I am back; truly sorry for the long wait.
Dedicate to Marion, for without you, this story would not exist.
I stood in the doorway, dumbfounded and out of breath. I didn't know how I was supposed to reply to my father's harsh tone. He never did that to me before.
He stepped closer, and suddenly, I was more fearful. I felt like he knew everything. I felt like he knew about the bible, and he knew about my reading, and he knew where I was. But he didn't bring it up or say anything.
"I apologize, father." I spoke in a clear, confident voice, surprised it hadn't broken at the sight of my father. He was in his work slacks, leaning over my height which only made him more intimidating. His nostrils were flared in anger at me. I didn't realize it was a quarter past the curfew hour.
He seemed to have studied me for a moment, just a moment, as if he was some sort of lie detector. I know for a fact if he thought anything suspicious, he would have brought it up by now. My father was not one to hold anything back from us.
He straightens his posture, and hooks his fingers pressed to my forearm and my elbow, right where my pressure point is. "You are forgiven, but you are to go to bed fifteen minutes earlier to make up for lost time."
I nod my head, inwardly breathing out a sigh of relief. My father's leads me to my room in silence, opening the door for me. When he leaves, he shuts the door at an alarming pace, that wasn't a slam, but still caught me off guard.
My instincts kick in and I want to pick up the book I have stashed toward the middle of my mattress. No one can even feel it as it is buried under the soft cushion.
I glance over to the exact spot on my mattress where just underneath that cushion, my bible lay open ready for me to continue reading it. My father comes in without knocking, and sees me staring at the bed. I jump back, springing off my bed. "What are you looking at?"
"Nothing father," I say.
He doesn't seem to buy it. His face comforts into a mask of anger that makes me feel uneasy and my stomach churns. "What are you hiding?"
I am becoming desperate inside. My whole body feels like it's going to break down. "Nothing father," I say, lying again, but I have to do better.
"I am sorry, for I have been distracted recently and staring off into space. I just need to get my head together."
My father seems to buy it, his nostrils have stopped flaring and his eyes seem calmer and less harsh in their gaze toward me, and I can finally visibly relax my shoulders.
"I'm sorry," he says, after a few long periods of silence. "I know that you would never do anything to disappoint me or your mother."
I feel my stomach churn again, and I feel sick, like I may throw up bile right then and there. I have to force it back down my throat just to avoid spilling everything like my guts would pour out.
"You're right," I say, and my guilt conscious kicks in again.
The truth is I've broken more rules in the last few months than I ever thought I would. I see what happens to rule breakers all the time. They are dismissed to never be seen again. There are rumors of the outsiders keepers, people that hold others outside of the community for slave purposes. That's where people who disrupt the community values go.
I don't want to be sent away. I don't want my father with his eyes so heavy and dark to watch his oldest and most perfect role model of society to be shipped off outside the gates, to never be heard from again.
My father doesn't say anything else, but he closes the door behind me and I sink to my knees by my bedside.
My mother taught me how to do this. You kneel, bow your head, and press your hands flat against each other vertically and fold your fingers in-between each other. They told me it was called praying, and that's why we pray to our ancestors.
But this time, I am not praying to my ancestors. I was too young to know what that really meant, and I will not worship any other idol for as long as I live. I follow my mother's instructions as the words form tumbling from my mouth. I pray for my strength, for my father's for my mother; for my best friend who is so out of place, and for Alexander without a place. I pray for the safety of us all and that we can all be alright someday.
But in the end this time, I don't thank my ancestors. I thank God.
Something about that feels a little more right.
Carefully, I shut my door all the way, but not before peeking out. My father sits at the table reading the article about today's felonies. My mother stands at the stove holding the wooden pot she had carved out a long time ago, since our glass pot shattered last week.
I don't want to lock my door. It's a sign of rebellion, and I don't even know why we have locks on our doors. No one else does. My mother insists if we have nothing to hide, then we don't need to lock our doors.
I don't lock it, but I place my swiveling desk chair in front of the door just in case someone tries to open it. My father wouldn't come into my room again without knocking, so if the doorknob turns I know it will be him. I reach my hand under my mattress and quickly pull the Bible out from underneath it.
By the time my mother calls for dinner, I am halfway through another chapter of Genesis. I hear footsteps coming toward my room, and I don't have time to shove the book back under my mattress, so I do the next best thing. I move the desk chair quickly and I leap onto the bed, shoving the Bible under my pillow.
