The Maiden (The Cloister Trilogy 1)

The Prophet finally moves on to follow the teleprompter, smoothly picking up where he left off. The crowd falls right into step with him, never sensing that the walls are building up around them. They’ll be closed in, buried alive, and beholden to the Prophet for their next mouthful of food or breath of air.

Delilah studies the floor once again, head down in what looks from most angles like reverence. Even though I can sense her mind is racing, replaying my father’s words. Maybe she’s impervious to his spell, but it doesn’t matter. She’s still just another lamb to the slaughter, and I’m the one who’ll wield the blade.

Chapter 27

Delilah

It’s TV Tuesday, and the Maidens spread out in the ratty recliners and couches as the screen flickers to life. Abigail keeps her muttering to a minimum this time, seeming to have gotten the hang of how it all works.

I glance at Sharon’s empty chair, and foreboding falls over me like a shroud. Where did they take her? My stomach turns as I imagine the sort of tortures they might visit on her for her rebellion. I wonder if Georgia was like Sharon—brave, ready to fight for her freedom. Or was she docile, accepting of the constant shit shoveled by the Spinners and the Prophet. Who was her Protector? Adam’s face flashes through my mind, but I push it away. Whether he was or wasn’t doesn’t matter. What matters is who took her life. But progress on that front is slim. I have even more questions than I did when I walked into this mindfuck.

The light blinks, pulling me from my thoughts. A younger Prophet appears on screen, his posture relaxed as he sits on a brown leather couch. He smiles and gives off a Mr. Rogers vibe as he invites us to “sit and have a talk” with him about life at the Cloister.

“Now I know some of you may be having doubts.”

Sarah snorts.

“But I’m here to assure you that everything is going according to God’s plan. The things you are learning from the Spinners and your Protectors are the guideposts that will lead you through your life as a lamb of God. You are the future, the purest hopes that Heavenly Ministries has for a bountiful life on earth as well as in heaven…”

I tune him out, my mind once again floating to his son. Adam hasn’t been back to my room. Two nights have passed with me waiting on the bed, wondering which one of him will come through the door—the tormentor or the lover. And when he didn’t show up, I hated the disappointment I felt. To assuage the self-loathing, I tell myself that it’s natural I take comfort in him. He’s the only one that’s truly allowed to get close to me, so it makes sense that I want him. But, of course, this is just another part of the mindfuck that is the Cloister. The conditions force you to cling to your abuser, because there is no one else. I’ve only been here a little more than a week, and my mind is already a swamp of regret and confusion.

My attention fades even further as Chastity walks into the room and whispers into Abigail’s ear. I need to get alone with her again, to question her, to find out if she was talking about Georgia. She had to be. Abigail nods along with whatever Chastity is telling her, then both women walk out together.

Once the door clicks, Sarah hops up and walks to the front of the room, her face lit by the projector light. “Enough of this propaganda bullshit.” She waves at the board behind her. “We need to discuss what we’re going to do about this hell we’re in.”

“We are where we’re meant to be.” Mary’s gentle voice overlays with the Prophet’s.

“Okay, Mary’s a goner. I knew that from the second she pissed on me.”

Susannah claps her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.

Sarah’s tone hardens. “And I know right this second, in your little faith-addled brain, you’re thinking about telling on me. But, darling Mary, if you do, I promise I’ll do much worse to you than a golden shower.”

Mary fidgets in her seat, but says nothing.

Sarah moves to the side, the Prophet’s crotch superimposed on her face. “We didn’t sign up for this. None of us. Not even Mary over there. We’re being abused, raped, and broken so the Prophet can sell us off to the highest bidder or worse.” She runs a hand through her dark hair. “I don’t know what the worse is just yet, but I’m assuming that going home with some rich prick is like, the grand prize. The opposite end of that, well, I can’t imagine.”

I know where we go. The Chapel. But I’m not about to stop Sarah’s forward momentum.