Page 5 of Penance

Mercy

I sit on the edge of my bed.

My eyes are glued to the phone in my hand.

Emma’s name is at the top of the screen, the last words I sent hanging there, unanswered for hours.

How long had it been since the last time she spoke to me?

I couldn’t remember now.

Weeks, at least.

Did I say something wrong?

Did I offend her somehow?

My mind races, a whirlwind spinning through my head.

I scroll back through our conversation, dissecting each line, each word.

Everything was normal.

Nothing had changed.

“Is something wrong, Em?”

I type out the message, my thumbs hovering over the send button, but I delete it.

No. I had already asked enough questions.

I stand, the sudden movement sending a rush of blood to my head. The room sways for a moment before righting itself. I walk to the bathroom, my steps echoing in the hallway.

The face in the mirror, staring back at me, is a face I barely recognize.

My usual fair complexion is even more pronounced, the shadows under my eyes a stark contrast to my usually rosy cheeks.

My eyes are dull and listless behind the thick black rims of my glasses.

I look like a specter, haunted by everything that happened to me today.

I look like a corpse, like I’m already dead.

I reach for my toothbrush, the bristles worn and frayed.

I needed to replace it.

I squeeze too much toothpaste onto it, the minty smell burning my nostrils and sending a churn through my stomach. I begin to brush, each stroke too hard, too fast. The bristles scrape against my gums, but the pain is a welcome distraction from the anxiety.

Forgive me, Lord, I think to myself, for I have sinned.

But what sin?

What have I done?

I didn’t do anything wrong, did I?

I spit out the foam, watching as it swirls down the drain, tinged with blood.

I wish I could disappear as easily.

“What have I done, Lord? What have I done to deserve this?”

But there’s no answer, only the terrified eyes of my own reflection.

She looks angry.

She looks… disappointed.

I sigh, reaching into the medicine cabinet and grabbing my usual bottle of Ambien. The plastic bottle rattles in my hand as I fumble with the cap. When I finally break it open, I stare down at the tiny peach colored pills as they roll into my palm.

They promise me an escape, a few hours of blessed nothingness.

I stare at them.

Something in me tries to tell me that I shouldn’t.

Reaching over, I grab the glass I keep beside the sink, fill it with water, and pop the pills into my mouth. I grimace as I swallow them down and then wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

Pregnant.

The word echoes in my mind, a relentless drumbeat. I press a hand to my stomach, still flat, still unchanged. Yet, something stirs inside me, something that pulses with life. I can almost feel it, crawling around in there like a worm. Slithering in my guts like a serpent.

No, not a serpent, I scold myself.

A life, a precious life.

But how? How can something so miraculous feel so… wrong? So terrifying?

My faith tells me life is sacred, a gift from God. But this feels like a cruel joke, a test I never asked for.

I’m not ready.

I’m not worthy.

I don’t want this.

The thought sends a shudder through me.

I clutch the counter so hard my knuckles bleed white.

No, Lord. I am still your servant. Still your lamb, and you are my shepherd. Guide me, Lord. Teach me.

But the words feel hollow, the whining screams of a petulant child.

Is that what I am?

A brat throwing a tantrum?

I turn away from the mirror, unable to face the stranger staring back at me.

I move into the hallway, and then into my bedroom, and I stop before my altar, the small space bathed in the soft glow of candlelight.

The flickering flames cast dancing shadows on the pages of my Bible, laid out in front of me, and the cross that hangs on the wall.

I sink to my knees.

My hands clasp together, fingers entwined so tightly they ache.

But it’s a good pain, a grounding pain.

I need this pain.

I deserve this pain.

“Lord,” I whisper, my voice a ragged plea. “I don’t understand. I don’t know what to do, what to think. I’m lost.”

I take a deep breath, my breath shaking.

“Show me the way, Lord. Guide me through this… this darkness. Help me understand, help me accept this task you’ve given me.”

I stop, reaching up to wipe the tears from my eyes.

Help me love this child. Help me love myself.

I think the words, but I don’t say them. I can’t say them out loud.

“Lord, please,” I whisper. “Please watch over my family. They don’t know. They can’t…”

I take a shuddering breath, the thought of their disappointment, their shame, hits me hard, like a pounding ache in my chest.

The image of my mother’s face, her eyes filled with tears of betrayal, flashes in my mind. It’s like a waking nightmare. I push it away, focusing instead on the dance of the shadows on the worn pages of my bible.

“And Lord, please, please help me find a way to accept… this.”

My hands tremble as I tentatively touch my stomach, a light brush of my fingertips against the fabric. I can’t bring myself to press harder.

I don’t want to feel it.

I want to forget it’s there.

“I don’t know how to be a mother,” I whisper. “I don’t know how to love this child. I don’t know if I can.”

The tears are coming now, and I don’t fight them.

I feel them. I let them take me.

“But I want to, Lord. I want to love this child, for no matter how it came to be, it is in your image. It is of you, and for that alone, I am grateful.”

I take a deep, shuddering breath, but it just hurts. It doesn’t help.

“God, help me.”

Slowly, I reach out, snuffing each candle, one by one, the room growing darker and darker with each dying flame. When the flames are finally gone, I get to my feet, shaking.

I climb into bed, the cool sheets a stark contrast to the heat of my tears—the burn of my emotions. I lie down, curling onto my side, my knees drawn to my chest, and my arms wrapped around them, hugging them to me as if they can keep me safe.

The darkness of my room wraps around me like a shroud, like the comfort of my mother’s embrace. My eyes grow heavy, even as anxiety pulses in my brain. My breath hitches, a small gasp in the stillness, fighting the tears that continue to fall.

Let go, Mercy, I tell myself. Just let go.

