Chapter 1VoxRose

Chapter 1

Vox

2 months later,

"Done," I grunt, dropping the last box on the kitchen floor. I crack open a cold one from the cooler Shadow brought, and the boys follow suit, eager to quench their thirst after hauling my stuff.

"Thanks, fellas. Would've been a real pain without ya," I say to all of them.

"Not a bad pad you got here," Steele remarks, eyeing the spacious layout.

"Yeah, got it for a steal. Garage's big enough for all the bikes," I say with a smirk. The roar of an engine outside grabs our attention, and Shadow's old lady, Erin, steps out of the car carrying a tray of meat. She's brought enough grub for the whole crew. Half the guys head out to the garden to fire up the grill while she sets the meat in the kitchen, rummaging for cooking tools. I locate the right box and hand her what she needs.

"Always so damn organized, Vox, even on moving day," she chuckles. She's sharp, keeps Shadow on his toes. I like her; she's a solid chick. Good to have someone like her around, especially when things get dark.

My OCD tendencies have become a running joke in the club. It’s something I didn’t have growing up, but as life got tougher and my world fell apart, I began developing specific rituals to calm my nerves. Labeling every item in my home, checking windows and doors obsessively—yeah, I've got my quirks. As much as I've tried to shake 'em, I've learned to live with 'em.

I shrug in response. There’s nothing to discuss about my compulsive behaviors; it’s just the way I am.

She sighs, washing her hands.

"Met the neighbors yet?”

I hadn’t realized my house would be so close to 'em. I can literally walk into their garden from mine and see inside their living room. I used to live in a cramped apartment, but I wanted more space to work on my bikes, so this area on the outskirts of town was perfect. Just a bunch of quiet families, with white picket fences and suburban housewives.

No one would expect me to live here, least of all our enemies.

Like I said, perfect .

“Haven’t seen 'em yet. Outside looks tidy; doubt they’ll be any trouble.”

"Well, you're about to find out," she says, nodding towards the black sedan parking in front of my neighbor's house.

She whistles. "Damn, looking sharp."

I approach the window, eyeing the sleek car, expecting a normal family to come out of it but the folks in front of us don't match the usual expectation you have of what normal neighbors look like.

“Oh, that’s, hum, weird,” Erin murmurs.

More like fuckin’ strange. What the fuck is this?

What surprises me are the two people stepping out of it. A tall man in his fifties, dressed head to toe in black linen with a long beard and a strange top hat. The older woman is covered in a long black dress, as if she was coming from a funeral in the 1800s. Her hair reminds me of something from historical movies, intricate braids piled atop her head. She’s looking down, her steps faltering as if the wind could make her fall.

I take in all the details in an instant. It's my knack, observing and learning about someone as quickly as possible to figure out who they are and what they want. That’s what a good right-hand man does.

They’re both heading towards the house when I notice a third figure emerging from the car.

My body tenses.

"Pretty, ain't she?" Erin elbows me, bringing me back to reality.

"Pretty ain't the right word," I mutter to myself, keepin' my eyes on the woman who's captured my attention.

What I see is an angel, a vision out of a biblical story, a woman made of the most exquisite flesh. Golden long hair with a small figure struggling to conceal the curves under the fabric of her long dress. She has big doe eyes, full lips, and it hits me that she’s just the right size to fit under my chin.

Pretty doesn't do her justice.

Pretty is beneath her.

"Should see your face, Vox," Erin laughs. "Men." She shakes her head and heads into the garden.

I tear my gaze away from the angel's face to focus on her clothes.

What the fuck is she wearing?

Covered in a heavy brown fabric, her dress ends at her ankles and the top is buttoned all the way up to her chin. Her ashy blonde hair, that I wish I could run my hands through, is made into one long braid, reaching her lower back.

She’s like something out of an old photograph, dressed in clothes from an ancient era. But even with these strange clothes and hair, she still looks damn young.

She must be 18, 19 at most, her round cheeks giving away her youth. Before she reaches her porch, she turns her face slightly towards me.

Did she feel my gaze on her?

She must have heard the noise from my garden. I'm pretty sure this isn’t typical for this neighborhood. Her eyes scan the area until they meet mine. For a brief moment, I hold my breath, hoping she'll keep them locked on me. But she turns back to the door and disappears into her house.

Angel.

Who are you?

Rose

"We must pray, Lydia, pray all night to thank the Divine powers of the Ascension and their faith in us," says my father, excited like a kid who found out he was going to get candy after behaving himself. My mother isn't any better.

