Creekers

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Roughened hands disrobed her before the cracked mirror.

“You are the most perfect of all of us,” came the equally roughened whisper to her ear. She could feel the heat of the breath, and of the words themselves.

But then more words oozed through her head:

So perfect…

So worthy…

So beautiful…

“Yeeeeesss,” keened the voice behind her.

So beautiful…for Him.

Only a few crooked candles lit the downstairs parlor. In the mirror she could see herself, and she could see the Reverend standing behind her like a queer, tall shadow in its black raiments and drooping hood which hid his face.

“So beautiful for Him,” he whispered.

Beautiful, she thought. Yes, she was. Much more beautiful than the other girls. Clean, they called her, and the few others who were born like her. A clean baby. A clean child. A clean woman. So few were ever born clean…

The Reverend’s large hands peeled away her threadbare dress like a shift of rotten cheesecloth. She did not flinch. Being stripped at any given moment was nothing new to her; she was used to it, and she was used to the things that always happened afterward. Now her naked flesh shone starkly in the mirror’s dark veins: sleek, womanly curves, unblemished skin, long legs and high, full breasts. Hair shiny and fine as black silk framed her youthful, striking face. Once she asked why the men from town paid so much less for her. “‘Cos you’re clean, child,” she was told. “You ain’t all uglied up like most the others. Cain’t hardly even tell you’re  Creeker,  ’cept fer yer eyes…”

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