Forbidden Fruit by Erica Spindler Page B

her teeth chattering. She tightened her arms around herself. “It wasn’t me, Mama. It was Danny. It was his idea. He made me do it. We were just playing.”
    Her mother advanced on her. “Like Eve, you can’t be trusted. She took the apple, she tasted. You have The Darkness, Glory.”
    Glory pressed herself farther back into the corner. “Please, Mama,” she said again, tears running down her face. “It wasn’t my fault, it was Danny’s. Please, Mama. You’re scaring me.”
    â€œI will cleanse you of The Darkness,” Hope said, her voice devoid of emotion, more terrifying for its absence. She yanked Glory to her feet, stripped her roughly, then dragged her to the tub and forced her into the steaming water.
    Glory screamed. Her mother held her down. “This is nothing compared to the burn of hell’s fire. Remember that, daughter.”
    Hope bent and rummaged in the basket beside the large, marble tub. She drew out a nailbrush. “I will cleanse you,” she said again. “If I have to, I will scrub the flesh from your bones. You will be clean, daughter.”
    The next minutes were a nightmare. Her mother raked the brush over her skin, scrubbing every inch and part of her, alternating between whispered prayer and shouted rage. Glory recognized biblical passages interspersed with words she had never heard before, creating disjointed, frightening thoughts she didn’t understand. Her mother spoke repeatedly of a bad seed and of sin, of darkness and light. She spoke of Glory’s birth, of The Beast and of a mission.
    Glory’s skin burned; her most tender places bled. She felt hot, then trembled with the cold. Numbness stole over her; with it her physical pain lessened. Her sobs became whimpers; her whimpers, silent shudders of despair.
    Finally, when Glory no longer had the strength to sit upright, her mother drew her from the tub. She dried Glory roughly, slipped a plain cotton gown over her head, then led her to the corner of her bedroom. She forced her onto her knees.
    â€œYou must see the evil of your ways.” She curved her fingers around Glory’s shoulder, gripping tightly. “You must see the evil and understand the folly of heeding its call.”
    Shuddering, Glory lifted her gaze to her mother’s face. It swam before her eyes.
    â€œThe Darkness will not have you, Glory Alexandra St. Germaine. Do you understand me? I will not allow it to have you.”
    Without another word, her mother left the bedroom, locking the door behind her.

11
    G lory had no idea how long she remained on her knees in the corner, frozen with shock and grief, frozen with fear that if she moved, her mother would come upon her and fly into another rage.
    Her skin burned as if on fire, every place and part of her body. The wooden floor bruised her knees. Her back ached; her head pounded.
    But her heart hurt more. Much more.
    Her father, not her mother, came for her. He didn’t speak, just scooped her into his arms and carried her to her bed. He sat on its edge and cradled her in his arms, murmuring sounds of love and comfort.
    Glory sank into him, too weak to do more. She longed to tell him she was sorry, that she hadn’t meant to be such a bad, wicked girl, but she couldn’t make her mouth form the words. Just as she couldn’t cry, though she felt like weeping. She had cried herself dry hours ago.
    The room grew dark. Still her father rocked her. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could block out the image of her mother’s face, twisted with rage, her eyes hot with something that had frightened Glory clear to her core.
    And later, much later, as she lay alone in her bedroom, dark save for the closet light her father had left burning for her, she wished she could block out the sound of angry voices. Her mother’s. Her father’s.
    Glory dragged the blankets over her head. She had never heard them shout at each other this