Unnatural Instinct Series: Alone
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G. M. Marks
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31
Corruption
Book 2: Alone
YOU
“She’s useless! She’s too old, and she’s useless!”
Your heart is thudding as you listen to your father rage through your bedroom door. Your back is pressed up against the wall, as though you can push your way through it and get away.
Escape.
To freedom.
Your mother says something. You strain to hear, but her voice is barely more than a murmur. As usual, she has no power against your father.
“It doesn’t matter if she likes him or not,” he snarls back. “He is the only suitor who wants her. She doesn’t have the right to refuse.”
You hold your breath as your father’s footsteps thud heavily down the hallway. The whole house seems to shake with their fury.
He stops before your door and calls your name.
You don’t answer.
He twists the handle. “Open the door. Open the Goddamn door, girl, or I’ll break it down!”
With a shuddering breath, you obey. You’re sweating and shaking so hard you have to use both your hands to turn the handle.
Your father is a big man, and he towers over you.
“What is the meaning of this?” he hisses, eyes aflame.
You back away as he storms inside. Behind him, your mother stands upon the threshold, hunched over, hair shielding her tears and the bruise on her face.
She’s gripping the doorframe with her long, slim fingers.
You can’t speak as your legs bump up against the edge of your bed, and you sit down.
“You’re lucky he wants you at all, you little slut.”
The words burst out of you. “I’m not a slut!”
His slap knocks you backward. The blood rushes to your cheek. Your ears thud with the sound of your racing heart.
For a moment, your vision turns black. When it returns, you’re lying shaken upon the bed, and he’s standing over you.
He sneers at you. “And a liar. You’re lucky he wants you at all. A little lying slut.”
Your tears run thick and fast. They sting your cheek. The sobs make you choke.
Your father has never been a pleasant man, but ever since your “purity” examination two years ago, he’s been a complete and utter monster.
You can’t explain why you failed. The minister shouldn’t have been able to get his fingers inside you the way he did. You remember the look on his face.
That shocked, disgusted look. It’s the same look your father is wearing now.
Ever since that moment, your whole world has turned upside down. What is the point of you? The whole village knows, and no man will take a corrupt woman as his wife.
No one—except Tate Rankin.
And that is no option at all. You’d rather be dead than have someone like him as a husband.
You would be dead. His two dead wives suggest as much.
“You will take his offer,” your father continues in a low voice, “or I’ll throw you out into the woods where the bears will have you instead. Understood?”
You glare up at him, your eyes burning hot, your chest aching with the furious pounding of your heart. You can’t answer.
Unable to say that one little word that means so much; that means the end of your life. He frowns. He raises his hand again.
“Yes,” you finally relent.
He lowers his hand slowly.
“Good,” he says. “I will inform him of my approval. You’d best make a good wife. He is the only chance you have.”
And he turns and stalks away, taking your mother’s arm as he leaves your room, throwing the door shut behind them.
You stare at the door a long time as the tears roll down your face.
Later that evening, you join your mother to make your family dinner. Your mother is quiet, a second bruise marking the left side of her jaw as she moves skillfully through the kitchen.
She is sad. She’s always sad. She touches your elbow and hand and lower back in a show of support.
No words are exchanged. She can’t. There’s not enough room left on her face.
As you sit down for dinner, the family is quiet. A clock is ticking on the wall.
An owl is hooting outside the window. There are the soft sounds of your mother, father, and younger brother slurping up their soup.
The tension is palpable. It’s always palpable.
Your brother knows nothing of what’s going on, but he can sense enough to keep quiet and stay out of it. Your father watches him proudly as they exchange a few words.
A pride he’s never expressed to you.
“Why are you not eating?” he suddenly snaps.
You shake yourself out of your gloom and quickly spoon in a mouthful. He watches you with a frown.
“The last thing I need is for Tate to accuse me of starving my own daughter.”
You keep your head down, finishing the bowl as he watches.
You don’t leave the table until everyone is done. Both you and your mother are quiet as you wash the dishes and stoke the fire and make sure the chickens are properly sheltered for the night.
Once that’s all done, your mother turns to the pile of clothes that need cleaning and mending while your father and brother sit by the fire, reading.
“I’m going to get more firewood,” you say, exiting through the front door.
Nobody acknowledges you. Nobody thanks you.
You steal a few moments of peace as you stand outside your family’s little house. The village is quiet.
A large full moon brightens the sky. It feels like the other homes are glaring at you, judging you with their dark windows as you pull your shawl around your shoulders.
Winter is coming fast. Your breath is a light mist as you step out onto the street, peering out into the distance where you can see the waving branches of the surrounding woods.
Sometimes you think a bear would be better. At least it’ll only eat you, not torture the life out of you.
Shaking your head, you turn back home.
Going around the back, you bundle up the firewood. By the time you return, your father and brother have already gone to bed, and the flames are low.
Your mother is still mending the pile of clothes in the dim gloom.
The flames hiss and dance as you stoke them back up. Then you stack in more firewood.
