The Lives
Copyright© 2026 by R. E. Bounds
Chapter 19: The Vigilante
Long tables stretched across the lawn, lit by strings of warm bulbs and surrounded by cousins, aunts, uncles, and neighbors who blurred into an extended family.
Evelyn described herself as sitting at the edge of it all. She said she kept imagining she would eventually move more naturally between the groups—carrying plates, helping with setup, joining conversations the way others did. But in the moment, she stayed where she had been placed. Her posture, she said, was deliberately straight, controlled, as though she was constantly reminding herself how to sit.
As she spoke, she returned repeatedly to the same point. The restraints made everything difficult. They made the dress feel wrong on her body. They made even sitting uncomfortable. Her shoes, her movements, her posture—everything, in her words, felt “awkward.”
She remembered shifting slightly and immediately regretting it, because the cuffs pressed into her wrists.
It had only been two days, she said. Two days, and she was already aware of every small movement she made.
“Still getting used to it?” Francis asked, as she lowered herself into the chair beside her.
Evelyn said she laughed softly. She told me she had already learned that laughing was easier than crying.
I made a note of that and marked it for later follow-up.
“Is it that obvious?” Evelyn asked in the memory.
“Yes,” Francis replied, smiling.
For a moment, Evelyn said, neither of them spoke.
Then Francis asked, more quietly, if she was all right.
Evelyn hesitated.
“Honestly?” she asked.
“Honestly,” Francis said.
Evelyn said she looked out across the gathering. No one was paying attention to her. According to her, this was not unusual—most people there had seen this before. Many of the women present, she said, had gone through the same process, particularly those who had married into the family. She was less certain about those born into it, and said she had not yet felt comfortable asking.
She mentioned Francis specifically when she said that. I noted it again.
At that moment, she said, she looked down at herself and told herself this was normal.
“I’m okay,” she said. “Mostly.”
Francis nodded, as if expecting that answer.
“But?” Francis prompted.
Evelyn exhaled.
“I don’t think I understood what this would actually be like,” she said.
Francis’s expression, Evelyn recalled, shifted slightly—still calm, but more deliberate.
“No one really does,” Francis said. “Not in advance. Not without a reference point. And if you had one ... you wouldn’t be here.”
Evelyn said she had known there would be training, and that there would be rules. She had understood that intellectually. But she also said it had never fully translated into expectation.
“I just never pictured it,” she told Francis.
“What did you picture?” Francis asked.
“That’s the thing,” Evelyn said. “I don’t think I did.”
She told me she felt embarrassed admitting that. She used the word “asinine” to describe how it sounded in hindsight.
She said Daniel had explained it to her. So had his mother. So had Francis, and the other women.
But, as she put it, none of it had fully registered at the time.
“I guess I understood it in theory,” she continued. “I just—”
Evelyn said she looked down again and tried to adjust her wrists, wincing as the cuffs shifted against her skin. Francis reached over at that point, she told me, and pulled the box slightly closer, holding it steady so the movement was easier.
“Thanks,” Evelyn said, once she managed to reposition her wrists so they stopped hurting.
Francis smiled. “The angled box is better,” she said. “But it’ll be a while before you get one of those.”
Evelyn glanced down at her wrists again.
“These are uncomfortable,” Francis told her, “but that’s part of the training.”
Evelyn laughed softly. “Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Because it’s true,” Francis replied.
Evelyn said that surprised her a little. Francis, however, simply folded her hands in her lap.
“The first stage isn’t really about comfort,” Francis said. “It’s about awareness.”
“Awareness?”
Evelyn nodded as she repeated it.
“Right now, every time you move, you’re conscious of it. Every step, every reach, every time you sit down or stand up. You can’t forget where you are in the process.”
Evelyn said she looked down at the cuffs again and told Francis, “Yeah, well ... it works. I definitely can’t forget.”
She emphasized that Francis didn’t sound unkind. If anything, she said, her tone was reassuring.
I wrote that down.
“It’s very limiting right now because you’re learning,” Francis continued.
