Preacher's Daughter - Ethan Jailer (First Draft)

12. Sun Bleached Flies

"If they strike once, then you just
hit 'em twice as hard."

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The pale, tar-colored flies sat on the dust-ridden window sill, the sun's glare shining on their frail wings. Ethel watched them with close intent, her head resting on her crossed arms propped up on an old chair in the attic of the cabin. The rough and rugged fabric, drained of all its color from wasting away under a large window, was the closest she could get to a soft surface in the hell that was this withered home.
Her green irises glared the light coming from the window as they remained on the insects. She thought of herself as a parallel to these creatures; pure doves in a land of gods and monsters confined to a place where they had somehow trapped themselves.
Ever since she was a child, Ethel had dreaded going to church every Sunday and watch with tired eyes as the choir sang so unhurriedly. But now, her soul damned to spend the rest of eternity in the house she had grown to resent every splinter of, she would give anything to be in that holy structure of eternal peace. She would want nothing more than to explore the plane of grass behind the church, daffodils and tulips guarding the perimeter with their inviting colors splashing their hues throughout the yard.
Instead, she must relive every traumatic moment her body had to experience over and over again in this wasteland of dreams. She had nothing left— it was really all over. And there was nothing she could do about it.
With nothing except her name still tied to her, she had realized that there was one more thing she could do. And that was to forgive.

She forgave her mother for every time she had belittled and berated Ethel, spanning since she was only 2 years old. In hindsight, she must have had it worse out of everyone— including Ethel. The preacher's wife, a once pure soul, imprisoned by the hands of her blood. If God really did love her, like the church said he did, he wouldn't have had her be born as a daughter of Cain. There couldn't have possibly been a worse fate for the woman.
She forgave Riley, and Willoughby, and Logan, and all her other friends for anything they ever did to her. With any sort of faith drained from her completely, she still prayed that they were doing alright. No matter the amount of pain they had inflicted onto her, she no longer had the hate in her heart to hold any type of grudge. It was easier to forgive and forget than to hate and remember.
She forgave the preacher— even considering the circumstances that had taken place, he was still her father. Even if Ethel couldn't muster a fraction of respect or sympathy for him, she still forgave him. She would have to at one day or another, so it would be better to do it as quick as possible.
She forgave Isaiah, the wolf in sheep's clothing that had been there since day one. She had found out from his arguments and shouts he sent through the phone that he had known her since the day she was born. He was ordered to protect her at all costs from anything that could hurt her, from someone Ethel had yet to become familiar with. He had followed her from the night Logan had taken her away, right to the moment she had left that Texas motel room. As the most prestigious member of the Daughters of Cain, Ethel could understand that he had a duty to do and didn't hold anything against him for it. Even when he was ordered to kill her to protect the family name.
At the end of this messily scribbled book she called life, there was no one left to forgive except herself. Surprisingly, she was the hardest to do so. How could she not blame herself for what had happened to her every second of the way till now. But with a heavy sigh and a long reconstruction of thoughts, she forgave and forgot. With nothing to lose, it really didn't take much effort.
    The cabin Ethel was currently rotting away in was almost a parallel to the house in Nebraska that never came to be in Ethel's mind. The frame of a forgotten home that would be cherished by the lovers of a small town— but the intentions of either one of them being completely different.

    As Ethel sat on the couch of the cluttered and destroyed living room, she unconsciously remained oblivious to the false reality that she had experienced on her way to the West. Isaiah was never the charming guy she had envisioned— not even for a second. The false reality of volunteering to tag along with Isaiah was nothing but a coping mechanism her mind had created from the strike it suffered when she was thrown into the back of his truck.
    The kidnapping simply never happened in her mind. The development of Stockholm syndrome had warped her ability to think properly and shifted the reality right in front of her. She didn't feel strong enough to handle this reality— but she had to.

    Sitting on the base of the cabin's basement, Ethel couldn't help but notice a wet, squelching sound emitting from further into her. She stood up, brushing the splinters and debris from the wood boards off her pale-white dress and inched closer to where the sounds were coming from. She didn't realize that anything could get worse after all that she had been through— but she would come to find out as she saw the horrifying scene in front of her.

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