Prologue - The Mercy Cage

New York City, 1899

     I look around at the gaggle of men, all of whom are already drunk at ten on a Saturday morning. The world feels like a spinning blur as they laugh and point at me, and I cannot remember the last time I had more than a few sips of water in a day. What do these ignorant men know? This is all a game to them, and I am today’s prize. Sister Agatha presses her hand so firmly into my throat, I can feel her nails piercing through my skin. I do not dare look at her as I try to hold back from choking. I will not give her the satisfaction of seeing the tears well in my eyes. The only thing worse than her nails was the puncture of the razor into my scalp. 

To my left, one man lights the other’s cigarette, as he chuckles, at me I suppose. I can only imagine how outlandish I look with my face smushed like the disgusting rolls they serve, and the restraints pressing into my arms, making them bulge. What is left on my emaciating frame, that is. They are lucky they restrained me. If it were not for that, I would lunge and smack them both at once, especially when I've caught them pointing and snickering. Don’t they have anything better to do, like betting on horses? 

The man behind me walks out in front of the crowd, like this is some sort of circus show, and raises his arm with the straight razor up high. The crowd of men roar a cheer and erupt into laughter as he gives a speech that I can’t quite make out. I am so thirsty and my head hurts in the worst way. A young boy with sad eyes runs through the crowd and plops down in front of the men. I think he feels sorry as he looks at me until the boisterous man behind him in overalls too small for his big drunk belly slaps him on the shoulder and gives him a swig of his drink. The little boy sputters as he swallows and looks back at me, shrugs his shoulders, and then plops back down on the ground. 

SLASH. I feel the blade swipe across the back of my head, and in the corner of my eyes, I see a weft of hair fall to the dirt. My hair. The back of my head stings, but my heart stings more. I am a mockery to all these men, and they will never know that. All they will believe are the lies. I feel my eyes well up with tears, but no, I will not cry for these men that I do not know. These same men that used to cheer for me and hoot and holler in the dance hall, and throw me change, now mock and jeer me. Is that all women are? Are we merely spectacles of entertainment- that men feel some sense of entitlement to decide who we are and what we are to become? 

I catch a girl peeking around the corner, and as soon as our eyes meet, she darts her eyes away. She knows that this could be her, I suspect, as the rumors have begun to spread throughout the city. The days of the House of Mercy’s image as a charity are slowly fading, as the word spreads of moments like this and the girls that never make it out alive. I wish I could warn her. She could tell everyone to fight with every muscle of their being and run as fast away as they can to avoid this horrid nightmare. 

With each swipe to the back of my head, I know there cannot possibly be any hair left. I feel warm drips slowly fall down my neck, making me shudder. The murmur grows greater, louder, and I start to feel sick to my stomach as the men clang beers, and the smell of smoke becomes unescapable. Sister Agatha grabs my shoulders and pulls me up; she turns me to face away from the crowd so they get a good look at the back of my head. The man shaving my head roughly brushes over the top of my head with his course callused palm, and the remaining hair falls. I feel the tears well up again. No, Anne, you cannot let them see your tears. You are strong. 

Sister Gertrude contorts me back to face the crowd and they erupt with laughter and roaring once again. Together, they begin to chant “God’s Will Be Done!  God’s Will Be Done! God’s Will Be Done!”. 

As Sister Gertrude wrenches me around, I see that more little boys moved to the front of the crowd. Together, they scamper and pick up pieces of my hair from the ground, running back and holding up my hair like a prize won at the fair. The sad boy turns around one last time, pauses as he looks for my eyes, and then slips into the crowd. 

The last words I hear is the man who shaved my head saying to the crowd, “The House of Mercy is an important institution to our city in helping to reform troublesome girls. They are doing the good work of the Lord.” The crowd yelled, “Amen.” 

I am Anne. I wish I were dead. 

Next Chapter - Chapter 1

PS -THE DAY HAS ARRIVED! We are releasing the first chapter of our novel to paid subscribers (but all free subscribers will receive the prologue and a few chapters for free) beginning October 1st. If you are willing to share my writing with someone who you think would resonate, that would mean so much to Cat & I as we build our path to making the series!