"Bless our hearts, Emerson." She puts her hand in the air, as if she could be seen by the higher power above us. "Thank you, thank you! We won’t disappoint you; the word will spread through our family. Finally, it’s our time." She's smiling like I've never seen before.

But I’m not.

All of this, it doesn’t sound right. I can’t talk about it to anyone, not that I know anyone on the outside, and not that I can talk too.

Becoming mute gives you a new perspective on life. What you used to look at, now you see. What you used to question, now you doubt. I used to give my trust to anyone around me, convinced they would make the best out of it, protecting and cherishing it. I used to obediently submit to the Shepherd and the Elders, trusting their decisions as if it was words from the Divine itself. Singing the songs of the Faithful Lambs until my hands cramped from signing so much. But the accident changed it all. And now, a small crack that used to live inside me is growing bigger each day, making me question everything and everyone around me.

"Rose! Smile, daughter, the Divine sees you right now, you must smile," my father orders me, his threatening eyes watching in the rearview mirror. I shake my head. No, I don’t want to smile, I don’t have it in me. And I… I doubt the Divine sees me, or really exists at all.

"If you don’t smile, daughter, I will hold your head in the tub for as long as you wait to obey me." My body shivers.

Not the tub.

He’s done it so many times, I can’t even count anymore. And each time I thought I was about to die. He always tells me it’s for my own good, to prepare me for the water ritual on my wedding day.

I learned very early on how to fake happiness, so much so that I almost fool myself sometimes. It’s unbelievable how people never look beyond a smile to see how broken you are, how alone and hopeless you feel having to hide behind a mask every single day of your life. My smiles are very convincing, that I know for sure, because no one has ever asked me if I was really as fine as I look.

I keep a frozen grin on my face the whole way home, until my father parks and they walk out of the car.

With them out of the car, I can finally relax my jaw. I take a deep breath and follow them.

That’s when I hear unusual echoes of voices from the house next door.

Did the new neighbors arrive?

From where I stand, I can catch a glimpse of their garden where a lot of people are eating and laughing. They're dressed in strange leather jackets with a skull on the back and bold writing, “Raven Sons.”

Is it some kind of community like we have with the Faithful Lambs?

I turn my face to look at the window on my right, and my eyes lock with another man's. He looks as if he's holding his breath to stay still. I can’t see much from my distance, but he’s tall, with short brown hair and a jaw that could cut glass. His massive shoulders make me look at his arms, but I turn my face immediately, wishing I hadn’t succumbed to the sin of looking at a man's body, and even worse, a stranger. If anybody knew what I did, I would have to face punishment to cleanse my soul from lust.

Turning away, I head to the door, remove my shoes in the entry and rush to my bedroom.

Out of breath, I stop.

Would it be so bad to take a look at the window view?

My room is located on the second floor of the house, and I can see the garden from it, ours and our neighbors' too. My parents' bedroom is on the first floor, thankfully. Walking as slowly as I can, annoyed by the roughness of my wool dress, I reach the window.

There must be ten of them, all wearing the same kind of uniforms, jeans and black t-shirts or leather jackets. Some of them have tattoos all over their arms, and some even on their faces. The Shepherd always says changing our appearance is a sin; it tells the Divine we’re not content with what he gave us.

A woman is there too, and I blush at the sight of her clothing. A mini red pair of shorts and a black top showing her belly button. Even my undergarments have more fabric. Her clothes are glued to her skin, something I’m not used to seeing.

I wonder how I would look dressed like that.

We make our clothes ourselves by following specific rules of the shapes and colors each member can wear depending on our place in the hierarchy. I must wear brown because I’m not married yet, and brown is the color of the soil. It’s a way to remind ourselves that we are not worthy until we get married, that we are lost lambs walking in the mud until our day comes.

Once I get married, I will have to wear a long black dress, symbolizing the grief of my childhood and the gift of my soul to my husband. Mostly, our clothes are different between men and women of our community. But I got to understand with time that ours restricts our movements and hides our bodies while men have practical outfits that can easily be worn in the outside world.

From the look I get each time I walk in the street, I know mine are anything but normal.

My curiosity gets the best of me, and I keep studying her.

She’s so pretty.

Her long black hair dances on her shoulders, smiling and laughing next to another man who grabs her hips from time to time. Displays of affection aren’t something I’m used to. Actually, it is forbidden in our community unless it’s for the sole purpose of making children.

I can't even remember the last time I saw my parents touching each other, or god forbid, kiss.