I sink deeper into my mattress, feeling the fabric embracing me. The darkness behind my lids swirls, a churning sea of black, where tentacled monsters reach out to grab me.

I float away from their embrace.

Am I falling asleep, or am I falling apart?

The line between the two blurs. My thoughts are shattered like a broken mirror. I see myself, broken into a thousand pieces, each one a different version of me.

I am none of them, yet all of them at the same time.

The devout daughter, the faithful believer, the pregnant sinner.

I am everything, and at the same time, I am nothing.

Morning light filters through my window.

I can feel life falling into me, even if sleep clings to the corners of my consciousness. With each bat of my eyelids, they break away, and I can feel myself becoming alert again.

I pop my eyes open, and they instantly fall shut again.

Too bright.

I blink, the room swimming into focus, then out again.

My limbs feel heavy, as if anchored to the floor.

I try to shake the cobwebs from my brain, to grasp onto something solid, something real.

But the harder I try, the more elusive it becomes.

The room tilts, my stomach lurching with it.

I squeeze my eyes shut, taking a deep breath.

Breathe, Mercy. Just breathe.

I inhale, the air sticking in my throat like a cotton ball. A wave of nausea crashes over me like an ocean wave.

I exhale, my lungs burning.

Again.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Something isn’t right.

The realization sends a jolt through me, chasing away the last comforting touches of sleep. My eyes snap open, my heart pounding in my chest. I scan the room, my gaze landing on what is familiar—my dresser, my altar, my bible, the closet in the corner.

Everything is as it should be. Yet something nags at me, a gnawing sensation in the pit of my stomach.

But as I throw back the covers, the chill of the morning air hitting my skin, the unease only climbs to new heights.

It clings to me, a second skin, a ghost riding on my shoulder.

I can’t shake the feeling that something is very, very wrong.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, the wooden floor cold beneath my feet.

I stand, my body aching in places that make me pause.

My back hurts.

My wrists, too.

A dull throb between my legs stops me dead in my tracks.

I lift my nightgown, my eyes scanning down my thighs.

What is that?

Bruises.

The wave of nausea is back, and this time it’s deeper, and it’s threatening to drown me. I gag, hard, and saliva floods my mouth. Shaking my head, I fight to force it away, and focus on the darkness that shifts beneath my skin.

My head is swimming.

My mouth is watering.

I touch my inner thighs, gently, and hiss as a pain bites back at me.

No.

No, no.

This can’t be happening.

Not to me.

I was a good person.

Was?

No, no, I am .

I did what God asked. I followed the bible and listened to the preaching of the pastor at church. I did what I was supposed to do. Things like this weren’t supposed to happen to women like me. Things like this happened to blasphemous, unsaved women who were unclean.

I did everything right.

Why did I deserve this?

I stumble out of the room, to the full-length mirror that hangs on the back of the closet door in the hallway. My reflection stares back at me, and she’s pale and she looks scared.

My nightgown is torn, a small rip at the collarbone. I touch it, the fabric rough against my fingers. My hands tremble as I lift them to my hair, tangled and wild. There’s something sticky in my hair, and when I pull my hand back, a faint smell lingers, familiar, musky.

Did I forget to wash the conditioner out of that spot?

Did I get… food in my hair?

I sniff my finger again, and a shiver of revulsion runs through me. I hug my arms around myself, nails digging into my skin until it hurts.

This can’t be real.

It can’t.

It’s not real.

It’s not.

But it is, a voice chides inside my head. It’s real. Can’t you feel it?

My stomach churns, bile rising in my throat. I swallow it down, but it comes right back up. I lunge for the bathroom door, throwing it open and dropping to my knees in front of the toilet, my body heaving.

But nothing comes out.

Just dry heaves.

I clutch the fabric of my nightgown, fingers digging into the soft cotton as if grasping for a lifeline. The room spins, a whirlpool of shadows and faint light. Sobs rip from my throat, and they are so, so painful.

What happened?

The question claws at my mind, and the answer comes just as quickly.

I was raped.

Someone came into my apartment, and they raped me in my sleep.

My thoughts race, each one a stab of disbelief.

I look down at my trembling hands, the same hands that had clasped together in prayer just hours ago. Now, they feel tainted, foreign.

Dirty.

I was so dirty.

“Why would you allow this?” I ask, my voice raw, my shaking fingers clutching the toilet so hard they hurt. “What did I do to deserve this? Why would you do this to me, God?”

Maybe it’s a test, I think, grasping for any shred of anything that makes sense.

No, another voice inside me says. This is a new voice—the voice of reason. This isn’t a test. This is a crime.

My stomach lurches at the thought, at the knowledge that someone has taken something from me that I can never get back.

They took it from me—my purity.

I am not a virgin anymore.

My body convulses, another wave of sobs wracking through me. I can feel the bruises forming dark blooms under my skin. I can feel the throb of pain that pulses between my legs with every strain. I feel possessed, as if someone I didn’t invite has seized control of my body.

They did, the sneering voice says. That’s what rape is.

I cry as I gag again, harder, and something comes up this time, even if it’s only bile. I let it drip into the toilet bowl, splattering against the porcelain.

What do I do?

Report it?

Keep silent?

My father’s disapproving frown flashes across my mind. The whispering judgment of my church congregation buzzes in my ears like a million angry hornets.

It’s my fault, they’ll say. I must have done something to deserve it.

I’ve heard it before.

The thought sends a fresh wave of nausea through me. I can’t face them.

They can never know.

No one can ever know.

Reaching up, I grab the handle and flush the toilet, watching as my vomit swirls down the drain. When it’s clean, and new—and pure—I force myself to stand up, shaking as I get to my feet and strip off my nightgown.

No one will ever know.

Ever.

I will make sure of that.

Reaching over, I bat the shower curtain away and reach inside, twisting on the tap.