I sat alone in the church pews with my head bowed, hands clasped so tight my knuckles ached, whisperin’ prayers into the stillness. I asked the good Lord to forgive me. For my weaknesses, for my sins, for stayin’ with Liora and protectin’ her even when every sign told me I ought to run. I knew my prayers wouldn’t change a thing outside those walls, but they gave me a sliver of peace, a breath where I didn’t feel that house sittin’ heavy on my shoulders.
Reverend Paul Benoit had been kind enough to let me stay after service, offerin’ me the quiet like he knew I needed it. Liora never came to church with me. She never cared to. Sundays for her were spent at luncheons and socials with the rich white families of Lafayette. I pitied those folks, blind as newborn calves to the creature they welcomed into their parlors, never seein’ the cold disdain she held for them.
I pitied the young girls most, the ones who fell under her spell, dazzled by her clothes, her confidence, her easy grace. They wanted to be her. And the young men… Lord help ’em. They fell for her sweet talk, her coy smiles, her pretend innocence. They didn’t know she saw them as toys, as fools, as weak creatures beggin’ to be misled.
Warnin’ them would’ve done me no good. I was just a dark Negro woman “fortunate” enough to work for a wealthy family. That’s how folks saw me. Or, as the last white man Liora brought home put it, I was “pretty for a black bitch.”
He was a young banker who had been full of liquor, full of himself, full of the kind of entitlement white men in Louisiana wore like a second skin. He was handsy with any woman he thought beneath him, and in his eyes, I was beneath him in every way that mattered. When Liora stepped out to freshen up, he cornered me. I knew fightin’ him would only make things worse, but fear took hold of me. I tried to get away. Even after he struck me hard enough to split my lip, I kept tryin’. My clothes tore, my hair came loose, my breath shook with panic.
It lasted only minutes, but it felt like hours.
One moment he was drawin’ back his fist again, his face twisted with rage that a Negro woman dared resist him. The next, confusion washed over him that was sharp, sudden, and he froze. His eyes widened, his mouth parted, and then he collapsed on top of me, heavy and lifeless.
I didn’t understand until I saw the blood on my face. Until I saw the knife buried in his back that came out through his chest. Until I looked up and saw Liora standin’ over me, her expression cold as river stone, like she’d only swatted a fly.
“Well now,” she said, calm as ever, “I was gon’ wait to kill him, but the bastard just had to go and ruin it. Oh well. I got what I wanted from him. Best throw his body in the bayou.”
She said it so plain, so matter‑of‑fact, all I could do was stare, breath shakin’, hands tremblin’ under the weight of the dead man.
“What? Cat got your tongue, sissy?” she asked, rollin’ her eyes. “We need to get rid of him ‘fore folks start askin’ questions.”
“What…” I tried, but the words wouldn’t come.
She sighed, annoyed. “Come now, sissy. Ain’t the first time some man tried to get in your drawals. Stop actin’ pruddish.”
She talked to me like I was a child, not a twenty‑three‑year‑old woman who had just survived somethin’ that could’ve broken me. No, it wasn’t the first time a man tried to force himself on me, but it was the first time it had gone this far. The first time a dead body lay on top of me. The first-time blood smeared my face like a mark I couldn’t wash away.
Days later, I still felt that man’s blood clingin’ to my skin, seepin’ into my pores. I didn’t mourn him. Folks said he beat his own wife and children, so his death freed them from his cruelty. No, what troubled me wasn’t his dyin’. It was how Liora treated my terror, my pain, my body like it was nothin’ but a casualty of her plans.
To her, I was part of her design. A piece she moved when she pleased. A belonging.
The sanctuary was quiet, save for the hum of the ceiling fan and the crickets chirpin’ outside, when Reverend Benoit stepped out from his office. His shoes tapped soft against the wooden floor as he came toward me. He’d always been kind, kind in a way that felt real, and he often let me linger after service when he sensed I needed the stillness more than the sermon.
He paused beside my pew, his voice low and warm. “Nadira, chile… you been sittin’ here a long while. You alright?”
I lifted my head slow, wipin’ at my eyes though I hadn’t cried. “Yes, Reverend. I just… needed a moment.”
He nodded, foldin’ his hands. “You welcome to all the moments you need. The Lord’s house is a place for rest.”
I hesitated, my heart thuddin’. I couldn’t tell him everything, not about Liora, not about the blood, not about the darkness in that house. But somethin’ inside me needed to speak, even a little.
“Reverend,” I said softly, “may I ask you somethin’?”
“Of course.”
I swallowed hard. “If someone… someone who revels in sin, who enjoys it, who don’t care to change… if someone like that exists… are they still worthy of forgiveness? Of love?”
His expression shifted, not shocked, but heavy with thought. He sat beside me, the pew creakin’, and leaned forward like he was settlin’ into a hard truth.
“Nadira,” he said gently, “there’s folks in this world who walk toward sin with their eyes wide open. Folks who take pleasure in hurtin’ others, who use wickedness like a tool. And it’s true. There are some don’t want redemption. Some don’t even believe they need it.”
My breath caught. He was describin’ Liora without knowin’ her name.
“But,” he went on, “the Lord’s love ain’t somethin’ people earn by bein’ good. It’s somethin’ He gives because He is good. Even the darkest soul ain’t beyond His reach.”
I looked down at my hands. “But what if they don’t want His reach? What if they don’t want forgiveness? What if they… enjoy what they do?”
He sighed, long and weary. “Then forgiveness becomes a gift offered, not a gift received. And love… love becomes a burden for the one who gives it.”
My throat tightened.
He turned to me, eyes soft but searchin’. “Chile, whoever you speakin’ of… you must ask yourself whether your love for them is savin’ them, or destroyin’ you.”
The words hit me hard, because I already knew the answer.
I had stayed with Liora out of love, twisted with fear, loyalty, and a strange fascination I couldn’t name. But that love wasn’t savin’ her.
It was swallowin’ me whole.
I lowered my gaze. “Thank you, Reverend,” I whispered.
He laid a gentle hand on my shoulder. “The Lord hears you, Nadira. He knows your heart. But be careful. Even the strongest soul can be pulled under if they stay too close to someone who delights in the dark.”
I nodded, though my heart felt heavier than before.
Because I knew I was already too close.
And I didn’t know how to step away.
