Revolutionary Hero

This story is rated 18+ for language, mild sexuality, and violence.

Chapter 1- London, England, 1776

  He had always been different from everyone else. Even at an early age, Dante Peterson had known that for some reason he did not belong, was not normal and never would be. It was the only thing he had ever known, and to him it was just second nature. But when he had gotten older he began to realize the difference between himself and others. It was hard to live this way in the early eighteenth century, where people looked upon him as evil, a bad omen, a burden to them all. In truth he was none of these, but the priest had separated him from his parents three years ago as soon as he had turned sixteen, then threw him out into the streets and made him an outcast, all because of something he could not change.
  In truth, sometimes even he felt plagued with it himself- his gift could be turned into a curse if he allowed it. His parents had never looked down on him because of it, though in the first few years they had no doubt been confused, but that had passed and they had learned to live with it. That is until, when Dante was only twelve years old, a man from their large village had somehow figured out their secret, and thinking it was some sort of sorcery, reported it to the priest immediately. Since Dante had been underage, there was nothing they could have done until his sixteenth birthday, and on the very day the priest and the townspeople quite literally raided their house and threw him out.
  All this trouble and abuse, just because he could control things with his mind. Some called it evil- others called it telekinesis. To Dante, it was just life. It had its advantages, and of course, disadvantages. The persecution he suffered made him bitter, hardcore, and if possible, was somehow making him into what he had been accused of before. He could be dangerous if he let himself, but for the most part had his abilities under control because he had always lived with it and knew nothing else. In reality he was a powerhouse, and was capable of killing a man with nothing but his mind if he wished it, but had never used his powers against another person; not even while being physically dragged from his home and cast out of his village.
  When he had first been driven out, he had been crushed, lost, beaten down to nothing and alone, unsure at what he was going to do or where he was going to go. But that had been over three years ago, and now Dante mainly lived on the streets and had nearly forgotten his family altogether. Forgetting about your own family, especially after they had tried to defend him from the mob that had thrown him out, seemed to be a terrible thing, but when one lives entirely on their own, dependent on no one but themselves and struggles just to live, it is not so much of a crime.
  He traveled a lot, and by now was far away from his old home, and thankfully. Sometimes, when he did think about them, he missed his parents, but he had grown hard over the years and was mostly just glad that he was away from people who knew him. Nowadays he moved around too much for anyone to become aquainted with him, and when he was just passing through a town his appearance itself was enough to keep people at a distance. He was tall and muscular, with jet black hair that he liked to keep in a slight vertical position, just to be different, and steel-blue eyes; he always dressed in dark clothing and a black hooded cloak that nearly touched the ground, and his complexion seemed almost like that of a ghost; his pale skin shone nearly white against his dark features, and his strong jaw framed his face with an almost sunken appearance under both cheekbones. This served to make him look intimidating, almost ghastly, but despite all this he was a very good-looking young man, if he was not hiding beneath that infamous hood.
  Dante was getting tired of moving around so much and never belonging, but then again he probably never would settle down anywhere- he was too different for that. Besides, everywhere he went there were people that were afraid of him as soon as they knew what he could do. He did not understand why it was such a big deal, really. Just because he was not exactly like everyone else, his life had been turned upside down and ripped apart.
  But there was something else about him that no one besides his parents knew, and this he would never make known if he could help it. Frankly, he could predict things- at times he had ominous visions, whether asleep or wide awake, of things that ended up coming to pass. The first time it had happened, he had been about seven years old. In midday up in the barn loft, he had been putting down fresh hay for the animals when suddenly, in his mind's eye, he had a very clear vision of the village in near total destruction. He could see it as if he had really been witnessing it; in the vision the sky had been so dark it looked almost black, and it was as if he could really feel the strong wind. He had dropped what he was doing immediately and went and told his father of the thing, who had told him to quit daydreaming and get back to work, but sure enough, three days later, a tornado unexpectedly ripped through the village and took a few of their neighbor's lives with it.
