chapter one, make me cry from your critique!

Rays of sunlight pierced through the cluster of trees, catching beads of rain before they could hit the soil. A haze of dust drifted through the glass, Eden stared at it like it had something she didn’t. The classroom was illuminated in its soft, natural glow.

With eyes fixated on the scattered light, the voice of Eden’s teacher melted into static. The particles floated past her with carefree ease and a thick layer of jealousy smothered her chest. 

Eden Sharpe was jealous—of a piece of dust. Envy nestled its way into her body. It was stupid. She was stupid.

There was just something so alluring about being completely and utterly free. Being able to go wherever, whenever. Even if they were made up of dead skin and fungal spores. 

Eden would rather be anything but herself. She would rather be the paint peeling from the windowsill— the wilted leaves hugging the trees, living on borrowed time. But at least they were living. 

If she had a choice, Eden supposes that she wouldn’t mind being a raindrop. They were pretty. Useful too, and they were allowed to be different, they could be big, small. Round, sharp— warm or cold. It didn’t matter. They were just allowed to be. 

She watched as they hit the glass beside her head, bursting into a million tiny versions of themselves. Maybe they were her friends and family in another lifetime, maybe even this lifetime. Could they be warning her? Sent to stop something catastrophic from happening. 

Or, maybe they strived to entertain her. Eden liked that idea far better. 

One clung heavier than the others, stubborn, that was probably her dad. Just above, was thin and fragile, that felt like her grandad. And the third one was the strongest of the bunch. It was lonely, trickling further and further from the others. That one would be her mother. 

The Sharpe girl had always been closest to her mother. They shared a likeness that nobody else seemed to understand. Unbelonging. 

All it took was a harsh hit to the window to send all three teardrops racing downwards. She was inwardly rooting for the third pearl, cheering so loudly in her head that she feared her classmates could hear.

Then, an awful thought emerged from the deepest part of her mind. If the third raindrop, the one she had designated to her mother, lost— would something bad happen? Would she open her front door to find her mother dead at her feet?

If the others lost, would the same happen to her father? What about her grandad? Or her gran— aunt, cousin, neighbour. Suddenly, the game wasn’t fun anymore, but Eden couldn’t look away. 

The rest of the world blurred into the background as wide eyes lasered onto the three, measly beads of rain. It felt grave, like it was deciding her fate

Her teacher, Mrs. Ritz stood in front of the all-too-big blackboard, the corners lightened from years of use. No matter how many times she had cleaned the pesky thing, scattered chalk still 
remained. 

In white cursive, ‘Childhood Development’ was written on slate. It had been jotted in a hurry, but it was still neat as could be. Mrs. Ritz, tall, unmoving, and draped in dark hues easily blended into the black. 

“Children are most at peace when the environment around them is calm, predictable—and controlled.” Her words were spoken with practiced gentleness. Malice, hidden beneath layers and layers of rewording and delicate tones—still lingered in the air. 

The girls nodded and immediately, the sound of pens scratching parchment filled the silence. The corners of her lips perked in delight, her nose, dotted with freckles and kissed by the sun scrunched with the movement. She allowed herself to scour the sea of students, eyes keen to find anybody with a mind elsewhere. They would soon be raising the future generation.

Her gaze halted. The proud grin adorning her face was swiftly replaced with an irritated frown, her eyebrows—thick, inky—were pinched together. Eden Sharpe, the girl who sat alone, was glancing out the window like the trees had all the answers, as if they would teach her how to raise her own.

The book in front of her was completely blank. “Eden.” The voice was sharp, imposing. It snapped the teen from her thoughts, reality twisted back. Her game of racing raindrops bled into nothingness. 

The lighting, once warm and Godbound, was now all too bright and fluorescent. The walls, white and spacious, had begun closing in on her. Growing smaller and smaller as her fantasy dissolved. 

“What?” Gasps, loud and unashamed rang through the room. Her classmates, all girls, held similar expressions of shock. The words had slipped out unintentionally. 

Eden knew that they were wrong the second they left her lips. 

She felt the panic. It dominated the jealousy in an instant, firing nerves that had laid dormant for so long. She had been getting better at pretending. 

