The Meadow 43 aged goods,” she said. “But that is what makes you precious, indispensable. I found you all in a crucible of blood. Blood has wrought and galvanized you, left its mark upon you. From now on you are collectors of oaths, because justice for us will never be served by men. You are angry: Good! Women need a final recourse. You will be that last resort, avenging angels for our damaged sisters. It’s not a happy life I’m offering, but it is a meaningful way to live with and control that feeling here,” and she tapped her chest. “You will become the women that bad men fear.” Ginger had an eye that couldn’t see from injury. Clementine’s arms were more cigarette burn than skin. Aster’s nose would never be straight. Jasmine’s sex was mutilated. Hazel’s vocal cords didn’t work. I had nerve damage in my left hand and the fingers stayed curled in a claw. We trained in the basement. We overcame our handicaps, and each developed a specialty. Mine was stealth and ranged weaponry. We learned focus by setting our rage-mantra to music. “Last chance to leave this life,” Juniper told us the night before our first job. “Remain here with me only if your insides are too spoiled for life out there. I don’t want your remorse weighing the rest of us down. Not everyone is made for this, and there is no shame in leaving if you can make it in the real world. Or accept this as your new life and be reborn a SafeGuard Angel.” The rage howled through me in those days. I trained hardest. I was the most ruthless. My right hand was steady and, adept from years of avoiding a violent man, my tread was so silent I could pass undetected through a room full of people in broad daylight. With proper attire, I could disappear completely. Invisible, the word was my strength and my greatest fear. I was afraid I would wake and find that no one could see me at all.
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy ODQ3NA==