Minutes passed, with each tick of the clock my shame growing, though I was unsure what sin I had committed. Endless hanging silence that left me fidgeting and unable to hold his gaze.
Unable to beat it another second, I muttered, “God cannot be a woman.”
“And the world cannot be round. And humans cannot land on the moon. And evolution is not factually based because the most popular creation myth of this era had everything burst into life in seven days. But you don’t know that word, because you were raised as a practical slave under starvation conditions. It took you decades to learn how to write, picking up snatches here and there while you wandered from city to city. Famished for education, but female, weak, poor, and frightened. There is nothing evil about you. But there is evil in ignorance. Ask me how many verses of that bible I could quote to support my argument?” He reared back, haughty and grim. “Actually don’t. I have no interest in wasting my breath. You can’t hear, because you are broken. And I am gravely insulted by all you have said.”
Why was I crying? Why were hot tears falling down flushed cheeks? “But you don’t understand. God cannot be a woman. He filled Mary with child.”
“The immaculate conception? Winged angels in the sky at the birth of Christ?” Unfolding the wings at his back, Vladislov beat them against the air, raising himself from the bed as if to take flight. “Gift from kings who’d traveled far. Gold, frankincense, myrrh. All priceless items left at the feet of a peasant woman and her swaddled baby.”
My mouth opened, but I was cut off by another beating of his wings and a louder riposte. “Just to make it clear in case you are not picking up on the subtle hints I’ve layered through this chat. Mary enjoyed my cock when we lay together. For birthing my offspring, she was rewarded with riches. And to many, I am a God. But the only God I worship has a cunny. And I know this, because I have seen you gloriously naked. Wordplay or no, I will not have you insult my Goddess, my love, or my tireless devotion. You will be educated, starting tonight. And you will meet with Yeshua in time and find yourself in a world so far beyond what you allow your mind to comprehend that you will hate me for it.”
Crying all the harder, I put my head to my knees. This only angered the pacing tiger, who grabbed something and threw it to shatter against a far wall.
On a roar, he demanded, “Tell me how to make this stop!”
And I snapped. “Just hurt me already! I’m worn sick from waiting!”
Lifting up an entire chifforobe in rage, Vladislov ripped it apart. No longer man in form, no longer rational. He broke the simple things in that creepy room, bellowing smoke and braying like a wolf.
“Hear me, woman!” Demonic in person, in voice, on every level, that winged monster turned on me. “I will not. You don’t need a devil. You torment yourself enough to put the entirety of hell out of a job.”
Chapter Eight
Pearl
What a mess…
Not just the room, but my insides. Guilt I could not explain weighed on me. More than that, the things he said, about how long it had taken me to learn how to read. How I had drawn letters on brick with rocks. The decades of practice so I might have one redeeming quality.
I too could quote scripture… verbatim.
Misspeak and receive a strike with a cane across the shoulders.
As a child, I'd memorized every part of the bible that made it clear to be female was to be evil. I could recite prayer with a rosary until my fingers bled.
I could kneel on rice, be beaten with a stick, and be hung from a tree.
I could be raped.
But I could not navigate this world. Not that I had ever navigated my own well. Always hungry. Always ashamed. Always last in line and first under fire.
Stick-thin, starving, lonely, waiting to be delivered.
Waiting for exactly what now sat before me in ruins. A room with a window. Companionship.
Food.
As embarrassing as it was to admit to myself, I was tired of starving. Rats, stray dogs, bugs when I was especially desperate. Vomiting after a meal. Hearing the priests screaming the first time my fangs elongated.
I had prayed for my entire life to be cleansed of my urges. I felt less.
Because there was a whole world of things so beyond my scope that I just stuttered and drooled like the idiot I was.
A demon had torn every last bit of furniture in my room to shreds. All save myself and the bed. I bore no scratch or bruise.
That was a lie.
My pride was heavily bruised.
I worked hard. I loved to work hard. It was the only thing I’d ever been appreciated for. Never late, did the job without complaint. The model cigarette girl, or waitress, or cleaning lady.
The very priest that came to offer me the Eucharist each day believed I was mad. I certainly felt it. But I could not forget the feeling of that weighted paper between my fingers, the script in my own hand. Penmanship I had copied from a discarded letter I had found in the streets.
Penmanship of a lady of worth.
Why did all the things in this house always get broken?
Powdered wigs and mud, he said. Yet my costume was from my last years I could remember. Even the nightgown with its ruffled collar and plain