Sickness crawled up her stomach and made home in the crook of her throat. Immediately, the girl tried to tread over her words. “Sorry— Pardon?” 

It was a fruitless attempt, her slip up had been as clear as day. Eden averted her eyes, avoiding contact with the glowering woman. Instead, she chose to glance at the posters strewn across the room.

‘Good daughters save lives! Keep the peace.’ was printed in bold letters and soft tints. It littered the walls, propaganda that everybody seemed to get sucked into. Eden struggled to decipher if they actually believed it, or were just pretending like her.

She wondered if the boys had similar words etched in their classrooms, if ‘Rebels are terrorists!’ ‘Pray and obey.’ ‘Live by loyalty or don’t live at all.’ surrounded them too, or if their environment was much kinder. 

“Eden!” This time, the words were accompanied by a honed snap of the fingers. “Listen, or go to the headmistress’s.” Mrs. Ritz pronounced the words slow and firm, as if Eden lacked any sense at all.

The girls oohed and ahhed, letting out poorly muffled giggles. Heat flushed her face, from embarrassment or dread, Eden was not sure. 

She glanced back at the window, only to find that the slow rainfall had cleared and the glass was now cluttered with circle-shaped drops. Eden gritted her teeth. “Shit.” It came out hushed, but a few heads turned anyway. Her heart rate spiked as her nervousness only swelled. 

Mrs. Ritz whipped round, facing the chalkboard with her back to the class. This time, Eden’s eyes were following her every move. In her book, she messily scrawled ‘correcting behaviour’ and underlined it with a wooden ruler. Eden glanced around the classroom, leaning over her desk to garner a peek at Layla Lancaster’s work. 

The chair next to Eden was empty. None of her classmates wanted to sit beside her. Not that she cared—she didn’t. But today, Eden wished that somebody would have, because her incessant daydreaming had left her with an empty book and no idea where to start. 

“Stop!” Layla whispered, her clothes rustling with every shift of her body. Her dress, a pink so pale that it could be classed as white, mirrored Eden.

The collar was stiff, unyielding in a way that made Eden feel trapped. It choked her—she could feel it when she moved, when she swallowed and when she breathed. Her dress had been crafted from an itchy wool, she would scratch and scratch until blood caked her nails. The uniform felt more akin to a costume than anything else. 

It was short sleeved and fell far past the knee. Around the middle, was purposely loose material—room for a baby to grow. It was held together with three, thick buttons. Before she was fourteen, the uniform had been much too tight. Eden was secretly thankful for the extra space. 

Layla spun round, shooting Eden an icy glare whilst shielding her book. The blonde of her braid, tight— neat, perfect, swished with her movement. 

She slumped back in her chair. None of the other girls would allow Eden to copy their notes, Layla was the kindest one. Even then, that was a stretch. The blonde was a generally shy, rule-following girl. 

But, like everybody else, Layla found it awkward speaking to Eden. No matter how normal she seemed—how normal she tried to be— there was something there that just wasn’t quite right. 

It was present in everything Eden did, looming over her like God himself. It was something that not even she could explain, just feel. 

Mrs. Ritz stalked forwards, pausing at the first row of desks. “Children don’t ask questions to challenge you. They ask to relieve their uncertainty—“ Eden’s breath hitched. “They need you to relieve them of their uncertainty.” 

She remembers her parents, dancing around her questions, skilfully weaving through strings of words. Why am I only allowed to wear pink? Her mother didn’t answer, not because she didn’t know. She did. But because not even she believed the reasoning—at least not the one she was told to say. 

“We don’t burden children, if they ask, we refer back to..” She trailed off, wanting one of her students to finish her sentence. 

“CLAD!” They spoke in unison. Mrs. Ritz pointed towards the letters gracing the otherwise bare stretch of wall, as if to reinforce the philosophy. Calm, Logical, Assertive, Definitive. 

A hand amiss the throng of students shot up. “Miss, what if,” She hesitated. “What if they stay burdened?” The question hung heavy in the air like a noose. It was disguised, but they knew what she really meant—what if they keep asking questions?

