Page 16 of Bartholomew
Instead of a neutral focal point to ground me, I found the faces of the Elders of my church. The fathers of my friends. The face of my own father.
The sickening look of disgust pasted on each face took hold deep inside of me, no matter how hard I tried to not let it take root. But take root, it did. It took hold somewhere deep within my soul and would not shake loose.
I could feel the tears stinging beneath my eyelids, threatening to let loose the thing I held onto with such carefully measured care. My control.
“Hey,” his voice whispered above me, so lightly it was unlikely anyone heard him. I barely heard him over the thunderous cacophony of my heartbeat slamming through my veins.
My eyes found his, and I didn’t want to see the pain there within their depths, but I did. I tried to look anywhere else, anywhere but into those eyes of his. But it was no use.
“Hey,” he whispered again, and it drew me in to him. My pulse was so thick and heavy I was certain my heart would beat clear out of my chest and lay there in a messy heap between us, making this whole situation one million time worse.
“I’m sorry. And I’m here.” His eyes bored into mine, trying to tell me something, but it was of no use. At that moment, I felt his hand between my thighs. He guided himself — him — into my body and I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe.
Forward he pushed on, his member opening me to him, and it was nothing like my sisters had described. It was painful. It was raw. It was too much.
Thump, thump, thump went my heart, my pulse racing. It felt like my heart was going to beat right out of my chest. Shock and pain flooded my senses.
I gasped for breath.
Those tears that had prickled at the corners of my ears now flooded down my face towards my ears.
My hands fisted at my sides, trying to ground me to something as I was taken for God and men to see.
All the while, my husband lay above me, pumping into me as he mouthed the words, I’m sorry, over and over, his eyes still open and looking at me.
What was he sorry for? For marrying me? For being forced to commit this action with me? Instead of some other girl? Or was he perhaps just as sorry to have to endure this as I was?
It didn’t matter.
It all mattered.
Nothing mattered.
“Delilah.” My name tore from his lips in a hissed whisper. He tensed above me and then…
Then it was over. He stayed there above me, his eyes flitting over my face, though I could only partially see that through my tears and the fact that I refused to look at him. I could not look at him. Not right at this moment.
“Come, my boy! Let us celebrate!” Reverend Jacob cheered, leading the entire room in cheers of congratulations.
“To a happy union!”
“Blessed be the fruit of the Lord!”
“Praise God and may he make this union fruitful!”
Bartholomew pulled away from my body. I felt his hands at my waist, pulling my dress down as he moved.
The act was a kind one, allowing me some small measure of modesty amidst the chaotic actions that had just unfolded and been born witness to.
I sat up slowly, trying to calm my breathing as the Elders shuffled and filed out of the room as quickly and uninterestedly as they had come in.
Without meaning to, I caught my father’s eyes. I don’t know what I had expected to find there. Maybe something congratulatory. Maybe something resembling kindness or understanding.
Poorly executed expectations would only lead to poor emotions.
I knew that.
All I found in my father’s blue eyes was disgust and something akin to loathing. And then he was gone.
