20th Century
My hands tremble as I smoothen the creases in my Sunday best, a white dress that brushes against my kneecaps. I can feel their eyes on me, burning into my back. I can hear the hushed whispers among them. I keep my eyes downcast as I take a seat on the wooden pew, next to one of my neighbours, an old and kindly lady, Mrs Faust. She gives me a smile, her teeth almost as black as her skin.
"..... and so his son Jesus sacrificed himself so that we may live..." Reverend Raymond drones. ".....Let us pray...."
I bow my head, trying to focus on his prayers, trying to be the good Christian I know I am, but I am too aware of their attention, which is fixated on me. "....Amen...." We lift our heads, and I everywhere I look, I can only see dark skin. Skin as dark as my own, hair as dark as my own, but the blood that unites them all, that bonds them together, is not my own.
Momma glares at them all, and they avert their stares, some of them giving apologetic looks, though I can feel what they are all thinking. She is not our own.
I cannot help but feel humiliated at the mixed blood which courses in my veins. The blood of Momma, and the blood from the filthy bastard that raped her. The room is hot, and a fly buzzes around. The drones of the reverend become a lullaby, and as we all bow our heads for another prayer, a memory floats into my head and I am standing there.
______
I scream in pain as Mary tugs my pigtails. I kick and flail, but Mercy's grip is too tight. "What is wrong, Cosette?" she spits on the ground, as if my name has left a bad taste in her mouth. I can feel the tears that threaten to flow, but I will not let them win. I will not let them win. I will not let them win. I repeat the mantra in my head as my hair is being pulled mercilessly. "Are you going to cry and run to your white papa? Oh wait," she laughs, "He left."
"He didn't leave," I lift my chin. "He went to the army."
To my astonishment, Mary howls with laughter. Mercy releases her grip on me, and I turn to see the pity in her eyes. "Is that what you think, Cosette? Is that what your Momma told you?" her voice is mockingly sweet. "Do you want to know something?" I can feel her hot breath on my nape. "Your momma ain't even married to your papa. I heard," her voice dropped a few notches, "That your momma slept with him for money."
I want to cover my ears, but instead I clenched my fists and glared at her, arms crossed. She would not win, not now, not ever. She was lying, I told mysef. But Mary had a gift for sensing little holes in beliefs, and she was good in exploiting them. She smiled at me. "Your momma was a maid, and I heard," she grips my collar, as if she's afraid that I would try to wriggle away, "Your papa was married to a rich missus too. Dismissed her right after she fulfilled her purpose," she snickered.
I stare at the ground. Don't cry, don't cry, I repeated the mantra over and over again, although part of me somewhat knew that what she said was true, that the stories Momma told me were just romantic fairytales. Romantic fairytaIes that I clung unto because I needed them, needed to believe that I had a loving father.
"It's not true," I can feel the blood seeping into my palms, the sharp edge of my fingernails digging into my flesh. "It's not true," I repeat, even though I don't even believe what I myself am saying. Mary smiles triumphantly and Mercy looks away. "It's not true."
______________________
I am jolted out of my flashback by Ms Fuast who taps my shoulder and passes me the offering bag. I reach into the skirts of my dress and produce a few coins to drop in before handing it to Momma. Notes and coins are dropped in, big and small contributions. Mass is ended, and everyone shuffles out.
