1

 

I make my way down the path that leads to the church, at least fifty prisoners trailing behind me. Our footsteps are synced, mimicking the slow, laboured beat of a dying heart. 

    The path is winding, seemingly lacking purpose or cause, as though the men who put it there did so without care. Rose bushes pop up every few feet, and there, to my left, is Shrieking Shrub, as some of the younger prisoners call it. The name is fitting. Its shape is that of a severed human head. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be severed, but the roses at its base signify a stump where the neck ends, and a body should begin. Or perhaps the body is buried. Hidden beneath green grass and fertile dirt, sharing the company of creatures of decay. It sends unpleasant shivers down my spine. The face is stretched in agony, eyes like teardrops pulled down, mouth gaping to show the hollow inside. Leaves for skin. Stones for eyes. A void for a mouth. This is what they think we look like.  

    My footsteps slow. Inside the mouth, tucked away and—almost—out of sight, I see a groundhog. It peaks its fluffy head out, and I feel the urge to shout for it to run, to hide, for fear of the gaping mouth shutting and swallowing the little creature whole. The crunch of bone and sinew echoes in my ears. But that would be silly, I tell myself. The shrub is just a shrub. Magic does not exist. Not anymore. They made sure of that.  

    Behind me, a voice. “Kahl!” Move. “Kahl doe!” Move now.  

    I shuffle forward. Too late.  

    The Missionary—that’s what they call themselves, the members of the Holy Establishment—swings his baton and it catches my legs, hitting the exact spot he knows will make my knees buckle. I fall. 

    My palms tear on the concrete below, but, thankfully, my knees don’t take the blunt of the hit. I have bad knees from one hit too many. The healers—the ones they will let us see—say there’s a buildup of scar tissue around the joints. It makes me stiff, and on days when the weather changes drastically, damn-near immobile. But I don’t have to do the mining work that kills most of the other prisoners. Sometimes, I think, there are small mercies that have been gifted to me. When the Holy betrayed us, brandishing the iron-ash swords forged to slaughter my kind, they killed my mother first. I thank the Morrigan for that. Death is merciful. Death is kind. It’s living that truly kills. Pulls out your soul, and stuffs something else inside. I don’t think my mother would have been able to handle losing her children one by one. Having them plucked from her arms like so many have here. Or, worse even still, having them stolen and given to an orphanage. I’ve never been picked for Salvation—that’s what they call the orphanages; the orphans, the ones who cooperate, are Saved—but I’ve heard whispers. They are a cruel place. An evil place. Used to sicken the mind, to poison it. They turn us into something we are not. My sisters—Avery and Madison—died not long after my mother. My little brother, Eli, followed suit.  

    Some days I am thankful. It’s easier this way. I only have to look out for myself.  

    Some days I am so angry I wish to wipe the world clean. Begin anew.  

    But today, I am hollow. Today, I am Shrieking Shrub. I am who they want me to be.