  His parents learned to listen to him after that. The visions did not happen very often, but when they did, Dante made sure to keep his guard up. When he was younger and was faced with the responsibility of at times having an idea of the future, it was natural that he wanted to warn the other people, but his father forbade it. The man knew what danger it could bring if anyone else knew, and he was not about to let his son be punished for something he could not help. Of course he did not know that, in time, it was going to be inevitable.
  After putting up with all of these hardships for all his life, Dante was beginning to get used to it- though that of course did not make it easy. Sometimes he wished that he did not have the gift, or curse; whichever way you looked at it it was all the same anyway. Life would be so much easier if he did not have to worry about it. Besides, it seemed to do more harm than good. It had happened before that he had used his powers without even trying, and that could be dangerous if he could not quickly gain control. He had noticed a pattern than when this had happened, he had had been feeling something strongly, anger, sadness, even a small crush on a neighbor girl, and now he had to wonder if his powers were triggered by emotion. He terribly needed to work on his control, but was almost afraid to let loose and try, in fear of hurting someone or even himself.
  So he understood that he had a lot of power, but was still very reluctant about trying to use it. He had even wondered if there was a way that he could altogether avoid it, but that had proved impossible when it had just taken it upon itself to take control of him, rather than the other way around. He wished that there was someone out there that could help him, maybe teach him how to use his power, but that was close to impossible; he doubted that there was anyone else out there that was even close to similar to him. But little did he know...

-O-

  In the cold, wet streets of the big city of London, there were many sources of entertainment and many places to find it. Some of the people that went for a night out in the city just wanted to have a good time, but with others there was a more sinister twist to it, and none knew this better than Johnny Webster. Almost every night he had to endure it, and tonight was no exception. The excitement was thick, the crowd loud and unruly, the bets were on him, and the heavy scotch was just starting to kick in. It was not unusual for him to get a buzz before a fight, for it helped to dull the pain and somehow made him stronger. Not like he had much of a choice, though. He fought to protect himself and he fought to live, simple as that.
  The iron door to his small holding cell was swung open and the watchman came inside with a large keyring in hand. "Time to get out there, Armes-Mortel," he snapped, and unlocked the shackles from Johnny's wrists. As the chains fell to the floor and Johnny stood up, the watchman grabbed the boy tightly by the arm and said threateningly, "There's a lot of bets on you tonight, so don't disappoint the crowd."
  Johnny yanked his arm free from the man's grip and headed down the hall towards the light and all the cheering. Like he cared about what the crowd thought. It was his Frenchman master, Henri Dupree, he needed to keep happy, and doing that meant continuing to put money in his pocket, and so he had to fight. If Johnny lost, he knew that he would face a beating after everyone left, and the beatings were always worse than fighting an opponent- at least he could fight back when he was in the ring.
  At seventeen, Johnny was of average height, very thin and a little on the malnourished side, but wiry. His dark eyes matched the color of his thick brown hair, and he had tanned skin, despite always being locked up in the dark. Usually far outweighed and outsized by his opponents, the fights were rough but somehow he usually came out on top. How he managed this was a mystery to the crowd, but it was not so hard to understand when you were on the other side of things. Not only would he be beaten and deliberately starved by his master if he lost, but it was not unusual for the fights to go all the way to the death. Johnny was stronger than he looked and had grown into a superb fighter over time, and the voluntary opponents that challenged him were not aware of this until he had them bruised and bleeding on the floor, knocked out, or even dead.
  These fights could be very gory if they went on long enough, and that was saying a lot for the teenager because weapons were strictly forbidden. Despite the rules, some men would still pull out daggers in the heat of battle, and Johnny could not keep up with all the times that he had been shanked. Nevertheless, since he obviously never died, he either won or the other man backed down- the latter being rare. Since Johnny was basically undefeated and Henri owned the bar, the man invited anyone who dared challenge the boy to go ahead and step into the ring, which in reality was actually a ceiling-high cage. Dozens gathered for the nightly event, after paying the fee, of course, and the bar that had also been turned into a fighting arena so long ago was usually filled to the brim with spectators. The bar that was right beside the cage only served to bring in more money, and even the prostitues that served the customers enjoyed watching a bloody brawl, and quite a few of them had a soft spot for Johnny, or perhaps even a selfish desire, which he for the most part ignored.
