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In the stories brought from the outside world, there are no such rituals. My father calls them rituals, but they’re punishments. The room is full of every man, woman, and child aged thirteen and above. Not by choice. All cleansings are mandatory. Thankfully, this is only my fourth.
Silence falls over the room as my father takes center stage of our church. He reads from the book of scripture that holds the history of “our peoples” beliefs—a holy book only leaders of light can add to.
Clara once told me the outside world calls us a cult and that our leaders manipulate the book of scripture. It’s not the true words of God. I could have told her that.
“From darkness and sin, she will be cleansed. Offering her body to the men of light, if blessed with a child of light, she will be cleansed, reborn into the faith.” My father drones on as I try to block him out.
He gestures for Megan to come forward. Her white robe trails behind her like a veil. “Do you want to be forgiven for your sinful ways?” he asks her. She looks different from how I remember her. Her skin is pale, and her face is gaunt from weight loss. Her hair has been cut to an inch all over her scalp.
My eyes cut to Megan’s mother, her hands clutched together in her lap. A look of anxious tension tugs at her brow and thin lines web from the corners of her eyes, like she’s aged ten years over the past twelve months.
“I do,” Megan states to the relief of her mother. She unfastens her robe and steps up to where a book of light is placed on a pillow.
I close my eyes, trying to rid myself of the images of her ribs poking through her skinny frame, her breasts barely there.
She kneels, placing her face on the cover, her hands either side of the book, her buttocks prone. It’s heart breaking that we all have to witness her this way.
“The chosen please come forward,” my father commands.
Ten men are chosen by my father to put their seed inside her, hoping to fill her womb to earn her forgiveness. If it doesn’t take, she’ll spend another year imprisoned and will have to go through this again and again until she’s “cleansed”—impregnated by someone she doesn’t love, marry, or choose for herself. My legs buzz with the need to run. If I do, it will be me up there next. The intense silence is almost deafening. Movement draws all eyes to the front of the church. Two of the chosen stand in their robes, brothers. One isn’t even sixteen yet. Hushed whispers echo through the place as Daniel rises from his seat, along with his father, who’s married with three wives.
Megan’s eyes scan the crowd, no doubt trying to distinguish who’s wearing a robe and who isn’t.
All heads turn to Jason next, Mary’s older brother, recently married with a child on the way. His wife’s face loses all color, her hand instinctively rubbing at her growing bump as her other hand clutches the seat, turning her knuckles white.
Megan’s eyes squeeze closed, a tear leaking free, when Gilbert stands, needing aid from his son when his robe gets caught beneath his foot. I pray he trips on it and dislocates his hip on the way to the podium. He’s in his sixties, and a horrible, loyal enforcer for my father, and his father before that—an original believer and one of the founders of our laws and book of light.
My stomach volts.
Megan is nineteen.
Stop this. Don’t do this. Megan, tell them no!
Two more men stand and join the others at the stage.
A small gasp from Mary has a few people turn in her direction. Her eyes widen and cheeks flame. I follow her gaze to see Eli standing.
No.
His eyes cut to me, then to the stage.
My soul vibrates the skeleton inside my skin, wanting to tear through the flesh and flee. I want him to refuse, but his feet carry him toward my father like a good little sheep. I hadn’t even noticed he was wearing a robe.
I hate him.
“May our Lord shine his light on you,” my father says before nodding to the fisherman’s son. He disrobes and takes his place behind Megan. Sickness burns my throat as he touches himself to enable him to penetrate her. Her teeth dig into her bottom lip as he grips her hips, then a gasps escapes at his intrusion, her small body jolting forward. He grunts as he pistons his hips, all eyes watching this abomination. I close my eyes and try to block out the groans and slapping of skin.
When he’s finished, another kneels in place behind her, and then another, all leaving their fluids inside her. There’s a pause. I open my eyes to see what’s happening. Daniel, the youngest boy, is crying. “I can’t,” he chokes out, rubbing at himself. My father gestures for him to shift out of the way and begins disrobing.
