The starched doilies on the side table felt like tiny, stiff accusations. Audrey traced their sharp edges with a fingertip, the rough cotton biting into her skin, a familiar punishment, a familiar weight. The Jones household wasn't a home. It was a stage. Every surface gleamed, every movement was rehearsed, and Audrey had long since been cast as the shameful understudy.
In the kitchen, the scentless space where hunger was treated like rebellion, Audrey pushed around her meager portion of baked chicken, a piece no larger than a playing card. Above the doorway, the family plaque loomed: "Spare the Rod, Spoil the Child." It wasn't just belief. It was sentence, scripture, and scar tissue.
The silence shattered when Mia's shrill cry rang from down the hall.
"Mother! Father! Look what I found!"
Audrey's stomach turned to stone.
Mia. Her older, adopted sister. The perfect daughter. The golden child who could do no wrong.
Mia burst into the room, clutching something in her hands—a small, tattered notebook. Audrey's eyes widened. It wasn't her journal. She knew that notebook. It wasn't hers.
It was a plant.
Mia's voice trembled, perfectly measured to sound both horrified and heartbroken.
"I was tidying Audrey's room, just helping, and I found this under her mattress." She thrust the notebook toward Mrs. Jones, her lower lip quivering.
"Mother, I—I didn't want to believe it, but—"
Mrs. Jones seized the notebook, flipping through the pages. Her face crumpled into practiced devastation as she read the carefully planted entries aloud.
"'Food is corruption. I fast to purify.'"
"'The razor is my crucifixion.'"
"'I dream of holding Lena's hand in church.'"
Each line was a blade, and Audrey knew she had never written them. The handwriting was flawless. Mia had copied her script with terrifying precision.
Audrey's heart slammed in her chest as she realized the trap. Mia had planted the entries. Lies carefully written, perfectly timed, expertly delivered.
Mrs. Jones collapsed onto the floral sofa, dabbing at dry eyes with a handkerchief.
"We've tried everything," she sobbed, her voice rising in pitch. "Prayer, fasting… the belt…" Her eyes darted to Audrey, layering her grief with threat. "But she's lost to this… wickedness."
Mr. Jones remained silent, his arms crossed, his expression a grim statue of pious authority. His silence was always the loudest sentence.
Mia sniffled, stepping closer to Mrs. Jones.
"I only wanted to help her. I thought she was getting better." Her words dripped with false concern.
"I didn't know she was… still so sick."
A series of urgent phone calls followed. First to Sister Agnes, the school nurse and fellow church member. Then to Pastor Miller, who specialized in wayward children and fire-and-brimstone parenting.
Audrey sat motionless, watching the play unfold, feeling the suffocation closing in.
When Sister Agnes arrived, Mrs. Jones deliberately presented Audrey's bruised arm, the freshest belt mark from the night before.
"Oh, you poor lamb," Sister Agnes murmured, not to Audrey, but to Mrs. Jones. Her thumb pressed the bruise gently, but her concern was for the parents' burden, not Audrey's pain.
"Sometimes these battles need… professional correction. New Dawn would do her good."
New Dawn Christian Obedience Camp.
Pastor Miller arrived soon after, solemn and immovable.
"Proverbs 23:13," he intoned. "Withhold not correction from the child, for if thou beatest him with a rod, he shall not die."
His solution was clear: structured discipline at New Dawn.
Audrey listened to them trade her future like a business deal.
But New Dawn… she'd heard whispers. It was strict, yes, but it wasn't what she feared. It wasn't what Mia had made it sound like. Some kids said there were actual rules. Actual food. Beds.
Maybe it would be better.
The decision was made. They would visit the camp.
The car ride was suffocating. Mr. Jones drove in silence. Mrs. Jones clutched her purse like a shield. Mia sat in the backseat, her hands folded in her lap, her head tilted with faux sadness.
"You'll see," Mia whispered sweetly. "They'll fix you there. They'll see what I've tried so hard to cover for you."
Audrey said nothing. She counted the telephone poles, feeling the walls inside her fracture.
But the camp was not what she expected.
New Dawn was bright. Clean. Children laughed openly. The walls bore murals, not scripture. The dining hall smelled of roast chicken and bread, not bleach. The counselors smiled, not the tight, forced smiles of church volunteers, but real, warm smiles.
Audrey watched, numb, as the counselor explained the structure: three meals a day, group chores, Bible study, and rewards for good behavior. Children were allowed their own beds. Their own pillows.
Audrey's stomach twisted painfully as she watched a girl collect a second helping of mashed potatoes. Another boy laughed as he was praised for memorizing a verse.
This wasn't punishment. This was relief.
And then came the whisper. A girl, maybe a year older, sidled up to Audrey and whispered,
"They beat you at home, huh?"
Audrey blinked.
"Here, it's not like that. If you mess up, you write lines. Sometimes you miss dessert. That's it." The girl shrugged.
"Here, you survive."
Audrey's pulse quickened. She realized, in a sharp, electric moment, that this place, this punishment, was better than home.
When the counselor finished explaining, Audrey looked her straight in the eye and said,
"Please let me stay."
Mrs. Jones's face crumbled into pure panic.
"She's manipulating you!" she screeched. "She's dangerous! She'll infect the others!"
Mr. Jones grabbed Audrey's arm roughly.
"She's coming home. That's final."
The counselor tried to argue, but the Joneses dragged Audrey back to the car.
Mia sat beside her on the ride home, silent for most of the trip. As the house came into view, she finally whispered,
"You really thought you were going to escape, huh?"
Audrey didn't answer. She stared out the window, clutching the memory of the laughter, the smell of real food, the girl who had seen her.
That night, the belt was used harder than ever.
But under her pillow, Audrey clutched a brochure she had picked from the camp reception—a physical promise that life could be different.
She pulled out a small notebook, her real one, and began to write. Not what Mia would write. Not what her parents would want.
This time, the words belonged to her.