Marked for Death: A Feminist Western

Chapter One - A Dusty Church in a Bloody Town

Where the dewdrops fall and the butterfly rests,
The wild rose blooms on the prairie's crest,
Where the coyotes howl and the wind sports free,
They laid him there on the lone prairie.

- The Dying Cowboy, H. Clemons

~

Sunlight streamed through the dusty windows, casting soft hues upon the worn wooden pews of the church where I have spent most of my life. The dull glow illuminated the dust particles, suspended in the golden rays, which twirled and floated in a mesmerising ballet, telling stories of countless footsteps, whispered prayers, and moments of solace that characterised this sanctuary over the years.

The last of the faithful have left the church, leaving behind them a town's worth of dust that I am now dutifully sweeping off the floor. With each broom stroke, I am transported back to the countless Sundays at the Sagebrush Creek church. I can still feel the cool, smooth touch of the wooden pews against my fingertips, worn down from years of use, can still hear the echoes of familiar hymns filling the air as the congregation raise their voices in unison.

Imposing as ever, The Reverend saunters away from his perch at the front of the small church, his figure casting a long shadow as he moves toward the exit. Unlike most of the men in this town, my father keeps his greying hair neatly trimmed, adding a touch of distinction to his mature face.

His voice echoes with pious conviction, but he says nothing except: "Don't stop until this church is clean."

"Yes, father," the words slip from my lips with practised ease, a conditioned response born out of years of submissive compliance.

"Good girl," he affirms, a phrase so familiar yet grating to my ears. Good girl. Ugh. There was something about that that makes my skin crawl. I repress the urge to shudder - I should be used to being treated like this by now. But no matter how often I get called 'good girl', 'darling', 'sweetheart' ... it still evokes a vicious reaction deep within me that makes me want to lash out.

But I never have.

He leaves, swinging the door of the church open just as a gust of wind blows more dust into the church. I say nothing, but in my head I curse this forsaken, windy, dusty, drunk town. Then, my Catholic guilt kicks in and I feel shame for the internal cursing. I eye the wooden figure of Jesus on the cross, mutter an apology, and return to my sweeping.

The dust swirls in delicate tendrils as I sweep, the tiny particles catching the sunlight like minuscule stars. Amidst the quiet solitude, I find comfort in the rhythmic motion of my sweeping, letting my mind wander.

~

Finishing my sweeping, I place the broom back into its space in the corner. Stepping out into the harsh sunlight outside the church doors, I spotted the man that my father had hand selected for me to be wed to walking down the street: Sheriff Beau Thompson. With a sigh, I raised my hand in a slight wave and stepped out onto the dusty main road.

"Amelia," Beau greeted me as we passed on the street with a queasy smile and a tip of his wide-brimmed hat. His voice was slightly slurred, the constant glaze over his blue eyes betraying his life of drinking; "you're looking as lovely as ever."

I don't much care for the Sheriff, for he's a big bumbling brute of a man. But the sex is decent, which is surprising considering how lacklustre a conversation with him can be. I probably wouldn't be fucking him if my dad wasn't so strict about me 'remaining a virgin'.

"Thank you, Sheriff Thompson," I replied, polite but distant. There was something titillating about sneaking out of my room to spend the night with Beau. I suspected that this excitement would die down once we were legally married and allowed to engage in coitus - under the watchful eye of God, of course.

He took his hat off to run his fingers through his sandy-blonde hair, which is always slicked back with grease and pomade. He was only three years my senior, but the stress of the job and the days outside had aged him considerably - the lines around his eyes characterising his bushy frown. He was an idiot but not a gossip, and I knew that word of our lovemaking wouldn't reach my father. I trusted Beau that much, at least.

"So," he drawls, rocking on his heels and letting his spurs dig into the ground, "are you up to anything tonight?"

Not exactly slick, but I chuckled all the same. "Same time, same place," I simply stated, a smile creeping to my lips. "Good day, Beau," I give him a small curtsey, knowing he won't pick up on the slightly sarcastic undertones of the action.

"Take care of yourself, Amelia," he nods, tipping his hat again before continuing down the dusty road to the sheriff's office. I watch him go and despite it all, I smile. Our little agreement was the most fun I've had in all my twenty-two years trapped in this town.