“God is far greater than me, Flawed, but if you repent, I might relent. If you do not admit repentance, then I will lock you up here all night and no one will be able to find you. You will miss your curfew and your whole family can be seared for all I care.”
I bite my lip as the tears stream. I think of little Ewan, how scared he would be, how I have brought such danger to my family.
“And I mean it, Flawed.”
I know he does. He means every word. I feel like I’m back in the Branding Chamber again, with Judge Crevan shouting “Repent!” in my face. I refused to do it then, thinking that I was finished, that things couldn’t get worse. I couldn’t admit I was wrong, not then, but the rules changed and things got worse. They got a whole lot worse. I don’t have the energy anymore.
“Yes,” I cry out suddenly.
He whips the sackcloth from my head, and I’m grateful for the air but terrified by the look in his eye.
“You repent?” he asks.
I nod.
“Answer.” He raises his voice.
“Yes, I do.” I sniff.
“Say you’re sorry,” he says, pushing it.
“I’m sorry.”
“Say you were wrong,” he says quickly, and I can tell he is getting far more of an adrenaline kick out of this than the alcohol or whatever it was they were smoking.
“I was wrong.”
“Get down on your knees and beg me for forgiveness.”
I stall.
“Do it.”
I get down on my knees.
He stands behind me and finally removes the rope from my wrists. I immediately bring them to the front of my body and massage my wrists. They are cut, raw. I can’t look him in the eye.
“Say it,” he shouts.
“I don’t know what to—”
“Beg for my forgiveness. Hands together, in prayer, like you’re in a church. Do it.”
“Please,” I say, crying. “Please. I’m sorry, I was wrong. I repent. I just want to go home. I just need to get home.”
He smiles, as if satisfied, and throws my dress at me.
I fumble with my dress, finally relieved that it’s all over, wanting to hide my body from him as quickly as I can. He watches me from the open door. For someone who thinks I’m scum, he sure watches me long enough.
“By the way, Flawed, you have twenty minutes to curfew.”
He slams the door to the shed. The bolt slides across, and the keys rattle as he locks me inside.
FORTY-SIX
I HEAR NATASHA’S car drive away, and I look around the dark room lit up in one corner by the moonlight, searching for a way out.
“No,” I start to cry. For a moment, I give up. I completely give up. I huddle in the corner and cry. I am in a shed, on a mountain, who knows how far from my home. Even if I screamed, no one would hear me. But then I begin to think rationally. Natasha seemed to think I could be home in time, which means I’m near my home, and it clicks with me. We didn’t go far away at all. We drove uphill for some time. I am in a shed, surrounded by gardening tools. I know where I am. I’m in the community gardens on the summit minutes from my house. Although I know the gardens are closed at this hour and there will be nobody around to hear me, I try it out and scream anyway. I scream until my throat is raw and my voice is hoarse. I try everything, but from inside it sounds muffled. No one will hear me. I am not here.
I break down and freak out. I pull and push at the door, but it’s useless; it’s locked from the outside. I bang the wood with a spade, but it has no effect; I’m exhausted and don’t have the required strength.
There is a narrow window high up. I could squeeze out if lying flat, but to get up that high and get out at such an angle would be difficult. Then I would fall straight down on my head once out the other side. But it’s the only option I have. I have to work with it.
I take the spade and smash the glass. I clear the edges of broken glass as much as I can. I stack a toolbox, boxes of plants, and compost bags on top of one another to try to reach the window. I work out the logic, painfully aware that my time is running out. I pull myself up, line the window ledge with the sackcloth so as to protect my skin from the broken glass, and push my head out, thankful for the fresh air. That is enough to invigorate me. I can do this. I pull myself out, scraping my belly over the cloth, sucking in air, and hissing from the pain. I reach for the fencing to the left of the shed and hold on as I pull the rest of my body out through the flat window. I cling to the fencing for dear life, hands, fingers raw from grasping the wood. I dangle from the fence momentarily and then fall, feeling the sting in my feet on the pebbles. I sit on the ground for a minute to wait for the pain to go. I look around to get my bearings. I’m familiar with this hill. It is where I used to meet Art, not here by the gardens, but nearby. Despite my time being precious, I feel drawn to the spot where we always met. I will never in my life be able to be here at this time again, ever, and it is so close. And something, an instinct, is telling me to go there.