  The fights were not always between Johnny and someone else; a lot of times other men would go against each other, but the main attraction was no doubt the undefeatable teenager. He was even advertised on the fliers that were pasted to shop windows and the sides of buildings as the Armes-Mortel, which translated to Deadly Weapon from French, so that everyone could know how amazing he was. The thing was, though, most of the people who came to that place had no idea that Johnny did not fight wilfully, except for the whores and the bartenders- they knew. The other people just had it in their heads that he had volunteered for a few fights in the past, and having never been defeated, just kept going for the money. But he did not get one cent of it- the only thing he got was to be assured that he would live another night.
  Not that he was not use to hardships; he had lived a very difficult life so far. After his parents had died of a plague, he was orphaned at the age of five, and having no other family, was sent to an orphanage where he lived for years. There he learned that violence and force were the only things that could prosper, and he quickly turned into a thief and something of an oppressing bully. But later a few boys formed a vendetta against him and the tables were turned, and one time they cornered him and beat him so badly that he quite literally vomited blood all night long. After that he decided it was better to stay away from the other boys, though that was very hard when they lived in such close quarters, and he became like a shadow in the building. But finally the day came, after living in that place for ten years, that he decided to escape, and though the vicious man who ran the orphange tried to stop him, Johnny was long gone and did not plan on looking back.
  And so he had been forced to live by his wits on the streets, but that was far better than suffering all his life in the orphanage. It was hard to find necessities out there, such as food and shelter, but since he was already so good at taking things that were not his, he had gotten by fairly well. After a few years of that, he had an accident in a dark alley one night, and about a month later was when the bar owner Henri had come across him. Despite that he caught the boy at a very bad time, after it was over he had offered Johnny help, and for some reason trusting the man, Johnny had allowed himself to be taken to his house, upstairs above the bar, that was not far down the street. There Henri had given him a full bottle of scotch, 'for the pain', he had said, whereupon Johnny deleriously drank the whole thing and later passed out. He had awakened in a small dark room with an iron gate and shackled wrists, and his life as a moneymaker for Henri Dupree began.
  Now as he routinely made his way to the arena in silence, unescorted since he had done this a thousand times and had never caused problems before, he felt a sudden bitterness as he heard the cries of the anxious crowd. This anger had been there before, very strong in the first few weeks of his bondage to a man that he had thought was going to help him, but after he had finally accepted his situation, it had diminished for awhile- but was now flaring up again. He knew that one day he was going to die in that arena if this went on for much longer, but he could not imagine himself living the rest of his life with this torture, however short his life may be.
  When he entered the large lamp-lit room and ascended the metal stairs to the inside of the caged arena, the people that were crowded around cheered loudly. He unbuttoned and slid out of his battered jacket, as was customary in the ring, and as one of Henri's prostitutes caught it for him he noticed out of the corner of his eye that the regulars to the bar were looking on expectantly, while a few newcomers seemed to be very doubtful, almost disappointed. Only then did he stop and look to see who this night's opponent was, and as soon as he knew he almost wished he had not looked. The man that awaited him was at least seven feet tall and way over three hundred pounds, and whose biceps alone were about the width of Johnny's whole body. The boy had to blink hard and look again, wondering if the scotch was messing with his vision. He turned and looked back over his shoulder, whereupon Henri himself stepped up onto the stairs and brabbed Johnny's shoulders from behind.
  "Don't let his size distract you," the Frenchman whispered fiercely. "You lose tonight, and it's all over." He dug his fingers into the boy's shoulders and pushed him forward into the ring.
  Johnny did not want to even think about what those last words meant, but he did not have time to anyway. As soon as the gate to the arena was closed and the bell had been rung, the huge man in front of him began to advance upon him. Johnny naturally bristled in anticipation, but there was a voice in his head that was warning him not to be foolish- there was no way he could beat this giant, and he knew it. But he had no other choice but to at least do the most damage he could before he was killed; and of course that option was not out of the question. Men from all over had been obsessed with defeating the boy, but they only got one chance each and all of them who had tried had failed miserably, but it would not take much for this man to change that.
