Then she sat up and hugged her knees to her chest, rocking back and forth, every muscle painfully contracted. She wanted to tear off her clothes and race to the river. To run until she dropped with exhaustion. To subject her body to exertion so extreme, it would expel the physical memory of everything else that had happened. She didn’t know how long she sat there, one moment imagining clawing Iola’s eyes out, the next feeling unworthy of existence. She began scratching at her thighs, raising angry welts. If only she could peel off her skin, discard her body, escape not only this barn, but herself. She could no longer bear to be Olivia Killion. Olivia Killion was filthy. Disgusting. Indecent. Was this her punishment for what she had done with Mourning? For leaving her family? For not going to church? For wearing trousers? Paralyzed by self-loathing, she found no escape into the easy release of tears. She could not free her mind of that horrible image of herself, tied down like an animal, legs spread wide apart.