Children are curious by nature and as much as they try—you can’t change nature.

The older woman thought for a moment, selecting her next words with care. The classroom was engulfed in a tense silence. “You guide your child away from the things around them, you remove the stress from their lives.” Don’t let them peek through the cracks. Hide—run, don’t let them see who you really are. 

Her face contorted into a perfectly plastic smile. “Tell me, what are some stressors?” Eden could think of a few. None that she’d be allowed to say.  

Spines straightened, shoulders snapped back and heads were held almost as high as their hands. Eden was the only girl with her hand by her side. She followed suit, even though she couldn’t think of an appropriate answer. 

Though, Eden knew that she was safe. Mrs. Ritz pretended to consider each student, but she eventually picked Rhonda, Layla and then Molly. Usually in that order. She wasn’t too sure why, but she had noticed.

When the sun had long set and she was tucked in bed, Eden liked to think that Mrs. Ritz planted them like the crowd in a magicians show. Maybe they were just very short coworkers that were there purely to affirm her teacher. She would snicker under her breath until she fell into a slumber. Counting sheep had never worked for her. 

“Rhonda.” She gestured to the redhead and the girls surrounding her groaned. Eden hid a grin. 

Rhonda glanced down at her book. “Non-regulated toys, miss.” As she said it, Eden thought back to her wooden fruit and miniature kitchen set. She was never allowed to play with blocks, in case it sparked a passion for boy things. Like architecture or construction. 

Mrs. Ritz nodded. “Correct,” the chalk in her grip gliding across the blackboard in a smooth motion. “Toys that confuse gender roles are one of the biggest challenges a neglected child faces.” 

“Because allowing them to create their own values is neglect.” Eden flicked her eyes to the window, the vibrant sun had begun to melt away, leaving the sky no choice but to darken in its wake. “Children need to be guided onto the correct path.” 

Eden’s shoulders sagged in slight relief. Blues were bleeding into pinks and oranges—a clear sign that the day was almost over. She could not wait until she was home. “Can anybody tell me any more?” 

Faintly, she could hear minced words being exchanged. But Eden was transfixed. The first thing she would do when she arrived home was strip into something comfier, maybe even chuck on her favourite dark pink top. The one that was reserved for especially bad days. 

She would need it. The consequences of the raindrops still weighed heavy on her mind. Her stomach churned with fear, a deep sense of foreboding seeped—Eden flinched, slicing her train of thought in half. Loud and sharp was the snap of a ruler against her desk. 

Mrs. Ritz, her usually feminine and soft aura coiling into something far worse as she stood at the end of Eden’s desk. The look in her eyes was sinister— had she been possessed? Eden did not know. 

“I’m Sor—“ 

The ruler slammed hard and unrelenting, this time, a chip of the desk became dislodged and flew into the air. She had to resist cupping two hands over her ears. “Stand.” 

The older woman’s voice was demanding, a stark contrast to the usual, honeyed tone. Eden cowered under her weighty gaze. She stood. A part of her begged to drift away into the land where raindrops falling was the scariest thing, to allow the scolding to go through one ear and out the other. She wanted—needed to escape. 

But she couldn’t. Mrs. Ritz lolled her head towards the chalkboard and Eden took that as her cue. With shaky legs, she shuffled to the front of the classroom. 

The eyes that stared back at her held no sympathy, they were entirely used to this. It was a breathing reminder of her reality. Embarrassment prickled at her —and she felt foreign in her own skin. She wanted to tear into it, her body itched, it ached with despair. 

Mrs. Ritz marched to Eden, her knuckles glowing white. The ruler squeezed between her fist. “Hands out.” 

She did as she was told. Her hands, already scarred from previous lashings, stung with suspense. 

Thwack. One. Her palms were a jittery mess—and they tingled with the velocity of an earthquake. Bright red throbbed its way to the surface. It hurt. 

Thwack. Two. Her skin split, the metallic scent of blood hugged the air. It was warm, staining her flesh without permission. Layla flinched, her blue eyes fluttering shut.

Thwack. Three. The stinging in her palms subsided, the pain already becoming a part of her. 

