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“God is testing us.” His voice rings out across the church as he bashes his fist against the pew. “We must rise to meet him. Show him our devotion, and he will reward us for our faith.”
Despite his conviction, I hear the whispered murmurs around me.
“This is all her fault.”
“So long as she lives, we are doomed to be cursed forever.”
“She should just kill herself.”
It’s more of the same spiteful words I’ve heard my entire life. By now, my skin is so thick that not even a blade could penetrate it; yet, my heart still clenches at their venomous tone and hostile glares. I don’t know how I can prove any more than I already have that I am not the one doing this to them.
I glare daggers at the girl in the pew in front of me. The one who suggested I kill myself, but I don’t dare say anything. Not with my parents seated nearby and listening ears all around. Whatever I say would just be twisted and turned against me anyway, and I’d have to answer for my insolence later.
Not that asking for forgiveness ever makes a difference.
I pray. I read the Bible every day. I never swear or take the Lord’s name in vain. I obey my parents, and I listen to my preacher. I bleed for the Lord Almighty and chase away the Devil whenever he tries to sink his claws in.
And unlike the others my age, who go to The Cliff on Saturday nights to drink and party and partake in activities that should only occur between a husband and wife, then show up at church in their Sunday best and behave as though they are good, pious children, I stay at home and pray to God to banish the evil that resides within me.
And yet, none of it is enough.
I could sacrifice myself in the name of God, and it still wouldn’t be enough for these people. I’m a scapegoat for them—someone to put the blame on for their own transgressions. Angering God can’t ever be their fault if it’s always mine.
I’m first out the doors when the preacher dismisses us. Knowing my parents will want to mingle and chat with their friends, I head around the side of the church, away from prying eyes. Not because I’m doing anything I shouldn’t—although I’m sure that’s what everyone believes—but because I’m sick of the judging eyes and the spitting hatred.
I’ve never actually done anything to make these people hate me. In fact, I’ve gone out of my way to ingratiate myself with them. To prove that I’m not the source of their bad luck. But none of it matters. I could turn water into wine and part the Red Sea, and I’ll still be seen as nothing more than the Devil’s spawn.
Why? Because my hair is the color of Jesus’ blood as it dripped from his nailed hands on that cross. Because my eyes bleed from blue to brown, giving me an ethereal appearance which is a sure sign that the Devil has his claws in you.
Because some strange phenomenon occurred on the same day I was born, which was apparently Satan himself rejoicing in the birth of his child who is destined to walk the earth, convincing Christian men and women to give in to their basic urges.
Of course, it’s not possible that more than one baby was born on the same day as me, so obviously, the natural conclusion was that I am said Devil’s child. The Devil’s daughter, to be precise.
Stepping around the side of the church, I lean against the wall while tugging at the constricting neckline of my modest white dress. According to my parents, wearing white makes me appear innocent and pure, but really, it just makes my red hair and abnormal eyes stand out more.
The sound of footsteps crunching over gravel from the opposite end of the church draws my attention, and I frown as I watch a man approaching whom I vaguely recognize, although I have no idea where from.
Black biker boots lead to black, distressed jeans that hug the stranger’s muscular thighs. A black t-shirt stretches across a broad chest, showcasing large biceps and bronzed skin used to spending time outdoors beneath the sun.
Lifting my gaze to his face, the dark pits of his eyes immediately ensnare me. With a body built for sin, he’s got the face of an Angel—sharp jaw with a dark dusting of stubble, high cheekbones, a straight nose that leads to dark eyebrows with a silver bar pierced through his left one, and black ruffled hair that curls around the tops of his ears and sweeps across his forehead.
The entire picture stalls the air in my lungs. Everyone thinks I’m the spawn of Satan, but this man is the Devil himself. Everything from his black clothing to the cigarette dangling from his fingers to the harsh lines of his face screams danger. If someone was made to make church-going men and women sin, it’s him.
Without saying a word, he saunters up to me, turning so his back is resting against the church as he kicks one foot up, planting the sole of his boot against the wood.
Lost for words, I merely watch as he lifts the cigarette to his plump pink lips. His fingers are adorned with large silver rings as he pulls out a lighter, igniting the cigarette before he inhales. In a moment of weakness, I wonder what it would be like to feel those lips against mine, but the second I realize where my thoughts have gone, I flinch.
Forgive me, God, for my unsavory thoughts. I know not what I was thinking. I promise to punish myself accordingly and pray that I do not fall into the Devil's trap again.
“Are you new in town?” I ask in an attempt to stop my thoughts from wandering.
He peers down his nose at me, those bottomless pits seeming to burn through my flesh, peeling it back until he can see what hides beneath. I wonder if he sees the black tar where my soul should be?
“Something like that.”
His gravelly tone scrapes along my skin, eliciting a visceral reaction so potent that words aren’t sufficient enough to describe. It’s like nothing I’ve encountered before. Heat flares. My core clenches. My mouth dries, and my heart leaps. There isn’t a part of me that doesn’t respond to him in some way.
“Where’s good to hang out around here?”
