Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 132321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
My real mother’s long gone. The harem of women my father replaced her with don’t care what happens to me. My two older brothers left here as soon as they could, never bothering to return or check on me, even though they know what kind of damage our father likes to inflict. They don’t even know how much worse it’s gotten. How many more disciples my father’s collected and has living on our family farm. How they spend every Sunday in the barn that’s been converted into a “church” raging about sin and hellfire. How my father keeps threatening to take me out of school to save me from being “corrupted.” Not that I love school, but at least it’s something normal and gets me away from here for a few hours a day.
Logan’s Aunt Em and Uncle Boone had always been nice to me. Could I call them? Would they let me stay with them if I confessed the true depths of my father’s cruelty? Could I bare my scars to save myself?
One thing’s becoming clearer and clearer with each “punishment” I receive.
If I stay, I’m going to die.
My neck aches and I rest my cheek against the cool stone floor again. After a few minutes of jumbled thoughts, I fall into another nightmarish sleep full of flaming demons.
A creak splits the air, bringing me back into my throbbing body.
The heavy door scrapes against the rough floor.
A faint beam of light stabs through my endless darkness.
My body stills. Breath catches in my lungs. Is he back? Will he kill me this time?
“Jensen?” a little voice calls out.
Jezebel—Jezzie, my baby sister.
No.
She can’t see me like this. I don’t want to be the cause of her nightmares. She’s already patched me up in the past—something a kid her age shouldn’t even know how to do.
I squint into the light and crane my neck, trying to see her. See if anyone’s with her.
The door opens wider.
Jezzie’s tiny shadow appears against the faint light of the basement. She’s hope, comfort, and guilt in a long, pink flannel nightgown that sweeps over the tops of her bare feet.
“Go,” I croak.
My father saves the harsh, physical punishments for his sons. But he’s not above depriving her of food or some other twisted punishment just for checking on me.
“Jensen!” she whispers a little louder.
The door creaks closed. A few seconds later, a weak beam of light illuminates my cell.
“You’re going to get in trouble,” I mumble.
A soft white pillowcase stuffed with something other than a pillow lands in front of my face. Jezzie kneels next to me. A knife of shame that she has to see my body in this condition twists into my heart.
“I brought you something to eat,” she whispers. “And water.”
Another tear leaks from the corner of my eye. “Thank you.”
I flick my gaze up and find her staring at my back, silent tears rolling down her own pale cheeks. No words to comfort her come to mind and that crushes what’s left of my soul. I’m her big brother. I’m supposed to protect her and reassure her. Not traumatize her.
For Jezzie, I bite through the pain in my wrists and force myself to my knees. My lips pull into a wobbly smile that probably looks more psychotic than comforting. She lets out a soft sob and quickly digs through the pillowcase.
“Here.” She pulls out a wad of gauze, a bottle of antiseptic, and a tube of ointment.
I grit my teeth as she gently dabs at the wounds and carefully covers my back in the ointment. Finally, she lays strips of gauze over the worst parts. By the time she’s finished, she’s shaking.
“Why?” she sobs.
I don’t have an answer.
“Father said you have bitterness in your heart, but I know that’s not true.”
It might not have been true before the whippings started, but I’m bubbling over with bitterness now. I don’t waste what little energy I have correcting her, though.
My dry, cracked lips ache but I accept the mason jar of water when Jezzie pushes it into my hands. The tepid water slides down my throat, bringing little relief.
“Here.” She unwraps a white cloth napkin and hands me two thick, rough-cut slices of homemade bread. An uneven layer of butter sticks out between the slices. Probably all she could get away with taking from the kitchen without anyone noticing.
“Thank you.” I take a bite and chew slowly, savoring soft, squishy bread and the rich butter coating my tongue.
“It’s fresh. Momma Ruth gave it to me,” she whispers.
I lift an eyebrow, then wince as it pulls and stings.
“Jensen!” She gasps. “Your forehead.”
“Is it bad?”
Instead of answering, she bites her lip and pulls out the gauze, antiseptic, and ointment again.
“It’s okay, Jensen,” she coos in her high-pitched, babyish voice. “Every scar tells a story.”
“Ah, the tongue of the wise brings healing,” I whisper. I still my body as she cleans the cut over my eye.