  Johnny ducked away from the first deadly swing, and it was so close that he felt the air of it blow back his hair a little. There were some gasps from the crowd, but he barely heard even the loud cheering. There was no way he could back out of this fight, not even if he claimed defeat or begged Henri to spare him from this one, which he would never do anyway, so he had two choices: one, he could stand there and get smashed up by the unreal, hulking mass of man, or two, he could fight back and hope for the best. So of course he chose option two.
  He had always been known for his lightning-quickness, and it did not fail him now; in a flash he was behind the man and had already drawn blood before anyone really saw what had happened. But despite the deep gashes, the man grinned widely as he turned around, and then a monsterous laugh escaped him, which Johnny could not help but cringe at a little. They both knew, and probably so did everyone else in the large room, that this fight was not going to last long, and the undefeated teenager was very soonly going to be taken down- no matter which way it had to be done.
  "Do you actually expect to defeat me, Armes-Mortel?" the man rumbled as the two of them circled one another, the sinister smile still plastered on his face. "Seems you are not so deadly after all, eh?"
  Johnny felt his lip curl instinctively, and though he knew that the man was right, he refused to merely give up. The crowd was screaming his name, or rather the French name Henri had given him (none of the onlookers knew his real name), but he blocked them all out. As usual, most of them had placed their bets on him and were expecting him to win, but anyone with eyes could see that that was a far-fetched hope. The size difference alone between himself and his opponent was enough, but the strength was the biggest issue. One blow that landed on Johnny could easily be enough to kill him, and he realized that instantly, but he was counting on his speed and agility to match the other man's size and strength to save him, or at least spare him for awhile.
  The next few minutes were chaos inside the ring, however a very orderly chaos, if that was even possible. The two of them knew exactly what they were doing and how to do it, but their moves were all so quick that it appeared to be nothing but a flurry of physical attacks and dodges. In a way it was, but it went deeper than that. Johnny was trying as hard as he could to spare himself from the fury of this man, for the latter was dead set on being victorious that night and refused to show any mercy, despite that his rival was only a boy.
  They were still making a quick circle around the arena, Johnny on the outside of it with his back close to the iron bars behind him. The huge man grinned at him pleasantly, as if they were having a friendly conversation or getting ready to share some tea, and this only served to make Johnny more angry. His first impulse was to attack with everything he had, but he firmly held that in check; if he was going to die tonight, so be it, but there was no reason to go and commit suicide. He was at least going to tire the man out a little and take a chance on it.
  In the next quick circle that they made, Johnny laid eyes on Henri for a split second, and he could see the silent anger in the Frenchman's eyes. So even his master knew that the odds were terribly against him and that victory had almost no chance. Johnny remembered Henri's threat of earlier and thought on it briefly, but the punishment of a beating seemed as nothing compared to what he might face. He realized that if he lost it would probably mean death, but if he somehow survived Henri might take it upon himself to do the task. The only thing that could save Johnny from either of these ends was to win, and he would try no matter how impossible it was; and though his life had been a living hell every night for months, for some reason he suddenly wanted to live so badly that he decided he would go stark-crazy in this ring if he had to.
  As Johnny was just coming to the realization that he so desperately wanted to live, his opponent chose that time to make another advance. With his huge fist clenched, he took a massive swing that would have no doubt killed Johnny if he would not have quickly dodged. The crowd made an excited outcry at Johnny's narrow escape, but the boy's heart was pounding inside his chest with anticipation- he had long ago in his life forgotten fear, and so thus did not know it; all he knew at the moment was that he needed to keep a distance between himself and the other man in the ring, no matter how hard that may be.
