Catholic Guilt and the Joy of Hating Men - By Regan Wolfrom Page 0,5

don’t expect you to,” he said. “I’m just seeing if you’re paying attention.” He turned to the blond girl in the rich girl suit. “She’s immune,” he said. “Ms. Shannard was right about her.”

“You’re kidding,” the girl said. “Like for real, immune? She’d said the same thing about how many others, but look where they’d all ended up.”

“Immune. You can pump her full of however much fluid you’d like, but she won’t become suggestive at any point. She’d be dead long before.”

“Dead? How much would that take?”

“That is not how we do things, Cadance.”

“Then what am I supposed to do with her?”

“Feed her to the pigs.”

Cadance bobbed her head up and down. “Like... just throw her in alive and everything?”

“Can you guys stop talking like I’m not even here?” I asked.

The man sighed. “That was meant to be a joke. Ms. Shannard wanted me to bring her confirmation before she gives me further instructions.”

“I don’t care about her stupid instructions,” the girl said. “You should be talking to my father.”

“No, you should be letting me go,” I said.

“Your father isn’t in charge,” the man said. “It won’t be up to him. Just keep an eye on this one.”

“I’m not a babysitter.”

“No, you’re a grown-up now, Cadance. Try to act like one.”

He stared at me for a moment. He licked his lips and stared a little more.

He opened the stall and walked out, grabbing his duffel bag as he left.

He hadn’t closed the gate.

I ran out past Cadance and turned towards the nearest door, the opposite way from where the man had gone. I pulled the sliding door open and stepped outside.

I looked back to Cadance, who was following me, but about as slowly as a person could walk. She looked more disgusted than worried; I’m tall but I’m not really that scary looking.

I kept running anyway, heading past two huge trucks and horse trailers, toward paddocks teeming with well-bred warmbloods.

I opened the first gate I came to, pushing past a few curious horse noses and continuing towards the distant tree line. I knew enough about Vermont to know that if i kept running long enough I’d end up somewhere with a crowd of syrup-guzzling tourists and their cell phones.

Cadance was still behind me, but the gap was widening quickly.

Something didn’t seem right.

I climbed over the fence into another paddock, one field closer to the woods.

I didn’t want to think about the muck that was collecting on my shoes.

I reached the end of the paddock, only a few feet from the trees.

And then I saw the real fence.

It was at least ten feet tall, and it bent inward at the top like the ones you’d see on National Geographic prison shows. I didn’t have to figure out a way of squatting sideways and peeing on it to know that it was electrified.

That’s why Cadance had no reason to hurry.

“There’s nowhere to go,” she said to me once she caught up. “You’re locked in, Amanda.”

“Where am I?”

“Gawd. You’re in Vermont. What are you, like mentally challenged?”

I basically growled at her. “I might not be able to escape... but there’s nothing stopping me from kicking your ass, princess.”

“I have a cattle prod, too,” she said.

I looked her over. “Where?”

“Dammit. The tack room...”

I’m not proud of it, but it did feel good.

I gave Cadance Snobbybritches probably the worst beating of her life. Like almost to a needing stitches level.

Well, okay... it was more like two punches to the mouth. But I’ve never hit anyone before. Usually a glare and some kind of huff is enough to send the right message.

I left her hunched up on the paddock fence and I made my way back towards the stables. There were six buildings in a row, with gray brick walls and a general look of despair. It was like some kind of horsey Auschwitz; I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to board their horse in a place like that. I picked a different stable building to check, using my nose to find the semi-sweet smell of manure. Just hay and water, as my aunt used to say.

As I neared I could hear the snorts and hooves. There was something calming about the sounds.

There was a large ‘D’ painted on the door with blood red paint.

I opened the sliding door slowly, hoping that whoever was inside wouldn’t notice. Of course, that’s near impossible in real life, and it squeaked like a field mouse on a hard diet of performance enhancing drugs. I stopped opening it about halfway, which