As I head out around the dark apartment building, I pull my jacket collar up and lower my head. I don’t suspect the cameras here — if there are any — mind one shadowy figure moving around any more than another, but I’m not taking chances.
I walk down the sidewalk away from the scene as if I’m heading home after a routine walk. The streets are nearly empty, save for a stray car that drives by with a slight swerve, a few of them probably from The Vixen.
I pay them no mind. This has become routine for me. My eyes turn toward the moonless sky, and I wonder how many other people in the city lead lives so nocturnal they can tell when the new moon is just a little brighter than usual.
Hours roll on as I walk around the city — heading straight back to my car after a hit would be a rookie mistake. By the time I’m strolling back to the parking lot of The Vixen, orange light is piercing the skyline, and I glance up at the sunrise as I open my car door. It brings me back to the midnight sun back in Siberia, where the star’s icy light was a mocking comfort.
No time to reminisce now, though. I’ve got a client to report to.
2
Cassie
I’m sitting in my room, staring out the window at the little red and brown birds hopping along the branches of our magnolia tree. They’re chirping so sweetly and happily, and I wonder what kind of conversation they must be having. What do little red birds talk about? I ponder, resting my chin on my arms. If only I could understand them. I can’t help fantasizing about what it must be like to fly.
It’s six in the morning and the sun is just starting to peek its bulbous golden face from behind the skyline of my suburban neighborhood, the homes all nearly identical, like a neighborhood of doll houses. Last night, there was a storm, so my father crowded us all into the den to watch the lightning and talk about the power of God. He does this every time a particularly nasty storm rolls through. He just wants us all to appreciate how small and insignificant we are, teach us to fear our inevitable smiting by the almighty if we succumb to sin. Daddy tells me that every time lightning strikes the ground, it is retribution for a sin committed in that spot. From this, I can gather that there is a whole lot of sinning going on.
We live in upstate New York, in a tiny little town full of beautiful parks and trees. There are lovely forests and lakes, but I don’t get out to see them very often. My parents know how dangerous it is out there, so they try their best to protect me from it and keep me locked up inside.
Sometimes this makes me sad. But I know it is a sin to defy one’s parents or to think negative thoughts about them. So I just remind myself that they are only trying to keep me safe from temptation, to keep me clean of sin.
Today is my eighteenth birthday, and I am graduating from the homeschooling program I’ve spent my entire life studying. It is bittersweet, saying goodbye to the textbooks and lessons which have given me glimpses, albeit obscured, of the outside world. From my geography books, I learned about just how huge the Earth is. And from my parents, I have learned just how evil most of that world really is. They have taught me that anything outside the little social group we’ve cultivated is tainted, too dangerous. Everyone in our group feels just as strongly about what Daddy says, and the one time someone dared disagree with the world view of the group, they weren’t invited back anymore.
Sometimes, the pictures in my textbooks make me feel some kind of strange wanderlust. But any sort of lust is utterly forbidden, even if it’s only a longing for another place, a piece of scenery I have never known. The world is filled with amazing colors I’ve never even touched, but I must remind myself that beauty like that can surely only be the devil’s work, trying to tempt me to step into a sinful world.
I glance at the clock. Any second now my mother will come and knock on my door, letting me know that it’s time to get up. Oversleeping is a symptom of laziness, an indicator of a slothful, ungrateful attitude.
And sloth is a deadly sin.
But they’ve frightened me enough that I always wake up before my mother even comes to get me. I want more than anything to be the best daughter I can be. I need to be perfect. And lately, my parents have been telling me that soon I’ll need to be more than just a perfect daughter.
I need to be the perfect wife.
There’s a curt knock at my bedroom door and I hear my mother’s voice call out, “Time to get up, Cassie. Get dressed and come down to make breakfast.”
“Yes, Mother!” I reply cheerily.
I jump up from my little spot by the window, my knee-length, white eyelet night dress swirling as I rise to my feet. I flounce over to the gray wooden vanity in the corner of my room, sitting down on the rickety stool. My face blinks back at me in the round mirror, and I can’t stifle a yawn. I do like rising early, but lately I haven’t been sleeping very well. This is subtly reflected in the light shadows beneath my eyes. I know my father will comment on this. The slightest flaw in my appearance is an affront to God, who made me. I need to be wholesome and beautiful, and this means I must be perfect at all times.