the things we do in the dark (+18)

18

Michael liked to pray over them. At the end of their youth church group sessions, he made them stand in a circle while he walked around the group and read Bible verses from Psalms and Proverbs, his favourite being Ephesians 2:8–10. Sometimes, Michael grabbed a shoulder or two when his speeches got really passionate. Iverem always hoped he would hold onto her shoulder when he was in the throes of prayer. And when he did touch her arm, she got chills, his cologne often causing her heart to beat like crazy.

Michael was a good man. He was a good man because he was kind and respectful to his elders. He volunteered at soup kitchens, had the right – "respectable"– style for a man his age, and studied accounting at college, unlike his inner-city classmates stuck in the school-to-prison pipeline. Phenotypically, Michael was a good man.

At the time, Iverem thought so too.

More often nowadays, Michael asked Iverem to stay behind and help him clean up.  She didn't mind this so much since it allowed her to stay out of the house just a bit longer. Her mother was being a real pain lately. It happened in waves with her. She adored Iverem one day, and the next, acted inconvenienced by her mere existence. Iverem couldn't navigate her mother's quickly shifting moods. And as a thirteen-year-old also going through her own mood swings, all the drama with her mother made her home environment unbearable. Anyway, it wasn't like her mother noticed whenever she returned home way later than after her youth church group ended.

This evening was their annual potluck, one of Iverem's favourite church events. Since she was Michael's little helper, Iverem had to collect plastic cups and paper plates and put them into trash bags at the end of the function. Once she finished taking the trash out, she returned inside to let Michael know she was heading home.

"You're wearing the pin," Michael said these words like he was in awe of her.

Michael's father was a jeweller. Last weekend, after their youth church group session, Michael gifted her a fancy butterfly hairpin with these blue jewels that he said brought out the hazel hue in her irises.

She could practically see the amazement blooming in his brown eyes when he saw the pin in her hair. How could someone like Michael ever be enamoured by a girl like her? She was nobody. But now he was touching her braids and caressing the hairpin he bought her. And then, all of a sudden, as if clarity fell on her like a mist, she could see in his eyes that she was more than just another girl to him.

"It looks good on you," he says. "Come."

Michael walks away as if he expects her to follow him. He's not wrong in this assumption because Iverem does. He stops at the potluck table. She stands before him, but he isn't looking at her. His gaze is on the wood and marble serveware, pensive.

"I really like you, Iverem," he says. "Do you like me?"

Iverem couldn't hide her bashful smile when she said: "I like you, too."

Michael smiled like he was happy with her answer. Iverem was glad that she made him happy. She was glad that she said the right thing.

"I want to make you feel good, Iverem," he says. "Do you want me to make you feel good?"

Iverem had no clue what he meant but nodded as if she did. Michael hoisted Iverem onto the potluck table and then lifted her skirt. Iverem grabbed the table to get a better balance. The marble serving platters tilted towards the ground, slamming onto the floor but not breaking. No, the platters remained intact as they rotated in a circular motion, creating a jarring ringing noise.

She didn't have time to understand why this unnerved her so much because Michael started pulling down her underwear. The man poked, poked, and poked his fingers into her crotch, the sharp edges of his fingernails scrapping against her vulva.