They drove until the gas
gauge hit empty, then pulled into a rest stop somewhere outside Iowa. Marietta
killed the engine. Neither spoke. Confusion riddled them both. Their own
beloved aunt Clara had slammed the door in their faces, terrified of memories
she couldn't name. They'd slept in the car because it felt right. Like someone
who'd loved them had left it behind as protection.
The next morning, Anne
Faith and Marietta awoke. Marietta said, "Anne, are you awake? We need to get
gas and breakfast. I'm hungry?" Anne Faith barely opens one eye, squinting.
"I'm awake, I'm awake!" Anne yawns. "Let's head to Burgies; it's down the street."
Anne Faith, and Marietta enjoy breakfast. Sausage biscuits and orange juice
that remind them of fond love.
They head back to the car.
Marietta and Anne Faith
are standing outside the car. Anne Faith, holding the jagged cross, feels a
voice sliver through her head. The-Crowned-Deep said, "I offer peace, the voice
purred, intimate as a lullaby. Peace through understanding your pain. Through
naming your endless suffering. I can make you remember what was lost—if you're
brave enough to look." The cross was cold in her palm—an empty cold, like
touching the space where memory used to live. Yet something lit up beneath the
surface, searing with faith she couldn't name. A memory she couldn't grasp, no
matter how hard she tried. When Marietta nudged her, the sensation snapped, and
Anne Faith gasped as if surfacing from drowning. Anne Faith said, "I just heard
a weird voice coming from that cross; it told me that it could help us remember
what was lost." Marietta responded, "What was lost…. What are you talking
about? I'm still confused about why Aunt Clara kicked us out of her house
yesterday."
Marietta said, "We're
going to have to deal with this ourselves. Tell me, do you think we should
trust that voice in your head to help us remember what happened?" Anne Faith
said, "I don't know for sure, but we can see where it leads." Anne Faith's
fingers tightened around the cross. "It seems like the memory of love is in the
cross. But it has an insidious feeling now—after hearing that voice. We have to
find out what it all means, Marietta."
Marietta said, "We've
always protected each other, Anne. Remember, Dan tried to stalk us and looked
at us like we were food. We overcame that night in the basement because we
stuck together." Just wondering, Anne, can you remember why we have this feeling
of love in our hearts we can't seem to name?" Anne Faith said, "I have it too,
don't worry Mari…etta, huh. Anne rubs her head, confused. "Your name
rings a bell in my head? Anne Faith continues, I think it's related to that
voice coming from the cross! I think it took something away from us that meant
more than the world to us."
Anne Faith looked at her
sister, then down at the cross in her hand. The voice was quiet now, but she
could feel it waiting—patient as the next morning…
"There's one way to find
out," she said, closing her fingers around the jagged edges until they bit into
her palm. Blood welled.
Marietta's eyes widened.
"Anne, what are you—"
Marietta lunged for her
hand—too late. Blood hit the cross, and the world folded.
Not darkness—light.
Blinding, searing light that smelled of incense and rain.
A hand—not theirs—gripped
the jagged cross. Blood welled against tarnished metal, dark and warm. Then the
hand released, and the figure turned.
Light. Just light, shaped
like love they couldn't name.
The figure dove—not into
water, but into a wound in reality itself. The Bermuda Triangle pulsed at the
church's heart, teeth and pressure and drowning compressed into a single point.
And as she fell, the
voice—her voice—echoed:
"Remember who you are.
Remember whose you are, girls."
Then—snap. The world
rematerialized. Anne Faith hit the pavement, gasping. Marietta's hands were on
her shoulders. 'Anne! Anne, breathe!' Anne Faith's palm is bleeding. Marietta
snapped, "What the hell are you doing Anne? Are you crazy?" Marietta grabbed a
napkin to give to Anne. The absence in their chests felt knitted now, like a
wound beginning to heal. While The Crowned Deep slyly whispered to Anne,
"You'll never find the last piece of what you're missing without me."