Read Edge of Seventeen for Free Online Page B
Authors: Cristy Rey
alone.
There were others outside. Sunday could feel them eager to enter
her dungeon. They were hungry for her. Rabid, even.
“You are going to experience pain, child,”
Bernadette continued sternly. Sunday could imagine the woman’s
furrowed eyebrows and narrowed eyes set on her looking down her
nose.
“Your body will be assaulted as will your
spirit. You will be reshaped and molded, inside and out. You will
be cleansed of your ill, and you will be born again, pure and
supple. Here, our coven gathers to fashion your rebirth from human
child into something wholly new. You are the Incarnate, dear child,
and that wondrous gift comes at a cost.”
Maggie had explained rape to her once. You
know, because that’s what parents do. They warn their sons and
daughters about the wrong kinds of touching and the shame that
arises even if it wasn’t one’s fault. Sister Margaret did what she
could after Sunday’s mom couldn’t any longer. This wasn’t exactly
rape yet, but that’s what Sunday feared most: the ‘yet’ part. In
her limited experience, Sunday could think of no other reason why
she was in the position she was in if not for that horrible
end.
Pulsing just a hair beyond the walls of it
were those desperate auras. They were excited that Sunday was here.
Theirs were the bated breaths of wanting.
Right now, Sunday wished she follow Sister
Margaret instructions: poke him in the eyes, scream your head off,
and run . So much for good advice when you’re naked and bound
to a cement block. For a second, Sunday wished she’d followed that
advice the second Angel had approached her. She’d known what was in
store then, except perhaps not the details of what was to come.
Sister Margaret had been less forthcoming in
what she envisioned of Sunday’s destiny. The nuns who cared for her
after her mother’s passing were kind and generous. But they had
their secrets too. What little they told her clicked together in
Sunday’s mind as Bernadette lay out what she planned for her.
“You’ll be hunted, you know. You’ll be feared
by some and envied by others,” Maggie had told her.
It was the most candor with which Maggie had
ever answered any of Sunday’s questions and, of course , it
was one of the last things Maggie said to her. When Maggie told her
that it would happen soon, her certainty flowed through Sunday.
Sunday knew it would because Maggie believed it, and the nun
was never wrong. Maggie grinned wanly as she wished she could be
there to help, but that Fate deemed that she couldn’t. Sunday would
brave the suffering alone. That’s just how it had to be.
“When the time comes, you must remember all
your training. You must remember all your lessons and all the
strength you’ve developed over the years,” Maggie imparted.
The training Sister Margaret referred to was
pretty much all Sunday had ever known in her life. Since she was
six years-old, Maggie and the sisters had set about the task of
teaching Sunday to hone her talents, talents that had always hinted
just below the surface, but became evident and strong with
practice.
“You train yourself to minimize the
perceptions because it is the only way that you can retain your
sanity, but you must learn, above all else, to keep out those
others that would want to control you from within. You are as
powerful as you allow yourself to be. Your sensitivity is both your
strength and your weakness.”
Those words were etched into Sunday’s brain,
carved there by repetition. By whatever gifts the nuns had known,
they had expected that something would happen to her one day, and
they needed to prepare her for the unfortunate event.
Life, however, proved to be the greatest
practice session of all. Held captive by some nut-job sorceress,
Sunday learned that Maggie was right about Fate’s designs for her.
Worse, she learned that she was alone. Being alone meant
that all of the stuff that welled up inside of her could overpower
her, and she wouldn’t know how to
There were others outside. Sunday could feel them eager to enter
her dungeon. They were hungry for her. Rabid, even.
“You are going to experience pain, child,”
Bernadette continued sternly. Sunday could imagine the woman’s
furrowed eyebrows and narrowed eyes set on her looking down her
nose.
“Your body will be assaulted as will your
spirit. You will be reshaped and molded, inside and out. You will
be cleansed of your ill, and you will be born again, pure and
supple. Here, our coven gathers to fashion your rebirth from human
child into something wholly new. You are the Incarnate, dear child,
and that wondrous gift comes at a cost.”
Maggie had explained rape to her once. You
know, because that’s what parents do. They warn their sons and
daughters about the wrong kinds of touching and the shame that
arises even if it wasn’t one’s fault. Sister Margaret did what she
could after Sunday’s mom couldn’t any longer. This wasn’t exactly
rape yet, but that’s what Sunday feared most: the ‘yet’ part. In
her limited experience, Sunday could think of no other reason why
she was in the position she was in if not for that horrible
end.
Pulsing just a hair beyond the walls of it
were those desperate auras. They were excited that Sunday was here.
Theirs were the bated breaths of wanting.
Right now, Sunday wished she follow Sister
Margaret instructions: poke him in the eyes, scream your head off,
and run . So much for good advice when you’re naked and bound
to a cement block. For a second, Sunday wished she’d followed that
advice the second Angel had approached her. She’d known what was in
store then, except perhaps not the details of what was to come.
Sister Margaret had been less forthcoming in
what she envisioned of Sunday’s destiny. The nuns who cared for her
after her mother’s passing were kind and generous. But they had
their secrets too. What little they told her clicked together in
Sunday’s mind as Bernadette lay out what she planned for her.
“You’ll be hunted, you know. You’ll be feared
by some and envied by others,” Maggie had told her.
It was the most candor with which Maggie had
ever answered any of Sunday’s questions and, of course , it
was one of the last things Maggie said to her. When Maggie told her
that it would happen soon, her certainty flowed through Sunday.
Sunday knew it would because Maggie believed it, and the nun
was never wrong. Maggie grinned wanly as she wished she could be
there to help, but that Fate deemed that she couldn’t. Sunday would
brave the suffering alone. That’s just how it had to be.
“When the time comes, you must remember all
your training. You must remember all your lessons and all the
strength you’ve developed over the years,” Maggie imparted.
The training Sister Margaret referred to was
pretty much all Sunday had ever known in her life. Since she was
six years-old, Maggie and the sisters had set about the task of
teaching Sunday to hone her talents, talents that had always hinted
just below the surface, but became evident and strong with
practice.
“You train yourself to minimize the
perceptions because it is the only way that you can retain your
sanity, but you must learn, above all else, to keep out those
others that would want to control you from within. You are as
powerful as you allow yourself to be. Your sensitivity is both your
strength and your weakness.”
Those words were etched into Sunday’s brain,
carved there by repetition. By whatever gifts the nuns had known,
they had expected that something would happen to her one day, and
they needed to prepare her for the unfortunate event.
Life, however, proved to be the greatest
practice session of all. Held captive by some nut-job sorceress,
Sunday learned that Maggie was right about Fate’s designs for her.
Worse, she learned that she was alone. Being alone meant
that all of the stuff that welled up inside of her could overpower
her, and she wouldn’t know how to