I sat alone in the pews of the church with my head bowed, hands clasped tight enough that my knuckles ached, whispering prayers into the quiet sanctuary. I prayed to the good Lord for forgiveness, for my weaknesses, for my sins, for the choices I had made in staying with and protecting Liora even when every sign pointed toward danger. I knew my prayers did not change anything in the world outside those walls, but they gave me a sliver of peace, a moment where I could breathe without feeling the weight of that house pressing down on my shoulders.
Reverend Paul Benoit had been kind enough to let me remain after service, offering me the stillness of the church as though he sensed I needed it. Liora never attended church with me. She never bothered. Instead, she spent her Sundays attending gatherings, luncheons, and soirées with the rich and influential white families of Lafayette. I pitied those men and women, so unaware of the creature they welcomed into their parlors, so blind to the disdain she held for them.
I pitied the young girls most of all, the ones who fell under her guise of friendship, captivated by her fashion, her confidence, her grace. They saw her as a model of what they wished to be. And the young men, Lord help them, fell for her sweet nothings, her flirtations, her carefully crafted innocence. They had no idea how much contempt she carried for them, how she saw them as playthings, as pawns, as weak creatures begging to be fooled.
It would do me no good to try steering them away from her. I was nothing more than a dark Negro woman who was “fortunate” enough to be employed by a wealthy family. At least, that was how the world saw me. Or, as the last white man Liora brought home from a dinner party put it, I was “pretty for a black bitch.”
He was a young banker, full of himself, full of liquor, and full of the entitlement that came from being born into a world that bent for men like him. He was handsy with any woman he saw beneath him, and sadly, I was beneath him in every way that mattered to him. When Liora stepped out of the room to freshen up, he cornered me. I knew, in that moment, that fighting him off would only make things worse, but instinct took over. I tried to get away. Even after he struck me hard enough to split my lip, I kept trying. My clothes were torn, my hair pulled loose, my breath ragged with fear.
It lasted only minutes, but it felt like hours.
One moment he was cocking his fist to hit me again, his face twisted with anger that a Black woman dared resist him. The next moment, confusion washed over him, confusion so sharp it froze him in place. His eyes widened, his mouth parted, and then he slumped forward, heavy and lifeless, collapsing on top of me.
I didn’t understand what had happened until I saw the blood on my face. Until I saw the knife lodged in his chest. Until I looked up and saw Liora standing above me, her expression cold and unbothered, as though she had merely swatted a fly.
“Well now,” she said, her voice calm, almost bored. “I was going to 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 spoke so matter‑of‑factly that all I could do was stare at her, my breath trembling, my hands shaking beneath the weight of the dead man.
“What? Cat got your tongue, sissy?” she asked, rolling her eyes. “We need to get rid of him before people start asking questions.”
“What…” I began, but the words wouldn’t come.
Liora sighed, annoyed. “Come now, sissy. It’s not like it’s the first time someone’s tried to get in your drawals. Stop actin’ pruddish.”
She spoke to me like I was a child, like I was not a twenty‑three‑year‑old woman who had just survived something that could have broken me. No, it was not the first time a man had 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 could not wash away.
Even days later, I still felt as though that man’s blood clung to my skin, seeping into my pores, lingering in the creases of my hands. I did not regret that he was dead. I did not mourn him. From what I heard, he had been abusive toward his own wife and children, and his death freed them from his cruelty. No, what upset me was not his death; it was the way Liora treated my terror, my pain, my body as nothing more than a casualty of her plans.
She saw me as part of her design. A piece on her board. A belonging.
The sanctuary was quiet, save for the soft hum of the ceiling fan and the distant chirping of crickets outside when Reverend Paul Benoit stepped out from his office, his shoes tapping gently against the wooden floor as he approached. He had always been kind to me, kind in a way that felt genuine and unforced, 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, child… you’ve been sittin’ here a long while. You alright?”
I lifted my head slowly, wiping at my eyes even though I hadn’t cried. “Yes, Reverend. I just… needed a moment.”
He nodded, folding his hands in front of him. “You’re welcome to all the moments you need. The Lord’s house is a place for rest.”
I hesitated, my heart thudding in my chest. I could not tell him everything, not the truth of Liora, not the blood on my skin, not the darkness that lived in that house like a living thing. But something inside me needed to speak, needed to release even a fraction of the weight I carried.
“Reverend,” I began softly, “may I ask you somethin’?”
“Of course.”
I swallowed hard, choosing my words carefully. “If someone… someone who revels in sin, who enjoys it, who has no desire to change their ways… if someone like that exists… are they still worthy of forgiveness? Of love?”
Reverend Benoit’s expression shifted, not with shock, but with a deep, thoughtful sadness. He sat beside me, the pew creaking under his weight, and rested his elbows on his knees as though preparing himself for a difficult truth.
“Nadira,” he said gently, “there are folks in this world who walk toward sin with their eyes wide open. Folks who take pleasure in hurtin’ others, who see wickedness as a tool rather than a burden. And it’s true, some of ’em don’t want redemption. Some don’t even believe they need it.”
My breath caught, because he was describing Liora without knowing her name.
“But,” he continued, “the Lord’s love ain’t somethin’ people earn by bein’ good. It’s somethin’ He offers because He is good. Even the darkest soul is not beyond His reach.”
I looked down at my hands, twisting them together. “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, a long, weary sound. “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, his eyes soft but searching. “Child, whoever you’re speakin’ of… you must ask yourself whether your love for them is savin’ them, or destroyin’ you.”
The words struck me like a blow, because I knew the answer even before he finished speaking.
I had stayed with Liora out of love. A love twisted with fear, loyalty, and a strange fascination I could not name. But that love was not saving her. It was consuming me.
I lowered my gaze, unable to meet his eyes. “Thank you, Reverend,” I whispered.
He placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. “The Lord hears you, Nadira. And He knows your heart. But you must 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, deep down, that I was already too close.
And I did not know how to step away.
