, but the raised new skin looks angry and sensitive. “It was part of an initiation.”

“So you just let them do this to you.”

Let them.

“I wasn’t aware that they would be burning my flesh. I just thought it was a place for the women in the community to support one another.”

The officer circles me, taking photos of every mark, gesturing to the nurse to use a ruler to measure each one. She lowers the camera and nods to my chest. “What happened?”

For the first time heat rises on my skin.What happened?Something I can’t explain. Something personal.

“Anex ordered that I receive a punishment.”

Her eyebrow rises. “For?”

I shake my head, hands trembling. I won’t tell them what for. Or who. Or anything else. Camille seems to sense my limit and steps forward. “Take the evidence. Do your tests, but she’s not answering anymore questions.”

I give her a small, thankful smile, but she doesn’t notice. Her eyes are also roaming my body. At the marks on my wrists. On my inner thighs. On my ribs pressing against my skin. When she finally meets my gaze she says quietly, “I’m sorry, Imogene. I had no idea.”

“Of course, you didn’t,” I say, loathing the guilt I hear in her tone. What I can’t say is that every mark, bruise, and scar is evidence of my worth. Of my journey. Of my attempts at Enlightenment.

And right now, I can’t decide if I’m proud of them or not.

The knock is firm, three raps followed by, “Imogene, dinner’s ready.”

Three times a day Camille knocks on my door, announcing a meal. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I haven’t come down yet. The thought of food is like ash on my tongue.

I call out the same words I’ve repeated over and over, “I’m not hungry.”

Usually she leaves, her heavy footsteps on the hardwoods going down the hall, but today I sense her loitering outside the door, her shadow shifting back and forth. There are only four people I care about entering this room, and so far, I’ve heard nothing about them.

This time she doesn’t leave, instead turning the knob and stepping inside. I want to be embarrassed that she finds me curled up in a ball, wearing the same outfit I changed into when I arrived four days ago. I should be humiliated about my dirty hair, and dry skin, and the fact I haven’t moved from this bed other than to use the bathroom.

I mean, Iam,but… I also can’t muster the energy to care.

“Do you have any news?” I ask, looking over my shoulder.

“They still haven’t found Timothy.” A tray of food is clutched between her hands. There are two bowls, both steaming with the scent of something spicy. My stomach clenches, but I push the feeling aside. “They think he may have fled the country with a few of his guards and his pregnant wife.”

Margaret.

“I’m not interested in Anex.” I swallow back the bitterness on my tongue. “Have they released Rex, Elon, and Levi?”

“Not yet.”

“Silas?”

“No.” She clears her throat and adds, “But even if they did, I don’t think it’s wise for you to see them again.”