Black Box: Book Three

11 ~ Here comes the child bride

When people talk about child marriages, most of the time they aren't thinking of America. As though America is some kind of utopia where things like that just don't happen.

It's not true, though, is it? Child marriage may not be as common here, sure. But it does happen. In fact, only actually have laws against it.

Guess what? I didn't grow up in one of those ten states. Even better, I grew up in a cult. Our leaders really emphasized the idea of "pure" brides and virginity and virility... I was taught, as a child, that only a young woman embodied these traits.

"Young woman" does not mean a twenty-year-old, by the way. Or even an eighteen-year-old. That would make it almost understandable, wouldn't it?

I was sold into marriage when I was fourteen.

In a way, I was one of the lucky ones. See, in our cult, a girl "came of marriageable age" when she had her first period. My older sister got hers at nine years old. I still remember her screaming in the bathroom when it happened – my mother hadn't told us anything about periods, or our bodies. My sister saw all that blood and really thought she was dying.

Maybe that is what it meant for her. Because only a few months later she was married off. Her husband was in his mid-twenties. She cried herself to sleep every night until her wedding.

I never saw her again.

Since the day I turned nine, I lived in mortal fear of ending up like my sister. I prayed and hoped to our version of God that I would never "come of age." It was like a curse to me, to meet the same fate she did. For a while, it seemed that something had answered my prayers, because year after year passed and it didn't come. My parents grew restless. When I was twelve, my father checked my panties every night to make sure I wasn't hiding anything from him.

But then, halfway through my fourteenth year, it came. It came during the night and stained my sheets and there was no hiding it.

My parents were so relieved. I was so upset I actually vomited when I saw the proof, those stained sheets that I couldn't pray away.

The man they gave me to was forty-three years old.

Can you imagine that? Can you imagine your own parents just... giving you away to someone like that? Even though I always knew it would happen to me, it still hurt. It still poisoned something deep inside me.

They didn't wait as long for my wedding as they did with my sister. Apparently my soon-to-be husband was in a rush because we were married only a month later.

I won't bore you with details about my wedding, or the first time meeting my husband, or the ride to our new "home" – I had to be dragged into the car, kicking and screaming.

Instead, I'll tell you this: everything changed on the balcony.

Once he brought me home, he ushered me into the master bedroom and, thankfully, left me there on my own for several hours. He told me he wanted nothing more than to "attend" to me the way a proper husband should – and we all know what that means, don't we? – but that he had to take care of some business first. Before leaving the room – and locking it for good measure – he told me to dress in the lingerie that he had left for me on the bed. I eyed it with disgust before throwing it on the floor and stalking out to the balcony that I discovered behind some thick floor-to-ceiling curtains. My parents must have been proud to marry me off to someone so rich.

The night was freezing cold and there was a light snow falling, slowly covering the ground below. Briefly, I considered throwing myself off the ledge, but I was too afraid. I thought that there was a small chance I might survive, and I didn't want to think about what might happen to me if I did.