Page 37

I see myself at thirteen, kneeling on the cold cellar floor, the smell of damp earth clinging to my nostrils. Kerr’s heavy boots loomed in front of me, the soles worn and stained.

My hands trembled as he forced the red lipstick across my mouth, the waxy smear tugging at my skin. “Proof,” he hissed, his fingers biting into my jaw like a vise. “A good girl leaves marks. Something to remember.” His words dripped with conviction, the kind only monsters could muster. I looked up at him, my tears turning the room into a watery haze, and believed him. Believed that my silence, my obedience, was holy.

The scalpel slices through Kerr’s flesh, the blade sharp and decisive, tracing another deliberate line across his chest. The blood wells slowly at first, a dark bead swelling into a small stream before it drips in uneven streaks down his weathered skin. I watch it trickle down his chest, catching on the frayed denim of his jeans.

Another memory pushes through, unbidden. Fourteen this time.

Kerr’s breath, hot and sour, in my ear. “You’re becoming a woman now,” he whispered, his hands pressing where they shouldn’t. “God wants me to guide you. Mold you. You’ll thank me one day.” His words had burned into my skin like brands, each syllable searing itself into the growing pit of hatred I hadn’t yet learned to name.

The scalpel shifts again, and Kerr groans, a low, guttural sound that barely registers. His blood, his pain, it’s all so small compared to what he took from me. I carve an arc over the previous incision. I’m not just marking him. I’m rewriting the story.

My grip tightens, the handle warm against my palm. “You remember, don’t you?” I murmur, my voice as sharp as the scalpel’s edge. His bleary eyes flicker, and I press the blade harder.

“Damn it!” Kerr spits, his voice cracking as the blade carves a shallow trench into his side. His body jerks violently against the restraints, veins bulging along his neck, muscles straining in a futile attempt to escape. The sharp scent of blood fills the air, mingling with sweat and the coppery tang of fear.

He thrashes, his chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow gasps. The scalpel drags another deliberate line across his ribs, and a guttural sound tears from his throat, raw, feral, like a wounded animal realizing it won’t survive the snare.

“Stop! Please, stop!” he sobs.

I tilt my head, watching him with the same cold curiosity he once used on me.

“You’re not leading the sacrifice this time around, Kerr.”

His eyes, bloodshot and wild, search my face for mercy. He finds none.

“They’re on to you, Lydia,” he pants. “The Covenant… I’ve heard things. They’re watching.”

Sweat pours from his skin, stinging his eyes as he winces and squeezes them shut. He’s trembling like a preacher before the flood. Blood seeps from the newest wound, running in crooked lines down his torso, soaking into the chair beneath him. He convulses as another tremor wracks his body, the metal restraints groaning under the tension.

Liar. Manipulator to the bitter end.

“You think I’m still that little girl?” I ask, my voice low, steady. “You think you can twist the truth and I’ll crumble? I’ve spoken with the devil, Kerr. He’s already etched your name into the walls of hell.”

He cries out, a strangled wail tearing loose from his chest. The sound startles the pigs into a frenzy, snorting, pacing, ramming the sides of the pen as if they can smell what’s coming. Maybe they can. Maybe they know fresh meat when they hear it scream.

“Please…” he gasps. “You don’t understand… There’s a plan. Bigger than you. Bigger than me.”

I step closer, letting my shadow fall across his twisted face. “Tell me,” I whisper. “Tell me something I don’t know. But know this, there’s nothing you can say that saves you.”

“You were marked,” he croaks, eyes rolling back briefly before focusing on me again. “From the day you were born. Your blood… it was always meant for more.”

I pause, just for a second. Long enough for him to see that he’s touched a nerve.

“You don’t know anything,” I snarl, slicing the blade across his collarbone. This time, I press harder. Blood spurts in a jagged arc, thick and bright and alive.

“Deliverance requires sacrifice,” he hisses through clenched teeth.

“Shut up!” I scream.

His body jolts again, the pain too much for his weakening frame. His head drops, chin slick with spit, sweat and blood.

“Lydia, please,” he rasps.

I seize his face, gripping his jaw with one gloved hand, forcing his head up until we’re nose to nose. “That’s what I used to say. Please. Stop. You didn’t listen then. Why should I?”

I release him with a shove, his head snapping to the side. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth, but I don’t care. I reach for a pair of gloves with fine spikes along the palm and fingers. I found them on a pet website. They’re meant for de-shedding, but I have other plans for them. Once the gloves are snug, I reach for the pruning shears. The same ones my mother used to trim her roses. The irony makes me smile. The shears feel familiar in my hand, comforting, like a relic passed down for a more righteous use. I hold them up, the steel blades catching the dim light and casting fractured shadows across his face.

“You always loved the sound of your own voice,” I murmur.