  "I'm going to kill you," the man hissed quietly to Johnny, the deceiving smile now disappeared and replaced with an expression of total seriousness. "I'm going to kill you and I'm going to do it slowly, Armes-Mortel." They made another circle around the ring, both of them deaf to the cries of the crowd. "You thought you could get away with getting paid for taking men's lives forever, didn't you? Well, tonight your time has come, my boy."
  Don't threaten me, Johnny thought tensely. Don't threaten me. The words echoed in his head almost uncontrolably as the two of them circled around one another, and suddenly he noticed something shine in the other man's belt, no doubt a dagger. This put a new twist on the fight, for though weapons were not even allowed, this giant was intent on being victorious and would probably use whatever means necessary, and now Johnny just had all the more reason to keep his distance.
  Without warning, the man struck. Johnny's quick reflexes kicked in and he moved like lightning to get out of the way, but the man was faster than he had thought and somehow connected his huge swinging fist with the boy's left ear. Not only was Johnny painfully overthrown, but he slid across the floor and smashed hard into the metal bars of the cage, where he remained motionless for a moment. The crowd gasped and some protested slightly, but for the most part they watched quietly. After a few seconds Johnny slowly reached up his right arm and grasped the bars tightly, his free hand pressed firmly to the side of his head. The crowd now cheered at the sight that he was still in the fight, and though he was bloody and looked quite terrible, he felt even worse. He could barely see anything but a cloud of blackness and stars, and his head was throbbing badly; with each throb another trickle of blood ran down his neck.
  He felt rather than heard his opponent approaching, and as he dizzily dragged himself to his feet he noticed that even the crowd did not seem to be as loud. But he did not have time to think about it, the man was almost right on him. As he turned around he saw Henri on the outside of the bars, his mouth open and forming angry words, but Johnny did not hear that either. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the giant was pulling back for another swing, but this time Johnny was fast enough to dodge and somersault out of the way- not very gracefully, but it worked. Or at leat it almost did. Just as he was between the final stages of the roll and the act of quickly standing up, the man grabbed him by the back of the shirt and yanked him nearer.
  Johnny tried to fight back, but the grip was far too strong. The next thing he knew, the man was pressed hard against his back, and his huge forearm came around and locked around Johnny's throat. It was the deadliest of chokeholds, and Johnny was desperate to break free. He clutched the man's arm with both hands and naturally tried to jerk it loose, but of course in vain; there was no way he was going to escape that way. He hated being physically restricted and could easily slip into a panic attack, but he had a far bigger problem at the moment- the pressure on his throat was tight and he could not breathe. He dug his short fingernails as deep as they would go into the offending arm, but the man just pulled him closer and laughed deeply.
  "You can struggle all you want, little boy," he rumbled quietly, barely audible over the noise of the protesting crowd. He ran a finger down the length of Johnny's jaw and grinned. "But you're mine tonight."
  If he had not been being throttled, Johnny would have felt violated by the closeness of this man, but he was far more concerned with the problem of getting air into his lungs. He thrashed and tried to slide out of the grip, but that only served to make the situation worse. He opened his eyes gently and and saw a blurry crowd, and he thought quickly but deeply of death. He had imagined it many times before in his life, but for it to be so close was almost peaceful. He felt no fear, and perhaps finally escaping his way of life would be a good thing, even if he had to go out this way... but not that he wanted to. He was still going to fight.
  The man was still laughing a little, and suddenly Johnny had an idea, despite the cloudiness of his head and the pounding of his suffocating heart. He had strangled his share of men in the past and knew that the process did not take very long, so he had better make this quick. The man pressed his arm in harder when he felt the boy move, and though Johnny's lungs were absolutely dying for air, he knew that he had only one chance to get out of this alive. As quickly as he could, he let go of the man with one hand and reached down until he felt the huge thigh. He roughly slid his fingers up to the thick belt, but just as the man realized what was happening, it was already too late; Johnny whipped the dagger into his hand and thrust it into the man's side with all of the little bit of strength he had left.
