Page 36 of Penance

Mercy

I stand in Draco’s bedroom, the early morning light filtering through half-drawn blinds, casting zebra stripes across the polished floor. Sunday arrives again, just like it has my entire life, but for some reason, this one feels different.

It feels… heavier?

My fingers trail across the hangers in his closet—my small section of it, really. Draco has gone to my apartment quite a few times over the last week to get things for me. Pretty much whatever I ask for, he jumps at the chance to get it.

It’s weird, but I won’t lie and say I don’t like it.

I love it.

Draco is my king, and he makes me feel like a princess.

Who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth?

Everything has its place here, even me, though sometimes I wonder if I truly belong.

Three weeks of keeping clothes here, and still the closet feels like foreign territory.

Draco’s wardrobe dominates, obviously—dark shirts and darker pants, fabrics expensive enough that they whisper against my skin when I brush past them.

I don’t feel good enough to touch most of his suits, so I simply don’t go near that end of the closet.

The apartment is quiet around me, quiet except for the distant hum of traffic three floors below me. Draco is… somewhere? The apartment isn’t that big, but he’s gone somewhere, even though I can still feel him near me, so I know he’s still at home, at least.

I told him I loved him.

I had been scared at first, terrified, when he didn’t say it back, but after a while I came to realize that that was who he was.

He didn’t need to say it.

He showed it in different ways.

I was even more scared when I realized I meant it.

I was in love with him, and we were getting married. I couldn’t remember a time in my life where I had been happier.

I pull out my Sunday dress—pristine white cotton with a hem that falls well below my knees.

Mother would approve, which is precisely why I chose it when I first saw it hanging in a shop downtown.

Now, it doesn’t even feel right anymore.

It feels like one of my old school uniforms that I’d long outgrown.

Holding it against myself, I look down, and the first thing I see is the swell of my belly.

It’s getting bigger.

It seems like it doubles in size every day when I wake up, but I know that isn’t true. It’s just the anxiety of impending motherhood that’s suffocating me.

Draco seems almost happy about it. More often than not, when I wake up in the morning, I have to move his hand off of the bump before I can get up. He holds the baby in his sleep, which is comforting, but also somehow a little bit exhausting in a way I can’t quite put my finger on.

But am I happy about it?

I can’t deny that the baby is already so loved, and I look forward to the day I can hold them in my arms and whisper all the secrets of this world into their tiny ears. Yet at the same time, I’m scared of how the baby was created. It still seems like a dream.

What if it’s born looking nothing like either of us?

What if it’s obvious that the baby doesn’t belong to Draco, and I am asked questions by the people around town?

They’ll think I’m a whore.

Sighing, I shake the thoughts away and force myself to focus on the task at hand.

The dress has enough of a stretch to it that I don’t really have a choice. I have to wear this one. I wonder if anyone at church will be able to tell.

Will they see the sin I’m hiding?

Maybe they won’t.

Maybe they’ll overlook it, until we can get married, anyway.

Draco says it should be as soon as possible.

He’s pushing for next week.

I want to give in to him, but something pulls me back, nags at me.

I lay my dress carefully on the armchair in the corner, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles with my palm.

Next come the accessories—simple pearl earrings, a thin gold chain with a delicate cross pendant, nude stockings.

Nothing flashy, nothing that would draw anyone’s eye.

I have Draco for that, not that I want them looking at me, anyway.

If anything, I would just rather no one notice me at all.

“The Lord is my shepherd,” I whisper, reminding myself. “I shall not want.”

But I do want, don’t I?

I want answers to questions I’m too afraid to ask. I want to understand the man whose bed I share. I want to believe that everything happens for a reason, even if I still don’t understand what happened to me.

Who was he, the man who attacked me, and why did he pick me?

Was he the biological father of the baby I carried?

He had to be, right?

He had to have been hurting me for months.

But why had he stopped, and where was he now?

Was he afraid to come near me because of Draco?

The room feels suddenly cold, and I force the thought away. I reach for my cardigan, on its usual hanger in the closet, but it’s not there.

Did I leave it somewhere?

Maybe I overlooked it.

I’ll look again.

I turn to the closet again and slide the hangers apart, maybe a little too aggressively.

One of Draco’s heavy leather coats jumps off a hanger and drops to the hardwood with a thud and a rattle of chains.

Something clatters against the hardwood—multiple somethings, judging by the sounds.

I freeze, still holding the empty hanger, and sigh, looking down at whatever it was that slipped out of the jacket.

Probably receipts and change, knowing Draco.

I kneel in the closet and grab the jacket, gently pulling it up to see what had fallen out, and as soon as I see it, I rip my hand back as if it’s a deadly spider.

No.

There’s no way.

I can’t have seen what my eyes just showed me.

My heart slams to life in my chest, running into my sternum so hard that I jerk and nearly lose my balance. Swallowing hard, I shake the thought from my head and reach towards the jacket again, only this time, I can see my fingers shaking as I do.

I snatch it away, and my nightmare stares me in the face.

It’s a mask, dark, shining patent leather, with deep creased canine eyes and tall, pricked ears standing tall like demonic horns. The Anubis mask stares up at me with hollow eyes, the elongated snout seemingly sneering at my horror.

That can’t be here.

How is this here?

Reaching out with a shaking hand, I pluck it up off the hardwood and feel my heart plummet down into my stomach.

Why does Draco have this?

Underneath it, a pair of gloves lay like a blackened void in the wood, and I just stare at them.

Those are surgical gloves.

The kind doctors snap on before cutting into flesh.

The kind that leave no fingerprints.

The kind that are so dark that they would work really well for covering up tattoos.

I swallow hard, and I nearly can’t force it down.

This can’t be happening.