Your mother is quiet. You look over your shoulder, watching her for several long moments before she raises her eyes to yours.
She pauses in her mending. You open your mouth, wanting to say something, wanting to say so many things, but your thoughts aren’t cohesive.
Instead, you turn back to the fire, the tears building in your throat until they spill down your cheeks.
***
Your father moves fast—and so does Tate Rankin.
Your future husband is smiling his usual thin-lipped smile as he answers the door to you and your father. His graying, unbrushed hair is tied in a loose ponytail down his left shoulder.
The shoulder pads in his shirt have slipped, giving him a wonky appearance. There are sweat stains in his armpits.
“Welcome,” he says, pulling the door wide. “Come in.”
Your father takes your wrist and escorts you inside. You glance at Tate as you pass.
His dark eyes dart over your body, and you quickly look away with a lurch of revulsion. He gestures over toward the couch, and you sit.
Your father shakes his hand, smiling, clearly pleased. You shove your hands between your knees as you try to control your trembling.
The house is a mess, stuff everywhere. Dust coats the window ledges.
There are food scraps on the floor. A cockroach scuttles over a clump of hard bread. No wife means no one to care for his household.
There are broken windows too, and it’s colder than it should be. The two men talk with each other in the next room so you can’t hear.
Quite frankly, you don’t want to hear. They’re both smiling upon their return. A bad thing but expected.
You stand to attention politely, face lowered, hands held behind your back like any good woman ought to.
“She’s a little old,” Tate says as he circles you. “But she’s pretty and robust-looking.”
He grabs your arm, and it takes all your effort not to cringe.
“She’s a good cook, cleaner and washerwoman, and I know she’ll be a caring mother and a dutiful wife,” your father says, though his eyes dart to yours doubtfully.
Tate grabs your hip. “Nice and firm. Good. Should be easy to put a son in her.” He chuckles, then stops in front of you, folding his arms. “So, what do you say? Ready to be mine?”
It takes every ounce of will you have to lift your face and look into his dirty eyes. You try your best not to glare.
The urge to defy him swells to the surface. But it only takes one warning look from your father’s flashing eyes, and the urge instantly deflates.
I’ll throw you out into the woods where the bears will have you.
Looking down at your shoes, you nod.
“Excellent,” Tate says. “Then it’s done. We can wed before the week is out.”
***
It feels like the shortest week of your life. Of course. Isn’t that always the way?
God’s joke, perhaps. The further into the week you get, the more anxious and tearful you become.
On the day before your wedding, you stare into your mirror, fighting the urge to drag your nails down your face. Tate is the last person on Earth you want to look pretty for.
Why does God hate you so much? Why did He take your virginity away? Is it some kind of test?
Some kind of joke? He’s thrown you to the wolves and doesn’t care. If it weren’t for that, you could be living a fruitful life with one of the more eligible men.
You could have flirted with one of the nicer ones, maybe Tristan or Alex.
But are they nice? From what you’ve seen, no man is nice. No man is nice anywhere.
Your mother’s bruising is not unusual. And a father’s contempt for his daughter is even less so.
You lick the tears from your lips.
***
The morning of your wedding is bright and sunny, as though in mockery. Birds are chirping, cows are mooing, your chickens are pecking happily at their feed as your mother assists with your veil.
She spent the week sewing it. It flares over your shoulders. It’s so fine and silken the sunlight filters through.
You try not to sound sad as you smooth it between your fingers. “Thank you, Mama.”
Your mother’s smile is strained as she coils her fingers through your hair to make your fringe bounce around your face. You are pretty, in a way you’ve never known before.
Scrubbed up and made up. Your eyes look so large and bright in your face.
Your lips are full and shining with gloss. Your dress is plain and off-white, suitable for your “condition.” It clings to your body in a nice way.
Your mother leans over to kiss you on the cheek. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
You grab her hand and squeeze it. She squeezes you back with trembling fingers.
There are so many things you want to say to her, and you know there are so many things she wants to say back. But there’s nothing you can say. Nothing that can fix this.
Your mother is dead inside, and you are dying.
The day is a whirlwind of people and noise and activities. Your brain seems to hardly register any of it.
You don’t really have friends. Not anymore. Not since the scandal.
Even now, you see people whispering to each other. The men smirk at Tate, who smirks back, and you know they’re sharing lewd secrets.
The women give you cold, polite pecks upon your cheeks.
He’s standing at the end of the aisle, hair brushed, fully suited and smiling, big hands folded in front of his lap. He actually looks fairly attractive.
There are dimples in his cheeks, and he seems genuine when he takes your trembling hand with a word of encouragement.
You feel numb. Your skin feels cold. Inside, you know only shock and confusion.
The minister speaks, and you hardly hear him, your mouth so dry you can’t stop licking your lips. You and Tate are still holding hands, and it feels terribly awkward.
He’s looking into your eyes, and you struggle to look back, your gaze constantly dropping to your shoes.
Finally, it’s done.
Tate swoops in for the kiss. You have no choice but to respond.
And so begins the end of your life.