The man grabs a jacket and puts it on the woman’s shoulders. A name floats on it, “Shadow,” and I wonder what it means to them.

They are laughing and chatting, looking like a strange family. I wish I could experience something like that, something light, without rules and punishments to fear.

The man I saw behind the window enters the garden. My eyes are glued to his arms. Massive and muscular with veins making my belly churn in a way I never felt before. He's greeted by other men giving him what looks like a plate of meat and vegetables. His smile illuminates his face, and I suddenly wish I could see him closer.

Are you insane, Rose?

There’s something about his attitude that exudes confidence and calmness. I have to stop myself from putting my hand on the window and sticking my nose on it like a child watching through a window shop. All I see is his back now that he's talking to another person.

But he suddenly interrupts the banter and turns slowly, tilting his face towards… me .

Can he feel that I'm watching him?

I freeze while he turns his body toward my house and locks his gaze with mine. We stay like this for a few seconds. Frozen in the moment like time has paused, both stuck in a silent exchange. He doesn't turn away, so I step back, my heart racing.

He saw you, you idiot!

If my parents saw me, or worse, if the Shepherd knew, I would face great consequences.

Thank god they’re not here.

I sigh and sit on my bed, taking a look at my room.

There's a game I play alone every night before falling asleep. I close my eyes and imagine my bedroom filled with books, posters of music bands, and a closet full of colorful clothes, even jeans. I would stick fluorescent stars on my ceiling like I saw once in a movie before my dad threw it away. It carried only “evil work from the outside world,” as he said.

It just helps, sometimes, to daydream about what it could have been, what freedom could feel like.

Watching the stranger through my window tastes like that too, like freedom encapsulated in a manly body I shouldn't even dare to look at.

We ate early with another family of the Faithful Lambs, so I put on my long brown nightgown and prepared myself for bed. Brushing my blonde hair, I try to look at them in the window reflection, wishing I had a mirror to try to style it. But vanity isn't right, so I don't have one. I step outside my room to wash my face and welcome the cold water on my skin, which I didn't notice was burning me since I saw the stranger.

Then I take the stairs and join my parents in our living room.

Is it me or is it chilly down here?

Almost every piece of furniture is made of wood and comes from my grandparents on my father's side. The gray walls and the beige curtains swallow the light, making the room smaller and darker. There are no photographs or decorations except for one poster on the chimney quoting the words of our leader, “The Ascension awaits those who do not fear death.”

I kneel next to my parents, like every Sunday evening for our last prayer of the week, and my father starts to read a passage from our holy book, the Ascendium. I close my eyes and unite my palms. This takes an hour before I can go to my room and sleep. Tomorrow will be another long day, just like each day, where I'll go to the Faithful Lambs Institute. The idea of having to stay put for hours on a chair makes me hurt already.

I’d rather be gardening.

Thankfully, I can daydream, this, no one can take it away from me. That's the only thing helping me get up in the morning. Knowing that freedom can exist in a part of my mind even if I never get to experience it in my reality.

Before reaching the stairs to go to my room, my father's voice echoes behind me.

“Daughter, temptation has spread its roots next to our home. This is a test from the Divine. Don't, ever, talk to those people. They're not like us. Lost souls who will burn for eternity.” His gaze is cold and threatening as if he was unsure of my reaction.

He must have seen it, the flames that took root in me and kept spreading since the accident. Nothing can tame that kind of fire from burning inside you.

He knows it, and perhaps, it scares him.

My mother signs “Good night, daughter” behind him before stepping into the kitchen. My father doesn't say anything more and steps back into the living room.

He didn't sign like my mom. Not because he doesn't know how; he's a smart man, I'm sure he's figured it out by now by observing my mom and me interacting. No, he doesn't want to sign to me. Doing it would acknowledge the fact that his daughter is now mute because of him, and he refuses it, probably denying the truth he played a part in creating.

I go back to my room and take a last glimpse at the garden outside. They're still out there, enjoying each other's company, playing cards and fake punching each other when they talk.

It looks fun.

My stranger is sitting on a chair, watching the others, with a drink in his hand. His body stiffens suddenly, as if he could feel my gaze on him, and a small grin appears on his face. I step back and settle in my bed.

My father said that I shouldn't go near these people, but if anything, all I want is to get closer to them.

To him.

Will I be strong enough to stay away from temptation?

I sneak under the covers, listening to the echoes of their voices until I fall asleep, dreaming about my stranger.