Page 149 of Penance

Let them hate.

“We saved seats in the front,” Mr. Clarke says, addressing his daughter while glaring at me. “Next to Pastor Williams.”

He isn’t subtle.

Front row.

Visible to everyone.

It’s a challenge.

“We’ll sit near the back,” I counter, my voice pleasant but firm. I turn to her, my expression softening. “Closest to the bathroom, in case Mercy needs it.”

Mrs. Clarke’s mouth tightens into a line so thin that I’m not sure she has lips anymore.

“The back. Where no one can see you. To hide your shame?”

“She has nothing to be ashamed of,” I spit back. “Do you?”

The question hangs between us. Mercy’s hand goes slack in mine, and I know without looking that fresh tears are welling in her eyes. Her father’s face flushes deep red, blood vessels standing out along his temples.

He wants to hit me.

He wants to fucking hit me.

I’ve asked the perfect question, after all.

Are they ashamed of their grandchild?

The bible states that all children are born innocent, so what do they have to be ashamed of? It’s a walking contradiction, and I know it pins them right where I want them.

He steps towards me, and I plant my feet.

Come on, hit me.

I’ll put you in the fucking hospital.

“Robert,” Mrs. Clarke says sharply, grabbing her husband’s arm. “Not here. Not now.”

He backs down, but the rage doesn’t leave his eyes.

“We should go inside,” Mrs. Clarke continues, her gaze finally sweeping over me with clinical detachment. She’s disgusted. Good. “Service starts in ten minutes.”

She turns without waiting for a response and walks through the doors, her spine straight as a ruler. Mr. Clarke follows, his shoulders rigid beneath his Sunday suit. Once they’re out of earshot, Mercy turns to me, her expression naked with hurt.

Her parents have shunned her, disowned her.

She has no one.

She wants to run, but she has nowhere to go.

I guide her forward again, up the steps toward the church entrance. The rain is letting up slightly, transitioning from a downpour to a steady drizzle. Other churchgoers hurry past, some with umbrellas, others with Bibles held over their heads as makeshift shields. They cast curious glances our way, these good Christians who’ve heard the whispers, the rumors, the speculation.

How many of them know?

Who has her mother told?

Mercy shrinks under their scrutiny, her shoulders hunching forward as if she could disappear into herself. I, on the other hand, stand taller, meeting their stares and holding them until they fold and look away.

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