The pieces won’t connect in my head.

Something doesn’t make sense.

This is a dream.

It has to be a dream.

My eyes catch on a bundle of zip ties that had rolled to the back of the closet. Black plastic, industrial strength, thick.

Perfect for tying ankles.

Or wrists.

Impossible to break.

Hard enough to dig into your flesh and leave long-lasting welts.

I stare down at my wrist, and I swear I can still see the red marks.

My lungs forget how to draw breath. My heart skips.

I feel like I’m going to pass out.

I want to run, but I’m afraid to move.

“This isn’t—” I whisper, but I can’t finish the thought.

Isn’t what?

Isn’t evidence?

Isn’t staring me right in my stupid, na?ve, pitiful face like I should have seen it before?

No.

No, this can’t be real.

This is a test, surely.

God is testing my faith in Draco.

This is… a test?

It must be.

But something in me is screaming, shaking me.

A tear slides down my cheek, hot and unwelcome. I swipe it away with the back of my wrist, leaving a damp streak that feels cold when the air catches it.

What do I do?

I don’t know what to do.

I should call someone.

The police?

My pastor?

My parents, maybe.

But what would I say? I found a mask and some zip ties?

My boyfriend has—

My thoughts stop, and I shake my head.

Boyfriend?

That’s not even right, is it?

I force the thought away and try to focus on what matters.

I need to get help, but who can help me?

No one will believe me.

I know that.

Draco? He knows that, too.

They would ask questions, and the answers wouldn’t make any sense.

Even as I go over them in my head, they don’t make any sense.

Instead, I grab everything—mask, gloves, ties—and shove them back into the coat pocket with trembling fingers.

The fabric seems to resist, as if reluctant to swallow its secrets.

I’m shaking so hard I almost can’t stand, but I hang the coat, adjusting it carefully so it looks undisturbed, so it looks like I was never here.

He can’t know that I know.

Why not, the voice in my head asks. Why can’t you tell him? You lay with him willingly every single night.

My hands won’t stop shaking. I press them against the closet door, feeling the cool wood beneath my palms, trying to ground myself, but now I’m only panicking.

My chest is tight. Everything is too bright and too loud.

What do I do?!

What can I do?

The door swings open without warning—no knock, no sound across the hall floor outside.

I whip around to face the door and find Draco’s wide shoulders filling the doorframe.

No!

Bad!

Stupid!

That’s suspicious!

He’s gonna know!

He stands perfectly still, arms folded across his chest. The light from the hallway throws his chiseled features into shadow, and I can’t make out his expression.

He’s changed into a crisp black button-down, the sleeves rolled to expose forearms carved out of muscle and etched with black and grey ink.

Even though I’ve asked him, I still don’t understand what they mean.

He said they were in an old language, something people don’t speak anymore.

I see dragons and demons.

Who have I let myself crawl into bed with?

Is he the devil, come to tempt me with lies and false promises?

“Are you ready?” he asks, and his voice is so steady that it almost sounds odd.

Ready for church?

Ready to leave?

Or ready for him to, what, sacrifice me?

My mouth goes dry.

I can feel my pulse hammering in my limbs, as if all the blood has rushed to my arms and legs.

What was that phrase I heard in school?

Fight or flight?

Was that what this was?

“Yes,” I say, and my voice breaks like brittle porcelain. I swallow hard and try again. “Almost.”

Draco doesn’t move from the doorway. His posture is relaxed, but there’s nothing casual about the way his eyes pin me down.

What does he know?

Why is he looking at me like I’m food?

“You’re not even dressed,” he says, nodding toward my dress draped over the chair. “We’re gonna be late.”

“Y-yeah, sorry,” I say, forcing myself to look away. “I w-was… I-I was just— I was going to— I was trying—”

I swallow hard.

“Sorry. I’ll hurry.”

His lips curve slightly, not quite a smile. It’s like the snarl of an aggressive dog.

“Let me help you.”

I should say something.

I should ask him about the mask. I should demand explanations.

Instead, I’m frozen, caught between fear and disbelief.

He shifts his weight, sauntering towards me, and my gaze jumps to his hands—those hands that have held mine, traced patterns on my skin with gentle fingertips, dove inside of me and forced an orgasm from somewhere deep inside of me.

What else has he done with those hands?

“You seem distracted,” he says. “Is everything alright?”

The question hangs in the air like a guillotine blade.

A test.

If I lie, what then?

Off with my head?

My mouth forms words before my brain can properly vet them.

“I was just—thinking about the sermon today. Pastor Williams mentioned it would be about penance. You know, punishing yourself to prove that you’re sorry for something you’ve done.”

The irony isn’t lost on me, and I wonder if it registers with him, too.

“Penance,” Draco repeats, nodding. “I remember.”

He moves closer, each footstep deliberate on the hardwood floor. It’s like the pounding of a gavel.

I can’t breathe.

He stops an arm’s length away, close enough that I can smell his cologne—sandalwood and something else, like burnt cloves.

“Do you think you should be punished, Mercy?” he asks, my name on his lips suddenly sounding like what it is—a concept rather than a person.

I look up into his face, searching for something human in his eyes.

There’s nothing there.

Only darkness.

He’s a monster.

He knows.

The thought hits me like a physical force.

He knows that I know, or at least suspects. The room feels airless suddenly, as if all oxygen has been sucked out by a vacuum.

He knows that I know.

And what do I know?

I was raped, and Draco was the one who did it.

I’m in love with him.

I’m in love with my rapist.

“Why should I be punished?” I ask, watching as he reaches over and snatches my dress from the chair.

“I’m not saying you should,” he answers, stepping behind me and pulling the dress down over my head. “I’m asking if you know something I don’t.”