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" H ush now, Lily. If you don't stop crying, then I’ll have to go."

My voice is a whisper, barely louder than the ragged breaths tearing through the little girl in my arms. Stroking trembling fingers through her matted blonde hair, I beg my heart to slow down, to stop beating so damned hard. I don't have long — maybe half an hour, if I'm lucky, before someone comes looking.

The tent smells of mildew and dirt, and the broken cot she’s lying on creaks with every small movement. Lily, barely five years old, weighs next to nothing. Her tiny frame is lost beneath the filthy blanket that’s supposed to keep her warm. She shivers, her body hot with a raging fever, something I am praying I can break soon.

I fear if I don’t, it will claim her young, innocent life.

"Come on, sweet girl, just a little," I plead, reaching for the stale sandwich I managed to sneak in. "Just one bite."

She turns her face away, her cracked lips trembling. Tears streak dirt across her hollow cheeks. Her bright blue eyes, once beautiful, are now sunken. Such a beautiful child, sucked into a world I fear she will never escape. There doesn’t seem to be a way out for any of us, and it doesn’t matter what I do — they will always be there.

Lurking in the shadows.

Out there, beyond the fence that traps us all, Lily would have been removed from these monsters. She would have been placed into the foster system, taken from the devils who call themselves her parents. But in here? In here, she’s just another soul my father claims will find freedom through suffering.

They preach about salvation. About trials and faith. About sacrifice.

They use God like a shield for their cruelty.

They're not holy. They're monsters.

"No," Lily whimpers, clutching her stomach.

"Please, honey. For me," I whisper, stroking her hair away from her face, so I can better see her little features.

Her big, sunken blue eyes — so full of pain — lift to mine, and something in my chest cracks wide open. Maybe she knows. Maybe she understands as well as I do that there is no saving us. It won’t matter what we do; they will always have control. In this world, we belong to them. In this world, they own us.

Finally, she leans forward, taking a bite so small it will do nothing to nourish her. It's not enough, but it's something. I push gently, coaxing her into another, and another. Each bite feels like a victory, but I know it’s very likely she won’t keep it down long. I can only hope her body absorbs as much as it can before she brings it all back up again.

"My tummy hurts," she moans.

"I know, sweetheart. I know."

I reach into the pocket of my dress and pull out a tiny white pill, broken into pieces. Painkillers. Swiped from the forbidden stash that only the leaders of the cult have access to — supplies that are only for the worthy . If my father ever found out, he wouldn't hesitate.

He'd hang me. Beat me bloody. Call it mercy.

But I'd do it again. A thousand times over. For her.

"Here, just a sip of water first," I murmur, lifting the cracked cup to her lips.

She sips, then chokes and sputters, gagging on the pill as I press it onto her tongue. Half of it ends up spat down the front of my dress. I’m not bothered; I can only hope that some of it went down, that it’s enough to break the fever currently taking over her already weak body.

"I know it tastes yucky," I soothe, wiping her mouth. "But it'll help."

Carefully, I lay her back, pulling the tattered blanket up to her chin. Her frail little body curls into itself. It kills me, and I wish that I could do something — anything — to free her from this world. The very moment Lily was born, I knew I had to protect her. Her parents never thought she was worth saving, and in this place, if you are weak, you are not worth anything.

Lily was always seen as weak — a frail baby, a broken child.

To them, if she dies, it’s because God didn’t believe she was worthy of living.

And so it will be.

"Should we sing your favorite song?" I whisper, blinking back tears.

She nods, a small, broken movement.

My voice shakes as I begin to sing, soft and slow, the lullaby my mother once sang to me before this place swallowed her whole. Before my father became —

The chosen one.

The Father. The deliverer. The monster.

"What the hell are you doing in here?"

The voice rips through me, causing my spine to go rigid and my voice to crack mid-song. My heart lurches as I whip around. Standing in the entrance is Reginald, Lily’s father — a brutal man with black eyes and cruelty etched into every line of his face.