  The giant's grip immediately fell away, and Johnny dropped down onto his knees, panting and gasping desperately for air. He could very faintly hear the crowd's cheering, but mostly all that he was aware of was the sound of his lungs trying to come to life again. Suddenly he could make out Henri's voice yelling at him to get up, which he would if it was possible, but at the moment he was swooning and could not move. He wanted to get up and fight, to put an end to this battle before it put an end to him, but the lack of oxygen had taken its toll on him, and he passed out.

-O-

  In the downtown streets of the dark, quiet part of town, sixteen year old Rose Smith faced her mother stubbornly in the dark lamplit room, fists clenched and jaw tight. She could not believe what she had just heard, especially coming from her mother. Wasn't it enough that she was working as a seamstress for the old woman down the road? Yes, their family was dirt poor and it was a daily struggle just to keep themselves and the little children fed, but this was insane.
  "It's for our own good, my daughter. It will not hurt you to have the experience, and we need the money."
  "You have to be out of your mind, Mother. I won't do it."
  Her mother's stern gaze landed hard on her. "You know how difficult it's been since your father walked out on us last year, Rose. We need to do everyhing we can to stay on our feet."
  Rose bent down on her knees beside her mother's chair and gripped the armrest in her thin fingers. "I know that, and I've been working every day since then. What more do you want from me?"
  "I want money, Rose," her mother said quietly after a short pause.
  Rose jumped up quickly. "Enough to make your daughter sell herself as a whore?!" she exploded in a sudden wave of rage. Silence followed, Rose panting slightly, the words hanging in the air frozen like ice.
  After a few moments, her mother let out a long sigh and put aside her sewing. "It's not as bad as you imagine," she said quietly. "Plenty of women have to make their living that way."
  "Not me," Rose said, just as quietly. "I won't sell myself to random men for a few coins." Then raising her voice to drown out her mother's protest, "If you want this done, why don't you go walk the streets yourself?"
  "Rose! I am far too old to even think such a thing."
  "Mother, as long as I have been old enough to understand, I've wanted to obey you in everything you've asked of me. But this is just asking too much. Please, I don't want to lose my virginity to some man I don't even know."
  Her mother closed her eyes and drew in a breath, then looked up at her daughter firmly. "I am not asking you, Rose- I'm telling you. I'm sorry, but this is the way it's going to be. It's either that, or we'll all end up starving."
  For a moment all words escaped Rose. Her mother had to be crazy to think that she would actually go along with this, just because their family needed the money. There were probably countless other ways for them to get by, and her mother had happened to have picked the worst, and why? It was an occupation for the lowlife women who did not even take it seriously, who just wanted money. This did not describe Rose, and it offended her to her core. With nothing else to say that she had not already made clear, she stormed off to the small bedroom she shared with her two little sisters and slammed the rickety door. They stared at her from the trundle bed in the corner, and she dried the tears that were forming in her eyes and forced a smile.
  "Shouldn't you two be asleep by now?" she said gently, even though she knew that they had heard all the yelling, and though they did not know what it was all about, it had frightened them. They both lay back on the pillow again, and Rose turned to the dresser and settled her eyes on the looking glass on the wall. She hardly ever had time to primp or really look at herself, and the girl that looked back at her was nearly a stranger. With her wavy auburn cascading down her back, her delicate heart-shaped face, and her skirts touching the floor, she had turned into a woman over the past year without even realizing it. She hadn't had much choice, since her father had left and she had been forced to begin working daily. School had not been an issue, since she had finished the year before and was old enough to even be a teacher if she wished it, but that would take a lot of tests and certificates. Besides, there wasn't time to get that far.
  Rose was still set on fighting her mother on this, but suddenly she felt that she should make sure of her decision before she did anything drastic. She turned away from the mirror and briefly ran her fingers through each one of her little sister's hair, then took her thin jacket from its peg on the wall and slipped it on over her plain green dress. It was certainly not the most beautiful dress in London, but it had been the best they could afford, and Rose was glad for it. She carefully glanced out the bedroom door and saw that her mother had already gone to her own room. Rose looked back at her sister with a pain inside her, almost like she was going away and would never see them again. She tried to shake the feeling as she left the room and blew out the lamp, but for some reason it kept nagging at her as she slipped out the back door unnoticed.