My father would never react well if he found out that his perfect role model was breaking the rules, reading the bible in a community that is supposed to be free of differences. It's the highest offense.
I shove my hand under my pillow and roll my body over to the side, facing my dresser, just as it looks like I could be sleeping. The door opens, and I feel someone's lightweight sitting on the edge of my bed. I open my eyes, pretending to be groggy, but when I notice it's my mother and not my father, she smiles and closes the door.
She reaches her hand out for my book, which I am unhesitant to give to her. She helps me lift my mattress, and she places it back under, before we carefully lower it back down.
I sit on the edge of the bed with her, and she pulls me into her arms, wrapping one around my waist and using one to stroke my hair. "My beautiful Elena, I am so proud of you," she whispers.
I raise an eyebrow at her, and she raises hers too, mimicking me. "For what, mother," I make sure my father is not outside the door, and I lean over to almost whisper to her, continuing, "We've both done things."
She nods her head, "Yes, but that's not why I'm proud of you. I'm proud of you because you are not afraid to stand up for yourself."
I shake my head at her, tensing up. "I am mother. I'm afraid of what father would say if he found out what I was up to half the time."
My mother sighs, stroking my hair. "Your father needs prayer, my darling. Come, let us pray together. Dinner won't be done for another ten or so minutes."
My mother and I join hands, bowing out heads in sync. My mother leads the prayer, praying for the help for my father to understand his word, and to pray for his strength to control himself when times get rough.
I feel slightly better after praying with my mother, being able to believe that God will help us through anything.
My mother smiles at me gently again, ""Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you."
I smile at my mother. I never heard her speak words from the Bible, but it was as if God put the words into her mouth.
By the time it was time for dinner, my father was anxious and was oddly quiet. He refused to glance my way very often unless it was to ask for me to pass something to him for dinner. My mother tried asking him about his day, but he didn't reply more than a few simple words.
As much as I don't want to believe it is my fault, my father is always oddly suspicious of my behavior. As a young child, he told my mother that I was different, something my mother complied with, saying she had known that since I was born.
I excused myself to do some home-school work, and my father agreed to it, and I was oddly surprised enough he even spoke to me.
"Yes Elena," he said. "You have much to do; much to spend your time on than nonsense!"
"Lincoln!" My mother snapped her voice harsh as she smacked a dish towel on the counter. "Do not be so hard on your daughter like that!"
My father's fact comforts again, but this time, I don't think he can ever take back what he says. "She's too suspicious! She cannot be a role model anymore!"
"Enough!" My voice yells, snapping both of them from their argument. My sister had run out of the room during the altercation just before it began, and I can hear her silently crying. "I'm going to go check on Rudy."
Rudy is lying in her bed, softly whimpering into her hands. She doesn't know any better, and she doesn't know whether or not to argue back with her father or mother, and Rudy is not one to take sides at such a young age. She does not know any better. "Rudy..." I cautiously knock on her door, and she lifts her head enough.
"Come in," I hear her little voice say, granting me access into her room. It had been such a long time since I even went into my little sister's room. She has bland walls, just like everyone else in the house, but she had a little pink flower that was painted on her wall, just behind her bed frame. I put it there as we were re-decorating my old room just before she was born.
"Rudy," I close her door all but a crack, just in case my mother wants to come in later on. I sit on the edge of the bed and she practically crawls into my arms for comfort. Its times like these I know that Rudy could use a big sister.
Rudy and I don't talk, but her sobs begin to calm down. She usually likes to run away from her problems, especially as a young child when she doesn't have to face them yet. But when she's my age, she'll have to face her problems someway, maybe not in the way she would want, and maybe she will grow up to be rebellious like me, or headstrong like our mother, and maybe even dedicated like our father.
"Rudy," I say. "I love you."
She smiles at me through her now dried tears, and she wraps her arms around my waist, so small and so strong, it reminds me that Rudy is growing up like I am, just like my mother says from time to time, that time is of the essence. We are only so young for so long.
"I love you too, sissy." It's the first time in a long time she hasn't called me Elena, and it feels different. It's a good type of different. It just goes to show I am not just Elena to her; I am her sister as well.
I am a hundred percent sure of one thing overall: My mother and my sister are two people I know I truly love, and they have been there for me all along.