By the time we make it down the mountain, Maryanne and I have made a plan. We'll have time to be horrified later. For now, we have to keep moving and I have to keep the fire burning in my chest. It's anger. It's determination. It's a part of Jackie Monroe that was never meant to be, but is nonetheless.

I'm tired of excuses and promises for what will be explained in the next life, when God will finally deign to tell his puny, unworthy mortal children what the fuck is going on. He won't. He's not there. He never has been. More than anything-- more than teachings, more than restrictions, more than torment and rituals and a creepy old man using the blood of his congregants to stay alive -- I am tired of all the control other people have over me and my life.

The church is that control. Rotten to the core, filled with maggots and mold in a pattern of endless writhing white: it has to be destroyed for me to truly be free. I will destroy this temple, but it won't be rebuilt on the third day. I will bleed in the garden, but I won't suffer for a preconceived notion of sin. I will not follow the plan made for my so-called salvation. I will not stay on the path set forth by a God who did not know me, who has created a world with no room for me, who has made it clear that I am not wanted in his idea of perfection. I am no Christ. You can crucify me, but I can't be resurrected.

Maryanne is supposed to be going home to get what she needs and wants of this life we are going to leave behind. Instead of walking away, she looks back at me, determination written in her set eyebrows and set jaw.

"I'll do this with you," she says, firm.

"Are you sure? You don't have to."

"I do. I want to. Burning it down... I'm in." At my raised eyebrow, she stammers, "I have my reasons. I don't want to look back at all. We can't be like the Rabbit-Man, always hiding in the woods, ashamed of what we did or didn't do. We have to make a stand, right here and now." 

Maryanne touches the pendant at the base of her throat. It's the same as mine. She earnedhers long before I did, through faith and piety and study. She holds it between two circling fingers. 

She rips the necklace from her throat, breaking the delicate chain with sheer force of will. When she throws it to the ground, the moon doesn't shine on it. We lose it in the tall grass around our bare feet. 

"I want every little thing," she continues, voice low and near whispering. "I want to go to the beach. I want to swim. I want to pierce my ears. I want to swear sometimes and I want to try coffee and have soda with my meals. I'm tired of not doing normal things. I'm tired of not having a choice."

I don't know what to say. 

Maryanne grins at me, eyes wild with fervor. She smiles. "Let's do it, then. Let's be free, so we can be happy. I want to be happy, Jackie." 

I take her hand, both nervous and unafraid. Words still evade me. 

We march through the empty streets in the deep, thick darkness. The stars above us wink like teenage boys, and I know: Maryanne is right.

I am tired of being denied such harmless activities as watching movies, existing in a natural state, or listening to the goddamn radio. I know that this want and yearning that fills me is just a sign of being human. Why should I put off the natural man? I'm not a fucking diety. I'm just a person. 

At the same time, I don't want to get caught. What will people think of me if they find out about this? What will they think of my mother? This will reflect poorly on the both of us.

But then we're at the church and there is no more time for trepidation. The steeple stretches up into the dark sky, white stone poking through deep red bricks and the velvet of night. It is all at once awe-inspiring and horribly foreboding. I wish I could tell the difference between those two things. 

The rest of the plan comes to me as it leaves my lips. "There are candles in the storage closet. There has to be matches or lighters, too, right? It would be stupid to have candles with no lighters. So we light the candles and we knock them over in the chapel and in the hallways. Don't the- isn't there gasoline in the storage closet for barbeques and things? Don't they keep that in there, too? So we have a lot of things we can set this place on fire with."

"The party's still happening, though. What if there are people there?" Maryanne points out.

"Maybe one of us should make an appearance to distract them."

"It's going to have to be you."

"What?" I feel like pouting, like crossing my arms and puffing out my lips. "Why me?"

"I'm supposed to be dead, remember? Come on, Jackie O. They can put two and two together."

She's right. As much as I want to carry this out myself, it's better if I serve as a distraction to keep their eyes off of the church. I was supposed to go back after I was done, anyway.

We part ways just outside the church. She promises that this is something she wants to do as much as I do, and pries open one of the classroom windows to get inside. I watch her go until she's in the hall. 

With every intention of having a horrible time but pretending I'm not, I take a deep breath and step into the yellow light and the crowd of the pavilion. They don't notice me at first. If they do, they don't make a fuss about it.