His gaze falls to the food. The water. The pill bottle peeking from my pocket. He bares his teeth.

"No," I whisper, standing quickly, shielding Lily with my body.

Reginald crosses the space in two strides, his hand closing around my hair, yanking so hard I feel small strands tearing from my scalp. Pain rips down my spine as he hauls me backward out of the tent. Lily, who is sobbing now, stares at me with horror. She knows what happens to those who disobey. Even at five, she knows .

"It's okay, Lily!" I cry, even as my scalp burns and tears blur my vision. "It's okay, honey. I'm okay."

Lily’s sobs pierce the air, but they only make Reginald snarl louder, dragging me across the dirt.

People stand outside their tents and watch.

They always watch.

Blank faces. Lowered eyes.

Not one of them steps forward.

Not one dares.

Here, punishment isn't cruelty. It’s deserved.

If I have done something wrong, then I deserve everything I get. Nobody would dare fight against his word.

"Father!" Reginald bellows. "Father!"

I stumble, my knees scraping raw against the ground as I collapse, unable to keep my footing. Pain rips through me as small pieces of debris bury into my skin, but I don’t cry out. I will never give them that satisfaction. I will never yield and give my father what he wants.

Not ever.

From the center of the camp, my father emerges. Calm. Immaculate. Dressed in white, his shirt perfectly pressed and buttoned to the very top, his slacks fitting as though they were made for him. His eyes, as green as mine, never show a hint of rage or emotion. He never yells, he never shows hatred or fear. He is always in control of himself, and that’s what makes him even more terrifying.

His eyes lock onto mine — and there is no recognition. No love. Only judgment.

"What has happened, Reginald?" he asks, his voice a calm, almost songlike murmur.

"I caught her feeding my child, giving her water and medication. She stole from you, Father, to feed the weak."

The weak.

I fight the urge to bellow profanities at him. Lily isn’t weak, she’s a child who needs caring for.

"What have you to say for yourself, Nia?"

I don’t look up as he speaks to me. No . I keep my eyes lowered to the ground as I mutter, "I’d do it again. A thousand times over. She is a child."

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t yell. He just stands there, staring down at me.

"Hang her," he says calmly. "Five lashes. One extra for every bite the child took."

Time slows. The words slam into me harder than any fist ever could.

The crowd shifts. Eager now. Hungry for the ritual. They enjoy every ounce of punishment handed out in this place. It feeds their desperate and pathetic beliefs. A large cross in the middle of the lot waits for me — their sick and twisted altar.

Reginald hauls me to my feet and shoves me forward. I don’t bother fighting. It will only result in more lashings, more pain, more humiliation. This isn’t my first time. I’m quite certain it won’t be my last.

I know the burn of leather biting into skin.

I know the silence that falls right before the first strike.

A man steps forward with the whip — a heavy braid of leather, crafted by my father's own hands. His pride and joy. They drag me to the cross, pulling me against it, stretching my arms wide to bind them. Shackles I cannot escape from. Believe me, I’ve tried.

Only then will they deliver my punishment.

My punishment for helping a sick child.

My punishment for being a good person.

The sky above is wide and open, the stars glimmering brightly, the moon casting light over me as if I am being reborn. It’s sick, really.

"Let her sin be purified," my father intones, and the crowd murmurs the prayer back.

The whip whistles through the air.

The first strike lands, tearing a scream from my throat.

I bite down, tasting blood. I will not let him have the fucking satisfaction of hearing me scream again.

Another.

And another.

Each lash carving through my skin, each crack of leather a reminder of the world I have been born into. By the time they untie me, I can't stand. I collapse into the dirt, gasping for air, my body heaving as I fight against the urge to vomit. I don’t give them that satisfaction. I will never yield to him.

I hear my father's voice again. "This is mercy. This is love."

I could laugh, but that would only earn me more lashings. Instead, I close my eyes and keep my head low, the blood trickling down my spine a reminder that I am still here, still breathing, still alive.

And every single second I am alive, I make a vow to myself:

One day, I will burn this fucking place to the ground.