Chapter Text
Marlene McKinnon was born into a house where the curtains were always drawn halfway, and the carpets didn’t dare show a single speck of dust. Even her cries as an infant had been shushed, not by loving arms, but by a stiff, silent mother with lips pressed so tight they might have split if she ever smiled.
At six years old, Marlene knew the weight of silence.
She sat on the floral couch with her knees tucked perfectly together, her hands folded in her lap like her mother taught her—one hand gently folded over the other, thumbs touching. Her dress was buttercup yellow, too bright for a day like this. The lace collar scratched her skin, but she didn’t dare itch it. She’d already asked once that morning if she could wear something else. She was still nursing the welt on the back of her thigh for that.
“You should be grateful for beauty, Marlene,” her mother had said. “God gave you that dress. Don't be ungrateful.”
God gave her a lot of things, apparently. Like her four older brothers, who were allowed to wrestle in the backyard and scrape their knees and laugh too loud. Like her tight curls, ironed into ringlets every Saturday night before church. Like the long prayers before dinner, the ones where she had to keep her eyes closed even though her stomach growled and her hands trembled from holding them together too long.
She liked Jesus. She really did. She liked the way He was always kind in the stories, how He forgave the worst people, how He walked barefoot and never seemed afraid. But she couldn’t figure out why everyone at church seemed so...scared.
Everyone smiled too hard. Everyone bowed too deep.
She didn’t understand why her mother, who lit candles and whispered Scripture every night in the hallway, could slap her so hard the world went black for a moment. She didn’t understand why God seemed to live in the corners of rooms, watching her with judgmental eyes. Wasn’t He supposed to love the children?
The last time she laughed—really laughed—was three weeks ago. Jamie, her third brother, had dared her to sneak outside in the rain. “Come on, Lena,” he’d whispered, tugging her hand. “You’re fast, we’ll be back ‘fore she notices.”
They’d raced around the chicken coop, bare feet on slick grass, thunder cracking above their heads. She’d tripped and fallen and come up with mud on her dress and rain on her lashes and the brightest grin on her face. Her heart had felt like a balloon let go in the wind.
That was the night she learned joy came at a cost.
Her mother scrubbed her skin raw and held her face so tight in her hands that her jaw clicked for days. She wasn’t allowed dessert for a week. Her favorite toy—a cloth rabbit—was burned in the fireplace while her father watched from the armchair, not even blinking.
"Obedience is love," her mother said, her voice trembling with something between rage and righteousness. “Don’t make me question your soul, Marlene.”
---
Sunday came again, as it always did. Morning broke gray and trembling with frost. The church smelled of old books and dried flowers. Her patent leather shoes clicked across the tiled floor as they entered, her father’s hand pressed firm to her shoulder.
Everyone sat in their usual spots. Marlene was between her mother and Jamie. She stared at the stained-glass window ahead—the one with the dove and the flames and the golden beams of heaven. She always imagined what it would be like to be inside that glass. What it would feel like to fly.
But she sat still, so still. Her fingers curled tight in the hem of her dress.
Pastor Elbridge began the sermon, thundering on about sin and temptation, about the devil in television and skirts that rode too high. Her mother nodded. Her father closed his eyes in deep devotion.
Marlene looked down at her shoes. They were polished to a shine, but all she could see in the reflection was the hem of her dress, trembling slightly with every breath.
She was six. She didn’t have words for what she felt. But she knew, deep down in her bones, that something was wrong. That God didn’t sound like that—not in her heart. That the Jesus she prayed to at night, in whispers under her breath after her mother had gone to sleep, wouldn’t care if her dress got dirty.
That maybe—just maybe—He liked the mud, too.
---
That night, she did something small but brave.
She waited until everyone was asleep. Then she tiptoed downstairs, barefoot and breathless, her curls undone and falling loose down her back. She opened the back door, the wind cool on her cheeks, and stepped outside.
The grass was cold. The sky was velvet.
She didn’t run. Not this time. She just stood there, her toes in the wet earth, and whispered a prayer.
Not the kind her mother made her say. Not the rehearsed, rigid kind with "thou" and "thee" and punishment laced through every line.
No. This one was hers.
“Hi,” she said, to no one and everyone. “It’s me. I’m sorry I got dirty that time. But it felt like flying. And if that’s wrong, then... then maybe I don’t want to be right. If you're really there, I hope you’re not mad.”
And in the hush of the backyard, with the wind rustling the tall grass and the moon hanging low, Marlene McKinnon stood in her nightgown, toes muddy, heart wide open.
She didn’t hear God’s voice. Not in words. But something moved in the trees, soft and slow and loving.
And that was enough for her.