Chapter 4Rose

Chapter 4

Rose

It’s been three weeks since the night of my punishment. Twenty-one days since I woke up with my wounds mended and my body tucked under my covers for the first time in my life. My parents never did this when I was little, so I knew it wasn’t them.

I realized instantly who had done this. I never interact with people from the outside world, except last week in my garden when my stranger, Vox, talked to me. He looked at me like I was a strange enigma he wanted to resolve. But also like something else… something he wanted to look at and touch. The way his eyes burned on my skin, spreading like a wildfire, made me feel flushed and intrigued. I couldn't forget his icy blue eyes and his short dark hair that I dreamt about passing my fingers through.

Despite my initial reservations about interacting with someone from the outside world, especially a man covered in tattoos, I find myself drawn to him.

When I awoke after that terrifying night, tears welled in my eyes, not from the pain inflicted by my parents, but from the tender care he had shown. He tended to my wounds, gently wrapping my injured hands and ensuring my comfort.

It was the first time in my life I felt truly cared for, as if a guardian angel was watching over me. Despite the teachings of my community, I didn't feel uneasy about his touch. I had never experienced that kind of concern before, especially after reading the note he left me on my bedside table.

“Kept the gloves on the whole time.”

His handwriting was rugged and untamed, a stark contrast to the neat script I am accustomed to. But still, I liked it. It wasn't just about tending to my physical wounds, it was about honoring my boundaries and ensuring my comfort and safety, even when I was asleep and unable to protect myself.

He somehow knew I couldn’t let a man touch my skin and he honored it by keeping his gloves on. I close my eyes and try to imagine him standing in my bedroom, his biker clothes on, watching over with a protective eye.

The image filled me with a strange sense of security.

How could I believe the words of our Shepherd about the evil of the outside world when in fact, the hurt had come from within, and he, a stranger from the so-called dangerous outside world, had shown me more care and respect than anyone in my own community ever had?

Hearing my parents talk downstairs takes me out of my thoughts and into the new reality I've been facing for weeks. I quickly hide the note under my mattress, making sure it’s not visible. Since the punishment, my parents, once indifferent to my presence, now regard me with suspicion, as though I am an outsider in my own home. Their glances are laced with hostility, and conversations are sparse and awkward. Each interaction feels like walking on eggshells, tiptoeing around the unspoken threat of my beliefs.

For the first time, I’ve allowed myself to question the morals that had been ingrained in me since childhood, wondering if there’s more to life than the narrow confines of our community. But with doubt came fear—a fear of straying from the path laid out for me, a fear of disappointing my parents and risking the wrath of our community. The weight of their expectations bears down on me, threatening to suffocate the flicker of curiosity and skepticism that has ignited within me.

My father has almost stopped talking to me, as if I was carrying a disease, and my mother signs to me only when we’re alone in the house. Perhaps she’s also scared of my father.

The memory of that evening keeps haunting me like a relentless storm, each wave crashing against the shores of my mind with brutal force. The brutality of my parents' actions, the venom in my father's words, the indifference as they left me bleeding on my bed—it's all etched into my mind, impossible to escape. I'm torn between accepting and rejecting what happened.

Was it fair to be drowned, to be struck by Mr. Collins? If I truly deserved it, then why do I continue to question it?

As I think back on that awful night, I'm just shocked.

How could my community, the people I've grown up with, be so brutal just because I asked questions?

The cult preaches love and acceptance, but their actions were so harsh and violent. It's hard for me to understand how they can say one thing and do another.

Was I really so wrong for being curious? Or is there something dark hiding under the surface of our seemingly perfect community?

These thoughts are weighing on me, but doubt isn’t something tolerable in our household.

As I put on my dark brown shoes in the entryway, my parents keep checking their outfits, and my mom tugs at my skirt, making sure it covers my ankles.

“Good, good, he should be pleased,” she murmurs to herself. Fidgeting with her hands, she puts on her coat before we all head out to the car.

As I open the door and slide inside, followed by my mother, I glance toward Vox’s window, peering into his kitchen. There’s no one in there; it’s been empty for days. Each time I try to take a glimpse inside, I entertain the mad idea of trying to thank him, knowing I would never be able to do such a thing in the presence of my parents. But even the smallest opportunity to see him would suffice, to at least smile at him, silently thanking him for what he did.

I just want to see him.

“ Let’s go, it’s not everyday our family is summoned at the Chapel!” my mother says, clapping her hands eagerly.

It’s weird, we usually only go there on Sundays. The rest of the time my parents work—my father as a teacher at my school and my mother as a secretary in a dental practice. They both work with people from the community.

I'm in my last year at the Faithful Lambs Institute, which is the equivalent of high school in our community. My parents always said that there was no better place for me to learn about the right values. Next year I'm expected to be married and probably pregnant, but my mind struggles visualizing this image.

Not that I don't want to get married and have kids—I mean, I want that, one day—but I would want something different than what my parents have. I would like my husband to be a friend, with whom I’d share everything. We would talk about books, movies, and just enjoy each other's company.

The only time I get to see happy couples is when I walk in the streets, and I sometimes count the number of couples I pass by, holding hands, smiling at each other.

There's something special about observing people with their loved ones. But I doubt this will ever happen to me.

First of all, I would need to be lucky enough to be given to a man who will have the patience to learn how to sign and deal with my mutism.

So basically no one.

A strange thought comes to my mind as I remind myself that communication hasn't seemed like an issue with Vox. Since the moment I saw him, my mind and my body were drawn to him. Even when he spoke to me, I felt as if he could read me like a book, observing my body language as if it was enough for him to understand me.

I wonder if he felt that way too.

We drive towards the Chapel, the atmosphere inside the car tense. My parents exchange nervous glances. It’s raining today, making it harder to see outside from the car window, like an animal stuck in a cage.

We drive through the neighborhood, to the quiet of endless fields behind the city.

Our Chapel is about thirty minutes from our house. It isn’t like the Catholic ones, massive and made of cement. Ours is much smaller, made of one large hall and one bell tower. It’s white and made entirely of wood. I remember asking my father when I was younger why our Chapel was in the middle of nowhere, far from everything. And he would always answer me that it was to make sure we were safe, far from the non-believers.

Approaching it, I don’t see our folks in front of it like they usually do on Sundays.

Looking at my mom, who is sitting in the seat in front of me, I touch her shoulder with my fingers to ask for her attention. She turns her head to the side, watching me.

“What’s going on?” I sign.

“I, I don’t know. We’ve been asked to come with you,” she says, playing with her fingers.

Why is she so anxious?

“Who asked?” I sign, my mother watching my hands.

“The Shepherd,” she says, her voice carrying fear and anxiousness.

Why would the Shepherd want to see our family? Has he found me a fiancé already? This thought makes me nauseous, and I suddenly don’t feel well, putting my hand on my mouth. My mom observes me.

“Don’t be sick,” she says firmly.

“If the Shepherd wants to see our family, then it is an honor he’s doing for us. You will behave accordingly,” my father’s deep voice says. We open our doors to go out into the rain, and I can’t help but have a feeling of uneasiness coursing through my veins, as if something terrible is about to happen but I can’t put my finger on it.

Ever heard about trusting your intuition? Don’t step into this building, Rose.

The large doors open, and I follow my parents into the Chapel, crossing my fingers that some good will come of it.