  The alley behind the small house was dark in the early night, but Rose could feel a slight drizzle. She pulled on the hood of her jacket as she left the alley and made her way down the lamplit cobblestone street, her heart for some reason pounding in her chest. She wanted to do as her mother told her, but more than that she did not want to be a whore. Her mother knew it was wrong just as much as her daughter did, but her desperation for money made her overlook that. Rose felt trapped, pushed into a corner- it was as if she didn't have a choice, and she hated it. Of all the ways to make money, this was the one she had to do, alongside her seamstress work for old Mrs. Durnell. Anything else her mother would have chosen, and she would have done it gladly... but this was going too far.
  Rose walked down the wet, deserted street for a long time, until she came to the large door of the church. Candlelight shone from underneat the door, warm and inviting, and she took a deep breath, hear hand on the wet handle. Was this really the place to bring a problem like this? She touched the silver crucifix necklace that hung against her chest, and decided that it was. Who else would listen to her?
  Finally she pushed the door open, the warmth hitting her face and rushing up under her skirts and jacket. The priest was at the pulpit, blowing out the candles, and he turned when he heard the door open. "Ah, Rose Smith," he said, spreading his hands. "Come in and close the door." She did, and pushed off her wet hood as she walked slowly up the aisle. "What brings you here, young lady?"
  Rose slid onto the edge of the first pew and tried to smooth her skirts as best she could. "Well, Father," she said, quietly, but her voice somehow echoed off the walls. "I came to ask a question."
  "Ah, I see." He blew out the last candle and sat in the pew across from her. "What is it you would like to know?"
  She looked down at her hands. There was no way she could just tell him what was going on, though it would have made sense, but she could not bring herself to put it into words. He seemed to realize this and told her to go ahead when she was ready; which she would never be ready, but she had come all this way by herself and could not just back out now. "Father," she finally forced out hesitantly, "if your parents tell you to do something that you don't think is right, and you don't do it... is that wrong?"
  "I understand. Have you done something wrong?"
  "No," she replied, meeting his eyes for the first time. "Not yet."
  He nodded. "Interesting you should say that. Well, the Bible says that we should obey our parents. It is the first commandment, in fact. In Ephesians 6:1 it says, 'Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right. Honor thy father and mother, which is the first commandment with promise; that it may be well with thee, and thou mayest live long on the earth'," he quoted."So, yes, we are supposed to obey our parents in everything."
  Even though it was undoubtedly the truth, it was not what Rose had wanted to hear. She wished she could tell him the whole story and ask if it would still be a sin to disobey her mother to avoid doing something else that was wrong, but she could not force it out of her own mouth. The priest could see that she was distressed, so he reached over and patted her hand, smiling a little, and she had to fight back a sob. "Thank you, Father." She dabbed her watery eyes with the back of her hand and stood up slowly. "I should be getting home now."
  "You'll be all right walking back in the dark?" When she nodded, he stood up as well and looked down at her. "Well, I hope your visit has helped you somewhat. Just remember that even when you feel alone, the Lord's always there."
  She thanked him again and left the church, and when she got out onto the wet street again, her breath was coming out in shaky puffs that turned to grey steam as they hit the cold air. As of now, it looked like she had no choice but to follow through with her mother's plans, and as much as she did not want to, she decided that she might as well get used to it. There was no telling how long it was going to go on, but it would not be forever if Rose could help it. There was no way she wanted to live the rest of her life as a whore; then again she could move out when she got married, but that was an unlikely thing if she was going to be sleeping around for money. Just thinking that made her cringe, and she felt the angry tears begin to burn in her eyes again, begging to be let loose, but she would not let them. More than anything she wanted her mother to change her mind, or find a way to get around this, but so far she was not in the position to change it, and suddenly she made up her mind.
  When she reached the house, she took a deep breath and opened the front door quietly. Her mother was again in the main room by the fire, and as they met eyes, Rose clenched her fists tightly and said, "Get me ready for tonight. I'm ready to do whatever you say."