Evelyn said she went quiet at that point, just listening.
“You’re in training,” Francis said. “You’re supposed to feel that. Not just understand it intellectually—feel it.”
Evelyn said she shifted slightly then, unable to stop herself from responding.
“So, the point is to make me uncomfortable?”
“The point is to make you mindful,” Francis replied, smiling slightly. “The discomfort helps.”
Evelyn said she gave a short laugh—hers, not Francis’s—and told her, “That’s a convenient distinction.”
Francis laughed. “It is. But it’s also true.”
Evelyn said her expression changed after that, softening.
“You’re learning your place in something bigger than yourself,” Francis told her. “You’re learning new habits, new responsibilities, new expectations. The restraints are there to remind you of that, every minute of the day.”
Evelyn said she looked out across the lawn at that point—families talking, children running between tables, people who seemed to belong so naturally they never had to think about it.
I noted that. Children were present.
“And eventually?” Evelyn asked.
“Eventually, you won’t need as many reminders,” she said Francis told her, gesturing toward her ankles. “That’s why you’ll move to longer chains later—more freedom, more trust. The restrictions ease as training progresses. As you demonstrate compliance. Understanding.”
Evelyn was looking toward the wall at that point. She seemed absorbed in the memory, as if deciding how much of it to say aloud.
“So, I earn the right to walk normally,” she said she asked Francis, “by demonstrating submission.”
Evelyn said Francis smiled at that—like there was a quiet amusement in the phrasing, as if she found something in it slightly too simplified, but not incorrect.
Francis, she said, replied, “Something like that.”
I watched as Evelyn shook her head, as if she were still trying to make sense of it.
“They make me hobble,” she said. “I have to think about every step. It’s humiliating.”
“Yes,” Francis had told her.
“And The Joining,” Francis added, “isn’t supposed to begin with confidence. It begins with humility.”
Evelyn said she didn’t have an answer to that. She didn’t know how to respond in the moment.
After a pause, she said quietly, “It’s just ... I can’t do anything for myself anymore.”
I wrote that down.
Francis nodded. “The first month is the hardest,” she told her.
“Month?” Evelyn said she had stared at her. “Francis, it’s been two days. I was hoping you’d say maybe two weeks. Something like that.”
“I know,” Francis replied. “I could lie to you. Tell you it’ll feel normal in a week.”
“It’s been two days,” Evelyn repeated, drawing the words out. “And I’m already tired of all this.”
“I know,” Francis said again, more gently this time. “But the reality is it’s going to take weeks. Maybe months. Everyone is different.”
Evelyn said she groaned and fidgeted with the connecting chain at her waist, the one that led down to her leg restraints. Francis reached over then, she told me, and lightly took her hand, guiding it away.
“No fidgeting,” Francis said softly. “That chain has a purpose. Every part of this has a purpose. It isn’t a toy.”
Evelyn told me she wanted to say what she was really feeling then—that she felt like a plaything. An object. Something sexual in implication, given the way she was restrained and dressed.
Instead, she said she looked at Francis, forced the irritation down, and let her hands fall still. She became aware of every second again—every small pull of metal against skin. Even the smallest movement, she said, wasn’t simply noticed. It was corrected.
That was when she began to realize the rules weren’t suggestions. They were enforced. Lived.
“It took me ... I think three months before I realized they weren’t coming off,” Francis said at one point.
Evelyn said she immediately responded, “I thought there would be periods without them.”
“No,” Francis said, shaking her head. “Short, designated breaks, like you’ve learned—but otherwise, you wear them.”
“I thought maybe at home, or with family—” Evelyn began.
She said Francis’s expression answered before she finished the sentence.
After that, she said she stared down at her wrists, trying to imagine what it meant—every minute stretched across weeks, months.
Francis watched her closely, she recalled, as if she could see the thought forming.
“They’re not meant to punish,” Francis told her. “They’re meant to teach. To make sure you remember you’re in training. It’s part of learning your place.”
