Plop.
A second one joins the first.
Terror burns in my veins, paralyzing my body into rigidity. I know better than to move. I stand with my hands clasped in front of me, chin tucked against my breastbone, eyes focused on Papa’s feet.
Plop.
Another droplet of blood creates a triangle of crimson splotches between my feet.
I don’t even feel the pain at the moment. I know I will later, but right now, all I feel is fear. Anticipation of the agony to come.
I messed up—we ran out of flour, so I couldn’t make the meal Papa demanded this morning. He wanted venison stew with fresh bread. I made the stew, but I couldn’t make the bread without the flour, and Papa was out at the training field all day with his men, so no one could take me to get it or get it for me. So, I improvised—I made cornbread instead, using some flour alternatives I had.
The instant Papa saw the cornbread in the basket on the table, I knew I was in trouble.
The first blow was just to get my attention.
Now that he has it, the real punishment will begin.
But not before he tortures me with anticipation, first.
“I didn’t ask for cornbread, did I?” His tone is low, so quiet I have to strain to hear him.
“No, Papa.” I can barely swallow past the lump in my throat.
“What’d I ask for?”
“Fresh bread.”
“Which bread do you think I meant?” He rests his hand on the broad brass oval of his belt buckle, emblazoned with the coiled serpent and the words “Don’t tread on me” across the top and “America” across the bottom.
If I’m lucky, and he’s in a forgiving mood, I’ll just get the belt. If he’s not in a good mood, I’ll have the letters from the buckle imprinted on my flesh, later.
“Mama’s recipe,” I whisper.
“That’s right,” he says, his voice syrupy with sarcastic condescension. “Your blessed Mama’s recipe, God rest her soul.”
“But Papa—” I know it’s futile, but I try anyway. “We don’t have any flour.”
“Oh, I see. We don’t have any flour.” He nods, as if in understanding.
His hand flashes and the backs of his knuckles crack against my cheekbone. Pain lances through me, my teeth rattling, my lip splitting; I’m knocked to the floor, holding back a whimper.
Papa crouches beside me. “Whose fault is it that we don’t have no flour, huh?”
“I…” I swallow blood. “I asked for someone to take me shopping yesterday. You said you would.”
“Maybe you oughta plan better, so we don’t run out.” He pinches my split lower lip in a brutal grip between finger and thumb, using pain to haul me to my feet. “When I ask for your mama’s bread, I expect to get what I ask for. You understand me, girl?”
I whimper an affirmative, and he lets go of my lip, wiping the blood on his thumb and finger onto my sleeve.
“You know what today is, Naomi?” He takes a step away from me, shoulders square, spine straight.
He’s tall, my father. Hard as a steel post, all lean muscle and whipcord strength. His graying hair is still thick, worn long in a perpetual ponytail; in my whole life, I’ve never seen him with his hair down. A close-cropped goatee covers his mouth and chin. As ever, he wears camouflage pants tucked into tall black leather combat boots, which are laced up tight and polished to a shine. Black crew-neck T-shirt, and a camo cap with a gold rank insignia on the front—his men refer to him as “The Commander”, so I guess that’s his rank.
They’re not the Army—they’re a militia, and Papa started it. When I was a little girl, it was just Papa, my uncles Aaron and Jedediah, and twenty of their friends from their days in the Army; Papa and his brothers all fought in Iraq in Desert Storm. Now, Papa’s militia is several hundred strong, and they all live and train here, on our compound. Of course, their barracks are all the way on the far north corner of the property, with over three hundred acres of forest and field between them and me.
“What is today, Naomi?” Papa repeats his question.