Three was her number— three droplets of rain, three buttons—three girls. Eden chewed her food in three’s, she prayed in three’s. And, she received punishments in three’s. 

Thwack. Four. Shit. The slither of relief that Eden had found was gone, the illusion—that somehow this was meant to happen, shattered. The anchor had sunk. 

Tears gathered, but they did not fall. Eden wouldn’t allow them to fall, she feared that the tiniest movement would alert Mrs. Ritz. That somehow, she could cry wrong. Her back was rigid, jaw clenched—Eden was completely still. 

With avoiding eyes, Eden studied at the floor. She could see boots, identical to hers—ugly and coated in a dull brown that reminded her of mud. They never seemed to mould to the shape of her feet, with a quadrillion laces that had to be tied to the very top. Flesh would burst at the leather seams and blisters would form at the base of her heel each time she walked. Eden sometimes thought that the other girls might have hated the uniform as much as she did, and were just better at hiding it. 

“Sit down.” Mrs. Ritz demanded. Eden scurried back to her desk, her hands—burning from both shame and pain, had meaty slashes piercing through the skin. It was a living, breathing reminder that she was just a fuck up.

Nobody would meet her eye, Eden was not quite sure why. The now reopened scars had been there for so long, and had reached so deep that it was not something that you looked at twice. Though, Mrs. Ritz was known as one of the more gentle teachers, it was unexpected.

The rest of the lesson passed in a blur, the steady thrum of heat coursing through her palms kept her grounded, even when she didn’t want to be. A few of the girls kept stealing quick glances back at Eden. She didn’t know what that meant. 

She didn’t dare take a glimpse of the outside world, but through her peripheral vision, she could see that the sky had thawed into a muted colour, it was growing even closer to the end of the day and relief tore through the heavy cloud of misery. 

And as if God finally took pity on her, the blaring alarm sounded out. Signifying that it was time to go home. Eden scraped her belongings into the messenger bag slung across her shoulder. She ignored the sharp jolt of pain.

Her classmates packed up alongside her, they moved their limbs in perfect choreography. In single file—as if they had rehearsed—the girls began exiting the classroom, but not before bidding Mrs. Ritz a farewell. Eden was towards the back, a girl that she recognised but didn’t know the name of stood behind her. She was close. So close that Eden could feel her hot breath caressing her neck, 

Goosebumps raised like budding seeds, the bristly hair covering her nape raised high and alert. She crumpled her nose in discomfort. But she had already been corrected once today, so Eden forced her features into one of poise, wearing a mask of calmness. 

She kept her head downcast as they shuffled through the door. “Goodbye Mrs. Ritz.” Eden lifted her neck and made sure to make eye contact as she said it. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississ— 

“Eden, can you stay after class, please?” Suddenly, the hot air tickling her skin didn’t seem as unbeareable—it was far, far better than whatever Mrs. Ritz had in store for her. Wordlessly, she nodded. She swallowed what felt like heaps of sand and took the seat opposite the teacher’s desk.

If she had friends, Eden wondered if they would wait outside for her, if the consequences would feel much less serious between giggles and silly faces. She didn’t—and she chose not to dwell. 

Her leg jogged up and down rapidly as Eden watched her classmates—the only buffer between her and Mrs. Ritz—leave the room entirely. She couldn’t help but be fearful of what the older woman would do to her, especially with nobody to report misconduct. Not that anybody would, anyway. 

The wooden desk creaked under her weight, but if she did not hold onto it, Eden thought that she might collapse. Her workspace was not filled with mementos from museums, or gifted trinkets. Instead, it was bare with just a glistening name plate and one framed picture. In it, was a photo of Mrs. Ritz and a blonde man. He was buff with skin so pale that it shined in contrast and the bridge of his nose was crooked, like he had broken it

The door squealed to a halt, leaving Eden and her teacher in the classroom alone. The tension was palpable, “I’m sorry.” She chose to speak first, desperate to grasp whatever control she could.

”This can’t keep happening Eden.” Her voice was filled with disappointment and she felt as if she was being scolded by her mother. But the pain still throbbing in her fist reminded her that she was not safe. It wasn’t a simple telling off that would result in Eden being sent to her room, all forgotten in the morning. “Do you understand why I had to punish you?”

