Chapter 8 The Man and the Snake
LEITANA
"Why are you still in that dress?" he asked, his tone icy and deep. My gaze lifted from my lap to meet his eyes, which were fixed on my gown. His expression was neutral, devoid of any emotion, and his words were flat, making me briefly question if it was truly a question.
I glanced down at the long, elegant white wedding dress I wore, unsure of how to remove it. America was strange; why did they insist on donning something so uncomfortable? It was beautiful, yet seemed unnecessary. We were set to present our marriage to God for His blessing, so why the elaborate attire?
Back in Vanuatu, growing up in the convent orphanage, we didn't really go to weddings but the few that we had been to eh, they were happy ones, unlike this forced wedding of mine.
Men wear island shirts with flower prints, women wear Mother Hubbard dresses with bright colors. Everybody laughs, eats, and sings till the night finish.
Not like this.
Not with a man who gazed at me as if he wanted to devour me whole when he lifted my veil to kiss me.
I looked down at the heavy white gown again. The lace scratched my arms, the long train dragging on the floor like it belonged to someone else.
I blinked, trying to sound calm. “I… I didn’t know where other clothes are. I just wake up—uh, woke up—like this.”
“You could have asked,” he said flatly.
“Ask who?” I asked, a little too fast.
His eyes finally left the phone. The blindfolds were scary, wasn't he going to take it off, he was in his home. “Anyone. This house is full of servants.”
I didn’t reply. I didn’t know what to say. My mouth wanted to say ‘Mi not used to people serving me’, but I kept quiet.
I nodded and looked down at my plate, though I had no appetite. I knew my discomfort was partly due to the fabric wrapped around my waist.
My leg tapped nervously against the floor, my fingers twisting in my lap.
Then suddenly, his chair scraped against the floor, the sound slicing through the silence. I looked up just in time to see him rising from his seat, turning toward me. My breath caught, and my eyes went wide.
He stood there, tall and still, and the quiet stretched between us—heavy, tense. My heart thudded hard, fast-fast in my chest.
What I do now? I thought. Mi say something wrong?
He started walking toward me, slow, heavy steps. My chest squeezed. Mi no understand this man.
He stopped behind me. The air turned cold. I could feel a shiver go down my spine.
“Stand up,” he said softly.
His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried power, and I rushed to obey. “Mi sorry,” I whispered. “Mi no mean for do wrong…”
“Stop talking,” he said.
I stood frozen, my eyes wide and my breath quickening. As I finally rose to my feet, he swiftly pulled the chair away. When I turned to face him, I felt his hand encircle my throat from behind.
"Ahhh," I gasped, tears instantly welling up in my eyes as he forcefully pushed me down onto the dining table.
After days of traveling to this unfamiliar land, I felt utterly violated.
In my nineteen years spent with the nuns and my sisters, no man had ever touched me like this, nor had I ever been struck. My own father had hit me for refusing to engage in deceit and pretense, which I believe goes against the commandments of God. Now, this man—my husband—had sullied my lips, and soon my body would follow.
A body I had vowed to offer to God, pure, sacred, and untouched.
Before I realized it, tears were streaming down my face, and I trembled uncontrollably like a leaf.
But then, another realization hit me.
The sound of fabric tearing made me freeze. My eyes widened, heart pounding so fast it hurt.
Then the tight thing that had been squeezing my belly, that cloth that didn’t let me breathe suddenly loosened. Air rushed into my lungs, but I didn’t move. I didn’t even know if I could.
He leaned close, his shadow falling over me, his voice brushing my ear, his breath warm and cold at the same time.
“Next time,” he said, “don’t wear something so stupid.”
His breath touched my neck, and every part of me went still.
For a long moment, I stayed there, palms flat on the table, trying to understand what just happened. Then I heard his footsteps, slow, fading, until the room was silent again.
I straightened slowly, clutching the torn fabric to my chest. My heart was still racing. I wasn’t sure if I should cry or thank him for letting me breathe again.
The air around me still felt strange.
Then I looked down at the torn part of my dress, then at the spot where he had stood.
He had really torn it. The fabric looked expensive, too. For a moment, I felt happy that I could finally breathe and move freely, but then I thought of Mama and Papa. They wouldn’t be too pleased to hear what happened to the dress.
I quickly shook that thought away.
I stood in front of the bedroom door, unsure if I should go in. I had already spent a long time at the dining table, eating until my stomach was full.
Taking a small breath, I pushed the door open and slipped inside, closing it behind me with a soft thud.
When I turned around, my heart skipped, he was there, stepping out of the bathroom.
My eyes went wide.
Standing in front of me, using a towel to wipe his head, water slicing down his chest, his skin shining under the light.
I froze.
My brain stopped working.
He wasn’t wearing… anything.
My mouth opened, but no sound came out. My eyes, oh Lord help me, moved on their own, and before I could stop them, they went there.
And then I saw it.
My whole body went stiff.
“Sweet Jesus!” I gasped softly, my hands flying up to cover my eyes. “That… that thing! It… it move!”
My face burned so hot I thought smoke would come out of my ears. I didn’t even know what to call it. Back home, the nuns always said girls shouldn’t look at a man’s private snake.
“Snake!” I squeaked, taking a step back. “He get one snake!”
He stopped drying his hair, his head tilting slightly like he wasn’t sure what he just heard.
I, meanwhile, was already spinning toward the door, my hands still over my eyes. My heart wouldn’t stop racing. “Mi no see anything! Mi swear!” I blurted, bumping straight into the wall instead of the door.