Evelyn let out a short, humorless laugh then, still looking somewhere past me, as if she were back in the memory.
“It feels less like teaching,” she said, “and more like ... imprisonment.”
“Maybe,” Francis admitted. “But it works. And eventually it becomes habit. Awareness becomes second nature. You’ll be able to move, act, without thinking. That’s when the training succeeds.”
Evelyn leaned back into the couch, she said. After a moment, she told Francis, “I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this for a year.”
Francis went quiet for a moment.
Then she reached over and squeezed her hand. “Neither did I,” she said.
Evelyn looked at her, she recalled.
“I mean it,” Francis said. “The first week I cried every night—”
She stopped, a faint flush rising in her cheeks. “Well ... not always for the same reasons. But you understand. I was convinced I couldn’t do it. That I didn’t want the marriage.”
I wrote that down.
“Really?” Evelyn said.
I looked up then. She wasn’t responding to my note-taking. She was repeating what she had said to Francis. I had begun to notice she sometimes tracked what I wrote as she spoke.
“Absolutely,” Francis replied.
She gave a small, knowing smile—softer now.
“But it changes,” she said. “Everything feels overwhelming at first. There are parts of it you can’t really prepare for.”
“But you stayed,” Evelyn said.
“I stayed.”
“Why?”
Francis glanced toward the crowd—families gathered together in layers of generations. Mothers, daughters, grandmothers, wives. Evelyn said she followed her gaze.
Francis was looking at Doug, she added. Her husband, as I learned in an earlier session.
“Because I love him,” Francis said quietly. “And eventually, it stopped feeling impossible.”
Evelyn said there was a faint smile when she said it. She meant it.
“I wanted the life waiting for me at the end,” Francis continued. “I wanted a life with him.”
She looked back at Evelyn. “So, I endured it. Just like you will.”
That was when Francis reached for her arm and told her to come.
Evelyn said she leaned forward and stood, guided by Francis’s steadying hand. There wasn’t time to think through the movement—it happened before she could fully process it. Everything still felt procedural to her, she said. As if she were being moved through steps she hadn’t yet learned, but was expected to follow anyway.
I noted that down.
Evelyn said she asked where they were going.
“It’s a family gathering,” Francis told her. “I’m going to make you mingle. Let people meet you. Get to know you a little.”
She described closing her eyes briefly as she took a step, wincing. The cuffs, she said, had shifted while she was seated, and she had to adjust her stance to settle them again. She could feel them moving around her ankles with each step.
“She puts them on snug,” Evelyn said.
Francis nodded, she told me. She understood she was referring to Josephine—their mother-in-law, well, soon-to-be mother-in-law, who Evelyn said she had learned was responsible for overseeing that the training was carried out correctly. Evelyn had apparently spent a considerable amount of time with her.
“It’s so you can’t walk without the heels,” Francis had told her. “Not unless you’ve trained in ballet.”
“You mean these torture devices?” Evelyn said.
She said it was meant sarcastically, though she wasn’t entirely sure it landed that way.
Evelyn said she pointed down at her shoes, then gestured toward the women around them.
“You need to get used to them,” Francis told her. “It’s a requirement. Dresses, skirts, hose ... and yes, those.”
“But five inches?” Evelyn replied.
Francis laughed again. “Part of the training. You’re expected to be able to walk in stilettos that high from now on.”
“Come on,” Francis said as she guided her forward. “One foot in front of the other.”
“You’re not the one in short-chained leg cuffs,” Evelyn said.
“I spent a year in those,” Francis replied, still smiling. “And heels just like those. I still do. We all do.”
She gestured subtly toward one of the nearby women standing with her husband. Evelyn said she noticed the heels first—at least five inches, her foot angled sharply forward—but what stayed with her were the cuffs. Her wrists were behind her back.
I wrote that down.
“She still wears them?” Evelyn said she asked.
Francis nodded. “Like I said. Heels are a requirement. Best to get used to them now.”
She was trying to make a joke of it, but Evelyn said she called her out gently, telling her she knew what she meant.
