The Careful Implementation of External Pressure

Case #13: Nida Cortes.

Case #13: Nida Cortes.
Monday/February/24/2020/ 4:11PM

Nida Cortes was raised as a good Christian. Sure, she didn't necessarily nail all the finer points of it like her mother or come naturally into perfect, unfaltering faith like her sister, but she believed. She asked questions, but she believed, and she did her best, and she was certain that that's all God asked of her.

She hadn't prayed properly since she'd been guilted into going to her sister's church last Christmas, aside from a hastily whispered grace before she dug into her $2 microwaved mac n' cheese every night, but that was far from proper.

She was praying now though, fervently; her knees to the floor and her hands clasped together under her chin. She didn't dare close her eyes, too afraid and unable to look away from the scene in front of her for that.

The men pacing the length of the lobby had arms heavy with guns, and her skin pricked every time one of them looked down at her. She tried to keep her wrist turned in on her without drawing their attention, afraid of what they'd do if they saw the cross tattoo there. Her mother had thrown a loud fit and her sister had neatly quoted Leviticus 19:28 and done her scorning quietly. It made Naida feel closer to God though, so she stuck it out and bared their heavy looks until it became another unspoken disappointment between them.

An older woman next to Naida was clutching a rosary, praying under her breath louder than the rest of them. Her face was so slippery with tears her glasses nearly slid off her face, and Naida held out against that voice in her chest that had always made her question her God. Her mother called it the devil, Nadia called it a douse of curiosity. It didn't lessen her faith to question why God allowed such suffering. It merely leads her deeper into God's word, seeking answers in the space between testaments.

She changed her prayer, quietly, "Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil-"

She was cut off when one of the men's voices rang out, booming, and louder was the sound of the gun in his arms shifting.

"Who is making that god-awful mumbling?" He snapped, glaring down at them. Nadia tensed very carefully when the woman, hard-of-hearing and unable to control the volume of her desperate plea's, choked on a sob.

"It was me," Nadia said quietly when she saw the man's eyes fix on the woman next to her. To ensure the other women's safety, she went on, "May God rebuke him, we humbly pray; And do thou, O Prince of the Heave-"

A hand fit tightly into Nadia's hair, forcing her up onto her toe's and an arch in her back to lessen the pain. It didn't help, but all that faded away when she felt the cold press of metal against the side of her head.

"I hate that shit," the man behind her sneered, addressing the man across from them. "God's not gonna help you now, honey, he doesn't give a shit." He spoke to her condescendingly, making it clear just what he thought of her belief.

Nadia suddenly realized she was very, very angry, and between clenched teeth, she continued, "-Heavenly Host, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan and all evil spirits-"

The man pulled her hair again, and Nadia did not bother blinking back tears. She thought of her boyfriend, urging her to just give it up instead of spending countless nights flipping through the holy book and looking online for different interpretations. She thought of her sister, and of all the verses she had memorized and could quote to shame Nadia at any time. She thought of her mother and her eccentric ways, telling her to believe properly.

Nadia finished, "-spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls," and then she started it again, and again until the man had gone from gripping her hair to gripping her throat, and even then she used whatever breath she had left to keep going.