It's Sister Moldovo who brings attention to me. She is still dressed in her dress clothes from before, and her face lights up like a bonfire. Grinning, she grabs me by the hand and drags me to the front of the church's pavilion.

"Brothers and sisters!" she calls, holding our hands high above our heads. "Our Spring Hare has returned! Winter is over!"

The conversation pauses. All eyes are on me. I give them all a sheepish smile and just kind of stand there.

It very quickly becomes a blur of hands in my face, of people I know or once knew hugging me and thanking me for what I have done, of flesh and flesh and flesh. They don't know what I have done.

I like being adored. There's an elation to it. I am righteous in my anger and holy in my joy. The discomfort I feel at my lie of omission is ignored for the here and now. For someone who has spent her entire life avoiding the spotlight by sabotaging all her performances, I certainly am basking in it now.

The worst part comes when, at the end of the line, a little girl comes up to me. Something about her makes my stomach twist itself up in knots, like wringed hands, like twisted dish towels. There's such hope and desperation in her eyes that it nearly breaks me.

Clutching a pamphlet version of the story of the Spring Maiden and the Frost Father, eyes glistening with a certain kind of childish light, she finds her way to me. I can't help but think that I am going to let her down.

She looks up at me with these big clear eyes, smiling like the world will never end, and I feel my heart break and crumble and fall into my stomach acid. "Thank you for what you did, Sister Monroe!"

And what am I supposed to say? That I didn't do anything? That I'm too much for a coward to get up in front of everybody and tell the truth?

In the end, I settle on, "Uh-- yeah. Of course."

She wraps her arms around my sweat-soaked middle. The fabric there is damp and clings in all the wrong places, but nobody seems to mind. This lie of omission is eating me alive.

I put a hand on her shoulder. I don't know what else to say. "It's going to be okay."

At that moment, without warning, the church goes up in flames.

It's all at once and all-consuming. The flames illuminate everything; the smoke curls up toward the sky, where it reaches for the moon. I remove my hand from the little girl's shoulder and push my way toward the church. All the bodies of people around me are already gathering in a crowd. I am determined to be the one at the front of the pack. 

I want to see what I have done. If all eyes are on the thing that is happening in front of us, then they're not on me. Being anonymous and at the front of it all is the opposite of the sheer terror and panic I have been feeling so often lately.

Maybe this is my happy ending. The Rabbit-Man is dead, the church is burning, and I found and saved Maryanne. 

No, that's not right. Maryanne saved herself. I was just there to help.

When I spot Maryanne by the edge of the woods, grinning like a madman, I can't help but think that this is it. This is the end of all the torment and all the manipulation. We're going to get out of here. 

I watch the church burn for a moment longer. My fellow citizens rush for buckets of water and wet towels to bat away the flames and what remains of our old-fashioned furniture. 

I am not. The fire is far too mesmerizing. The promise of freedom and near-vindication is too strong to even consider denying.

There's a certain smell to it, one that doesn't quite fit. It's like meat cooking, like oil burning. I squint into one of the windows facing the parking lot and the pavilion. There's someone in there with thin white hair, melting white-pink-tan skin, and a black suit with a gold tie that has nearly turned ash. He stands there, hands on the windows, mouth screaming for ears that can not hear him.

It's Bishop Stern.

I feel delight, then disgust at myself. Does he really deserve to die? I have my doubts at first, but the fact that I'm not moving is enough of a decision. 

He can burn now. I will burn later, if Hell ever comes for me.

While everyone is distracted, I scurry over to the edge of the trees to see Maryanne. Her face is flushed and practically glowing. I've seen her excited before, but I don't think I've seen her like this. She looks like she could do anything, like she's still high on the adrenaline rush of disobedience. I can't say that I blame her. I feel the way that she looks.

There's not much to do, vis a vis our plan to escape.

I grin at her. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yeah!" She punches the air, and it looks ridiculous, given her giant fur coat and its magnificent, magnanimous sleeves. "One thing, though-- I don't want to stop by my house. Nothing there is mine. They would never let me bring any of it with me."

I nod. I get it. But, still, "I have to get some of my stuff out of my house. There are things I can't leave behind. I want to have a letter to my sisters. I want to... I don't know. We need a car, too, unless we want to walk out of town."

She nods. "All right. Let's go to your house, then."

Maryanne takes my hands and pulls me into the woods. As we walk toward my house, I can't help but feel as though we are being watched by something deep in the darkness. It may mean us ill but, for now, we are safe as long as we stick to the path.