Each action, each pitch in her voice was laced with faux gentleness. “Yes.” Eden blinked a bit faster. Mrs. Ritz raised a dark eyebrow. 

She leaned forward, Eden could hear the pucker of her lips. “I don’t think you do.” The raven haired woman interlocked her hands, placing them in front of her. “If you don’t be careful with your words, they will cut your tongue out.” She spoke as if she was simply reminding Eden to wash the dishes, or hang laundry on the line. 

“I did what I did, because I care.” Mrs. Ritz reached for her bruised hands, she held them with care that Eden knew she did not mean. 

Deciding it was easier to just allow the teacher to berate her, Eden stared blankly at her lips. Faintly, she could make out the words—something about her being recalcitrant. 

“Are we clear?” The fog lifted, she said yes, though she didn’t know what she was agreeing with. She left fast. 

Though the sun had long set, she wasn’t enclosed in darkness quite yet.

“Two thousand, one hundred and twelve.” The girl muttered as her boot-clad foot took another step through the tall grass. 

Despite the rain, they had been hit with a recent dry spout and cracks were splintering their way through the roads. Eden avoided them with fervour. A habit the fourteen-year-old picked up after Mindy Watts told her that stepping on a crack would break her father’s back. 

She instead opted to trudge through the uncut greenery that lined the road ahead, melting into a vast stretch of land. The grass tickled her ankles in a way that made her want to scratch them to the bone.

The field stretched for miles and miles, spotted with vibrant flowers and ripe ears of corn. Her town, Eesome, was a beautiful place with more nature than noise.

Eden paced forward, “Two thousand, one hundred and thirteen.” The string of numbers tumbled from her lips. 

Eden cupped a spare hand over her eyes, shielding them from the garish sun. The heat beat down on the teen until white spots coated her vision.

Hats and sunglasses were forbidden. At least, for women. Instead they had to wear their hair in a tight braid, with a parting so sharp and so sunburnt that it glowed against her dark hair.

Women deemed worthy, wives and daughters of powerful men, were permitted to wear a woven bonnet. It was a pretty thing, laced with silk ribbons and adorned with plucked flowers. 

Eden had only ever seen one bonnet in her lifetime. The first lady of Eesome, Mrs. Langford, visited her school with her wisps of golden hair hidden under the woven crown. 

Over in the east view of the church, she had heard that the actual mayor had seen the boys. 

Not that she was jealous. While the boys likely endured a painful, work-heavy lecture, Eden and her classmates did arts and crafts with glue sticks and glitter pens.

The bonnet was something they were taught to aspire for, it was the highest status a woman could get— other than becoming a wife and mother. It was no different than a crown for royals. 
 
Mrs. Langford and her flowered wreath were the topic of conversation for weeks after her visit. Eden’s classmates wouldn’t shut up about how they wanted to wear a bonnet as lovely as hers some day. Leslie Smith even went as far as to make her own, but it was quickly confiscated. 

Eden had never understood the appeal. It was certainly practical, especially on sunny days, but the desperate desire it incited was a complete and utter mystery. 

It was a mystery that was expected for a girl her age. So, Eden tried to care— or at least look like she cared.

“Two thousand, one hundred and thirteen.” The grass had long ended and the dark-haired girl had no choice but to brave the cracked gravel. 

By the time the leather of her boot met the concrete of the ground, Eden had reached two thousand, one hundred and twenty-one.

Her steps slowed as the dramatic cathedral came into view. It was a big thing, with sharp edges and stained windows crafted so beautifully that it looked like God made them himself. 

Though, Eden doubted that their heavenly father would chisel such vulgar things. 

Women, depicted as lesser humans created for men only, melted into pinks and blues on glass. Children born with disabilities burnt with the umbilical cord still attached, were coloured in oranges and yellows. Horrible, awful things had been twisted into something breathtaking.

Eden didn’t put it past the folk of Eesome to create one just for her, portraying her eventual grisly demise. Maybe they would burn her at the stake like they did to accused witches a few hundred years before.

It was a glum thought. 

