Page 8 of Souls We Rip

Her blonde hair was tied back in a single braid. The garments she wore had darker colours than ours, her vest did not have any embellishment, and her skirt looked ragged. She always used to tell us that it was better for us to be dressed as she was already married.

To the devil himself.

That was what Angelica always said. My heart always clenched when the Red One was mentioned. It was as though we would invite him into our house.

Every time I went to church to confess my sins, Father Neagu would listen to my darkest thoughts. They always involved my father. I never wished him misfortune, just for him to leave us alone.

Father Neagu told me that I could step away from my faith, thinking such ideas. He would always give me prayers to say at night, which would help my mind and soul to repent.

I smiled at my mum and went to hug her lean body, her arms wrapping around both of us.

My sister and I loved her so much that we tried our best to avoid Father’s wrath for her. She was the one we could go and cry to for any tiny reason, and she would always have a piece of advice for us.

My eyes glanced over the only clock in our house. Its golden-painted wood was gleaming in the afternoon sun, announcing that we would be late if we didn’t hurry.

“Are you ready? I don’t understand why you would use your best clothes for this day! Not even your sister could turn a man’s head. What makes you think you would do any better?”

My heart jumped at hearing my father’s voice and belittlement. I broke the hug with my sister and my mum, and I didn’t dare look at him.

I caught a glimpse of Angelica. The disappointment in her eyes said more words than any of us. Her mouth started trembling, and she turned her back on us, her shoulders shaking.

“Let’s go ahead, Anghel. The girls are still getting dressed,” my mum said, her voice soft, as it always was when trying to avoid his wrath.

“And who the hell is going to help us carry all the unnecessary food you prepared, hm? Out of my pocket!”

I looked at him. His linen trousers were dirty from the morning's work, and his wide leather belt was stained with mud. Even his tall boots weren’t spotless. The only pristine piece of his clothing was his hat. Dark with colourful beads attached to it, a gift from my grandmother.

The only thing in the house he thought was precious.

I saw my mum’s face crumple, her eyes going to her feet, touching repeatedly the stiff, ironed skirt.

“I will,” I quipped, rushing to grab my opinci, which I had cleaned a while ago.

My father grunted about being irresponsible and ungrateful brats, grabbed my mum’s arm and got out of the house.

Taking my embellished waistband and securing it on the dress, I turned to Angelica. Her face was red from crying, and her eyes were swollen.

“Don’t listen to him, Angelica! You’re the most beautiful, smart, kind and loyal girl in the village. You will get married, and you will have the life you dream of,” I assured her. She was staring at the place where my father had left.

Her eyes filled with tears again, and she threw herself into my arms. “I cannot believe that the man who gave us life behaves like this… I cannot love such a man, Ana.” Her voice broke at my name, her body started shaking again. She sniffed, her eyebrows furrowed. “If the man I marry is a good man, I will take you and mum away from here!”

My hands touched her shoulders, breaking the embrace. I brushed her tears off her face with my thumbs. Her idea warmed my heart. However, it was just an idea, as all of them were.

My father was the only one who could work for our family. Our mum tried to sell her food at markets, but she would be dragged back home and placed behind a spade or a shovel. We could not win.

Still, I smiled and nodded, placing her braid over one shoulder. “Let’s go,” I urged, grabbing my shoes and going out the door.

The lump in my neck would not go away, making me imagine all sorts of scenarios.

I couldn’t distinguish between all the feelings that were trying me. Fear that neither of us would get married, and the excitement that we would attend another Girls’ Fair. That, for a few hours, we could enjoy ourselves.

Or the feeling that something was about to happen.

Getting out of the house, I admired once more what our small farm looked like. The main house was larger than a hut, the three tiny wood-framed windows covering almost half of the exterior wall. My father’s grandparents built this house when they were younger; back then, it was the newest in the village.

Before my mum moved in, the roof was covered by wheat straws, which were stomped on with the feet. But those were replaced by thick, red tiles.

On my right was the food pantry and the summer kitchen, where chickens roamed free in search of food. The barn was next to their coop, together with the firewood, which would get delivered at the end of the summer.