Page 218 of Sins of the Hidden

The world exploded into an agony so complete, so total, that my consciousness shattered like glass. Pain beyond description, beyond human comprehension, consumed every nerve ending in my body. It wasn't just in my finger—it radiated up my arm, across my chest, down my spine, setting fire to every cell. My entire being became nothing but screaming nerve endings and the wet sound of metal chopping through bone.

I felt everything. The blade biting through skin, slicing tendons like rubber bands snapping. The way it caught on bone for just an instant before Father Sal leaned his weight into it, forcing it through. The wet crunch as it severed the joint. The hot splash across my arm, my face, the table.

The scream shredded my vocal cords. It went on and on until my lungs were empty, until my throat was shredded, until there was nothing left inside me.

My wedding ring glinted on the severed finger on the floor, mocking me.

"The ring is ours again," the pastor said, scooping up my severed finger like a trophy. Dark liquid dripped from the ragged end, pattering on the floor in a rhythm that matched my dying heartbeat.

I watched through tears and shock as he held up my detached finger. My mind woozy, trying to protect me from the pain that was making my vision blur.

Daphne's face loomed over mine, her eyes bright with vindictive satisfaction. She gripped my chin, forcing me to meet her gaze. Her thumb pressed into where the stitches had torn free, grinding salt into every laceration.

I collapsed, clutching my mutilated hand to my chest. Liquid pulsed from the ragged stump in sickening waves, soaking through my clothes and pooling beneath me. The room spun wildly, faces blurring as darkness crept in from the edges of my vision. I was bleeding out, dying by degrees, and they were going to let me.

"Go to the outer banks and place this in the empty cabin," I heard him say, handing over my severed finger—our ring still on it—as casually as if passing communion wine.

The last thing I saw before losing consciousness was Callista's face, her eyes overflowing with tears.

Iwoke to white-hot agony and the sound of my own screaming echoing off rotting walls. The pain hit before consciousness fully returned, dragging me back to a world I didn't want to inhabit anymore.

Callista recoiled from me, apologies tumbling from her lips like broken prayers. "I-I'm s-sorry." Her delicate hands trembled as she clutched a roll of bandages, those otherworldly features etched with exhaustion. Dark circles shadowed her sockets—she'd been tending to me through whatever hell the last day had been, probably terrified the entire time.

"W-What are you doing?" My voice was destroyed, throat raw from screaming, but the words came out clearly. I touched my lips in surprise—the torn stitches were gone. The wounds were tender and swollen, but I could speak without the blue thread pulling at my flesh.

"I w-wish for your wounds to not get infected."

"My mouth..." I began, running my tongue over the raw flesh where the stitches had been.

"I r-removed the threads while you were unconscious," Callista whispered, her ethereal face creased with worry. "They were t-torn and dirty. I was afraid they would make you sick."

I was numb everywhere except where my finger used to be. That burned like I was being butchered, like the cleaver was falling in an endless loop of agony. I tried to sit up, but dizziness slammed me back down.

"You lost s-so much b-blood," Callista murmured, carefully wrapping clean bandages around the stump. Her touch was impossibly gentle, but even the softest pressure sent lightning up my arm. "They... they l-left you here. They said God would d-decide if you lived or died."

"How long was I out?" I asked, though I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

"A f-few hours." Her voice broke on the words, those ethereal features crumpling with guilt.

I couldn't answer. Couldn't move. My eyes fixed on a knot in the wooden wall, my entire being reduced to that single point of focus while my world crumbled around the edges. Everyheartbeat sent fresh agony through the raw stump, reminding me with each pulse that I was broken now. Incomplete.

"I m-must clean you or your wounds will become infected." She dabbed at the raw flesh with hands that shook like autumn leaves. I couldn't wrap my head around what just happened.

They cut my finger off.

"T-There is more to the o-other women leaving." Callista's whisper filled the hollow space like a confession, her platinum hair catching what little light filtered through the dirty windows.

She glanced at the door. When satisfied we were alone, she leaned closer, her ethereal features drawn with old pain. "M-Marilyn was brought here to teach us s-submission. To make us... obedient." Her voice dropped to barely a breath, as if the walls might be listening. "But instead of teaching us to s-submit, she taught us how to fight. How to h-hurt them back. She showed us their weaknesses, where to strike to make them b-bleed." For the first time, something like admiration flickered in those sapphire eyes before fading back to sorrow. "The women listened. They l-learned. And when the time came, they attacked and killed many of them. Most of the women escaped that night, but I..." Her voice broke, and she looked down at her frail, skeletal hands. "I was too w-weak. Too sickly. I could not fight like the others could. I was too frightened to run. And I alone was l-left here."

Marilyn. The name stirred something in my foggy mind, but I couldn't remember where I heard it from.

"You're going to get out of here," I said with sudden, fierce conviction. The words scraped my destroyed throat raw, but I forced them out anyway. "Even if I don't make it, you will."

"Oakley—"

"Listen to me." I grabbed her trembling hand with my good one, squeezing until she met my eyes. "My husband, my dad, their brothers—they're coming. I know they are. When they gethere, when this place burns, I want you to run. I want you to live."

Tears spilled down her cheeks. "You c-cannot ask me to leave you?—"

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