saw a glimmer of hatred for his wife pass over his face before he looked down
and began fumbling with the buttons of his trousers.
“Please, don’t, please,” she cried, looking in horror at his engorged penis.
“Mamma. Mamma. I want my mamma.”
The physical pain of him tearing into her body was excruciating, but it was the emotional torment of the violation that made her scream. She willed her
mind take her elsewhere, but she was trapped in that barn, writhing beneath his
unwashed body. He pushed himself farther in and felt enormous, as if he would
rip her apart. The whiskey took its effect and he tilted his head back and howled
like a dog, before he began moving with rapid thrusts.
“Stop.” Olivia tried to shout, but her voice was a whimper. “Stop. Get off of
me. Mamma.”
He let out a loud gasp and collapsed on her. She turned her face away from
the stench of him and felt close to suffocation before he rose, pulled up his trousers, and staggered to the barn door.
Eyes gleaming, Iola stood and set her Bible down. “See, I told you it would
be over before you knew it.” She patted Olivia’s arm again and then pulled her
skirt down between her knees, primly arranging it. “It’s what all women have to
endure.”
Olivia turned her face toward the wall. The world had fallen to pieces and she
had shattered along with it. Bewildered and physically destroyed, she
desperately wondered what she had done to deserve this.
“I’m going to untie you now,” Iola said as she began loosening the ropes
around Olivia’s knees. “But you remember that Filmore is right outside. There’s
a barrel of water over there in the corner and a chamber pot under the bed. I’ll be
back shortly with your dinner.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Olivia remained frozen until the barn door rattled closed. Then she sat up and
hugged her knees to her chest, rocking back and forth, every muscle painfully contracted. She wanted to tear off her clothes and race to the river. To run until
she dropped with exhaustion. To subject her body to exertion so extreme, it
would expel the physical memory of everything else that had happened.
She didn’t know how long she sat there, one moment imagining clawing
Iola’s eyes out, the next feeling unworthy of existence. She began scratching at
her thighs, raising angry welts. If only she could peel off her skin, discard her body, escape not only this barn, but herself. She could no longer bear to be Olivia Killion. Olivia Killion was filthy. Disgusting. Indecent. Was this her
punishment for what she had done with Mourning? For leaving her family? For
not going to church? For wearing trousers? Paralyzed by self-loathing, she found
no escape into the easy release of tears. She could not free her mind of that horrible image of herself, tied down like an animal, legs spread wide apart.
She rose and stumbled to the water barrel. There was no towel or rag, so she
reached under her skirt and stepped out of her cotton petticoat. She bunched up
its bottom edge and sloshed water onto it, using her cupped hand in the absence
of a dipper. She cleaned between her legs and tossed the filthy, wet
undergarment onto the pile of hay. Then she splashed water on her face, rinsed