She knew that her house was growing nearer. In Eesome, there weren't big metal signs with directions or arrows pointing every which way. Instead, the church was their guide. God was their guide. 

Blackened lampposts with crude posters attached began to emerge from the distance. ‘Good daughters save lives! Keep the peace.’ was printed in bold letters and soft tints.

The posts lined the streets leading to her little culdesac . There weren’t many buildings in Eesome, but the ones that still stood tall resided in one place. Hedges that felt like they reached to space enclosed them in the tiny town. No enter, no exit.

With wide eyes trained on the ground and a mind occupied with numbers, the Sharpe girl was completely oblivious to the large flock of boys walking past. 

“Two thousand, two hundred and five.” The words died in her throat. The brown work boots of Danny Covey and his group of friends flooded her sight. Eden looked at the sky again, darkness was steadily creeping in.

She had known the boy since they were in diapers and he had hated her just as long. Danny lived in the same culdesac as Eden, the white house three doors down. 

Mr. and Mrs. Covey were the perfect, picturesque couple with a blondeheaded boy and a bright eyed girl. 

Danny adjusted his paperboy cap, “God, you’re such a retard.” His friends gasped at taking the lord’s name in vain, but didn’t bat an eye at what he called her. 

The light-haired boy kissed his teeth, his lips curling into an uncaring smirk. “Even your name rhymes with it— Tard, Sharpe.” It only took one glance over his shoulder for the other boys to burst into fake laughter. 

Eden furrowed her brows. “No, not really.” 

Danny Covey had always been stupid. He couldn’t count coins to save his life, but he could carry more wood than all of his friends combined, so that was something. 

She felt pity for the boy, really. Being strong was a pivotal factor in making a livelihood, they didn’t care for people with brains— they only wanted mindless soldiers that could do their bidding.

But if Danny were to have an accident, or lose strength with age, his picket fence house would be a tent on the street. 

Eden was not a genius by any means, how could she be? When all they taught her in school was how to cook and clean. Though, at least she knew that tard didn’t rhyme with Sharpe, and that was more than Danny.

The pale of his neck flushed into a muted red, from embarrassment or anger, Eden did not know. She didn’t want to stay and find out. The fourteen-year-old shoved her way past the herd of boys, knocking into them like a row of bowing pins. 

Eden didn’t dare look back— not at the sound of their mutters and jeers, and not at the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching. 

She should have though, because at least then, the brunette would have been able to protect her face.

Gravel bit into her palms. Her nose, once sunkissed and freckled, was now caked in blood. It fountained out of her nostrils, ugly shades of pinks and purples already beginning to form below her brow bone. 

The thickness of her woolen skirt shielded her knees from the same fate. Eden had never been thankful for her dress; and she still wasn’t. She would take knives to her shins a thousand times over if it meant she could be rid of the claustrophobic cloth.   

What hurt the most, wasn’t the throbbing in her nose or the stinging in her hands. Not the sore ego or the flood of embarrassment, it was that they could do this to her without any repercussions. 

Eden was unsure whether cruelty was in his DNA, or if the brutality of his parents gave him permission to act the same. 

There was no hesitance in his movements, no hidden sympathy in his features. His eyes were not glassed over with regret or guilt and though Eden could not read his mind, she knew that he liked hurting her. 

The signs were there in the quirk of his lips and the smugness of his stance.

Danny let out one last scoff before he walked the road that Eden just had. His steps lacked the care hers had, and he had no issue stomping on the cracks. 

Loathsome eyes glared at his disappearing form. Thoughts of revenge ruminated in her head like a prayer. Eden wanted to push him, she wanted to hurt him until her pain became his. 

But she didn’t, because she couldn’t. That would surely be the final nail in the coffin, and her premonition of her very own stained glass exhibit would rain true. 

The truly worst of it all, was that the clutter of numbers were forgotten. “Dick.” Eden spat under her breath, clutching the side of her skirt like a lifeline.

She watched Danny and his friends until they were completely out of sight before continuing home. 

Eden breathed a sigh of relief when her driveway flooded her sight. The bottom of her feet were begging for some rest, blisters and aches had already begun forming.