My Secret Desire

“Rachel, it’s time to get up!”

Vicky’s voice cut through the last fragments of my dream like a blade.

Morning prayer.

Again.

I lay still for a moment, staring at the faint light creeping through my curtains, wishing that for once I could wake up to silence. But no. In this house, silence was a sin, and Vicky, our ever-faithful housekeeper, made sure no one slipped through God’s daily grip.

Every damn day it was the same.

Rachel, get up.

Rachel, lead prayers.

Rachel, play the good daughter.

Rachel, smile for the church.

Rachel, make the lunch. Rachel, fold the linen. Rachel, pray harder.

Rachel, Rachel, RACHEL

I swear sometimes I forget what my own voice sounds like under everyone else’s expectations.

And then there’s him.

My fiancé.

The golden boy of our church. The man every mother prayed their daughter would marry. The “chosen one,” the perfect leader, the role model for every young man in our congregation.

He should have been a prize. A blessing.

But somehow… I got the short straw.

He is kind and tries to be, loving! Bless his heart, but he barely touches me, and when he does, it feels like he’s afraid lightning will strike us both dead. So I smile, I nod, I perform. That’s what I’ve been taught to do, well thats what a good girl would do!

But every night…

God help me…

my body burns.

Not with love.

Not with romance. But with hunger.

A deep, pulsing ache that curls low in my belly and climbs up my spine like a forbidden whisper. I’ve felt it my entire life — urges I’ve been told were sinful, wicked, un-womanly. Urges I’ve prayed against until my knees bruised. Urges that swell in the dark when I’m alone and make me feel like I’m losing my mind.

Sometimes I dream of hands that aren’t his.

Sometimes I wake trembling, aching, drenched in heat I don’t understand.

Sometimes I swear I feel something inside me stretch, press, reach, as if it wants to escape.

But I push it all down.

Because that is what a good woman does.

“Rachel!” Vicky called again, knocking this time. “Morning prayer is in ten minutes!”

Of course it is.

I dragged myself out of bed, slipping into the modest robe waiting on the chair — high collar, long sleeves, nothing that might cause a man to have a sinful thought.

My body rebelled beneath the fabric, alive in ways I couldn’t ignore anymore. The robe felt suffocating, like a cage. Like every layer of my life was designed to bind me, choke me, keep me from being whoever I actually was.

Some mornings, I swear I can taste the desire on my tongue before I even open my eyes.

Some mornings, I want to scream.

This morning…

I wanted to burn the whole damn house down.

But instead, like always, I swallowed the fire, tucked my hair neatly behind my ears, and walked out of my room.

Because apparently, that’s all I’m fucking allowed to do.