ALCYONE DELACROIX || d9 || fin

("You know better.")

There are rules. It is forbidden to mention them, to ask, to know—but neglect to follow them and there are consequences. One lash for the sin. Another as a reminder not to do it again. A third because I screamed as the whip curled over my back the first two times. These are the rules; I know them well.



("Can't you be more like your sisters?")

I've heard the priest say the same words for my entire life. Purity only lives inside the best of us; I am the worst of them all. Always wrong, never right—("You'll never be pure enough.")—but I've tried so hard.

I scrubbed the floor of the church until my knees bled and my hands blistered, but apparently I had washed away what was holy and so I got 3 lashes for every hour I spent on my little project. (Scrub church floor - 21 lashes). I dusted off the old church organ and taught myself to play it. But music which is not read from sheets is unrefined and likely the devil's work. (Play the organ - 12 lashes).

I tried kneeling before the priest, I tried to beg forgiveness, I tried to wash away the sins that had decided to encumber me.

(Kneel incorrectly - 3 lashes).
(Beg incorrectly - 3 lashes).
(Cleanse incorrectly - 3 lashes).

(One breath - 1 lash).

My sisters do not take nearly as harsh a punishment. But that is because they don't deserve it, not nearly as much as I do. They don't deserve it, I do. I do, I do, I do—like wedding vows over and over again, a promise of forever. I will take it all for them. Every lash, every beating, every stinging word. I will wipe every tear from their faces and kiss away the cuts and bruises.

They don't have to know how much it hurts to be here. They just have to know how much I love them.



("Quiet!")

They all 'shush!' me. Because you shouldn't ask questions. Because you can't talk about it. Because silence is golden. And when that didn't keep me from asking all the wrong, wrong, wrong—("You filthy heathen!")—questions and saying the wrong things, duct tape is silver, lashings are red, and closets are black.

I used to pound against the door and scream until my voice crackled and died, until my fists ached. Now I sit quietly and count until the door opens again. I've gotten as high as 51,127 before drifting into sleep, cradling a shoe and snuggling under a coat. (Bring home a pet cat - 1 day of darkness). Whimper, cry, or scream and the darkness would continue.

("Never question me again.")

Never again, never again, never, never, never. ("Hear me, girl?") I nod, nod, nod. Force back the tears, force back the screech, force away the fear. Just be quiet and it will all be alright. Just be quiet, hush, not even a whisper. Shut up, shut up, just shut up! The whip draws a line into my back—(CRACK!)—and I scream because I was certain there would be no more.

("Answer me!")

"But you said to be qu--"

(CRACK!)

("Yes or no—did you he--!?")

"YES!"

(CRACK!)

("Never interrupt me again.")

"Yes, sir."

(CRACK!)



("Don't you dare walk away from me!")

I know what's good for me. And if it means ignoring the rules and making my own—well then, so be it. I don't need the church. I don't even need a father. I don't need purity or saving or some other bullshit they like to preach. I just need me. Me and my sisters and my Mom and nothing more.

The church will call it betrayal, but I'll call it survival.


("One loaf of bread, one hand. That's the price that thieves pay, girl.")

I stole the bread for the homeless man down the street. But that was no matter to an angry baker. Someone, somehow, had to pay. And that someone was going to be me. I struggle against his grasp, but it's no use. He is too strong and I am too deserving of punishment.

He forces my hand into the coals, but I do not scream. I've learned by now to hold my tongue, to never let them see just how much it hurt. The edges of my vision go black, tears pool in the corners of my eyes. The smell of smoldering flesh finally sends me tottering. I fall to the floor, swooning but never screaming.

He rips me from the floor and tosses me back into the street with a final warning. ("Steal from me again and I'll take the other hand!") I gasp for air, I struggle to stand. (Stealing - 1 hand). Blood beads at the surface of my skin where it has not completely burned away. I finally let the tears fall from my eyes as I shove my hand into a nearby puddle; it hisssssssses at me—("Take the punishment!")—but I force myself to ignore it.

My young mind had been molded by the cult. They told me everything I did was wrong. They told me that I had sins piled so high I couldn't repent enough to ever have the burden lifted.

But I'm learning. There are new rules to live by. My own.



("That'll be more than you can afford.")

I sweep my scarred hand through my hair, the dark tendrils catching on the jagged flesh and twisted bones. I stare into an overpriced mirror; a pair of bloodshot green eyes glare right back at me. I should've known better than to come here. Black-marketers don't sell to girls who look like they have nothing but chapped lips and empty stomachs.

I reach into my bra, pulling free a ruby encrusted bracelet. I found it outside the mayors house. Must not have been too important. "Is this enough?" The lady looks at me through her lashes for a moment, no doubt reading over the long list of sins carved into my bones. She snatches the bracelet after only a second more of contemplation; she's no better than me really.

I walk by the mirror, ignoring the sneering demon that grins at me, satisfied with my actions. Wrong, wrong, wrong. It's all wrong and I know it. Not even the morals which were whipped into me can convince me to turn around and demand the jewelry back. Not even the missing ivory keys or the rotting wood deter me; this piano is mine and it is perfect.

I've already taught myself songs played only with the left hand. I'm going to play until my father hears it. I'm going to play until his ears bleed as the sound of the devil invades his soul and drags him to hell. Exactly where he belongs.



("It's a secret.")

I scoff at them. They think they are funny, toying with someone like me. I'm the enforcer, the sister that gets sent out when the big, bad boys and girls of the world don't pay up. They say it with a chuckle, repeating the words I've used time and time again—("It's a secret.")—to take a jab at me, my sisters. The Wolf Pack.

"Either you tell me where I can get the money," I say, pulling my revolver from the waistband of my skirt. I spin the cylinder, slap it into place, and point the barrel of the gun at his kneecap. "Or I make you tell me." I add a smile to the end of the demand. Because Ripred knows I will enjoy knocking these low-lives down a few pegs.



("Boys will be boys.")

And I'll be here to stop them.

I keep the thought to myself as I watch a Peacekeeper toss a hoodlum to his mother who begs for his benefit. ("Boys will be boys.")—what a piss poor excuse for hands that want too much, lips that spit venom, and eyes that promise pain.

I see my Dad in every single one of them. I see his curled lips, hear his boisterous laugh. I've got scars criss-crossing my back—X marks the spot!—to prove just how twisted their hearts are. Fuck being equal to men; I want to own them like they claim to own us.



("I'll kill you, Alcyone.")

I raise the revolver, point it at her skull.

"I can't let you kill me."

(Click.)

"I deserve it, I know."

(Click.)

"But I can't let you."

(BANG!)

I wipe droplets of blood from my cheek.

My eyes scan the alley around me.

No one sees, no one listens. Only I care.

Tears roll from my eyes, my voice cracks.

"I've got too much to live for."