Francis laughed. “Just because the training ends doesn’t mean everything stops. You don’t have to keep wearing those after you finish. Not unless Daniel requires it.”
Evelyn said she stopped at that and looked at her.
Francis continued. “The clothes, how you act—all the things you’re learning—you’re expected to continue them without question. No exceptions.”
Evelyn said she was still processing that, even though it had happened a year earlier. She found herself returning to it as she remembered.
Francis went on, more carefully this time.
“But there are also expectations within your own family—what your husband expects of you. Those are things you and Daniel will handle privately.”
Evelyn said she tried to speak, to interrupt, but Francis gently cut her off.
“Your role,” Francis said, as if it were self-evident, “is to serve your husband. In whatever capacity he needs. That’s the foundation of it.”
Evelyn said she frowned slightly, trying to understand the tone more than the words. Francis noticed.
“If he wants you at a family event in a certain dress, you’ll wear it. If he wants you in five-inch stilettos, you’ll come in five-inch stilettos. If he wants you cuffed the entire time, you’ll arrive cuffed and remain cuffed. And if he brings you fully restrained, like now, you’ll come fully restrained.”
“To support him,” Francis continued. “To build a home with him. To take care of the family in the way every woman in this family has done.”
Evelyn said Francis said it without hesitation or irony. As if she were repeating something inherited—something she fully believed, even if she hadn’t originally formulated it herself.
“And,” Francis added, glancing toward the crowd again, “to respect the family itself. The structure you’re joining. Your place within it. Everyone has a place.”
Evelyn said she opened her mouth, then closed it again. She didn’t know how to respond to any of it.
She described how it sounded simple when Francis said it—almost peaceful. But there was something in the way she said it that made her stomach tighten. Not harsh. Not angry. Just certain.
I noted that down.
“As long as you understand your place,” Francis continued, “everything else becomes easier. The rules stop feeling like rules after a while. They just become how things are—what’s expected of you.”
She said Francis smiled faintly, as if that was meant to be reassuring.
“It’s not about not thinking,” Francis added. “The women in the family are all successful, intelligent. It’s about not needing to question what’s already been decided. That’s what makes our lives so ... wonderful. We can focus on other, more important things.”
Evelyn said she just looked at her for a moment.
Because, she explained, Francis wasn’t threatening her. She wasn’t warning her. She genuinely believed what she was saying.
They continued walking through the gathering, she said—passing groups of people talking and laughing beneath the strings of lights. Every so often, someone would glance their way, then look again. Not surprised. Just aware.
Francis eventually stopped when she recognized a woman near one of the tables. She greeted her, and they exchanged a brief kiss on the cheek—a customary greeting, Evelyn noted, used casually among the women. Familiar, restrained, and formal enough to signal belonging.
“Francis,” the woman said, smiling.
Francis kept her hand lightly on Evelyn’s arm as she introduced her. “This is Evelyn,” she said simply. “Daniel’s fiancée.”
Nothing more. No elaboration. No explanation beyond what was already understood.
The woman’s gaze moved over Evelyn—brief, not unkind. It lingered on the restraints for a moment before returning to her face, as though she was placing her within a familiar context.
“Oh,” she said, nodding once. “So, you’ve started.”
Evelyn said it wasn’t a question. It was a statement.
Still, she said she managed a small smile. “Yeah ... on Friday. I came in and was put into these.”
“Yeah,” the woman replied, with a knowing look as if that explained everything. “Not very ceremonial. You change, and those go on.”
Evelyn said she nodded. “Uh ... yeah. I had clothes waiting. They took what I was wearing.”
“It’s how it works,” the woman said. “Not meant to be theatrical. The focus is the training. The lessons.”
Evelyn said she nodded again, letting a faint smile settle on her face.
That was when the woman noticed her shift slightly—an adjustment in her stance, trying to ease the pressure on her feet. Evelyn explained that the heels were difficult; they exaggerated her height in a way that made even standing feel like work.
“It takes a while to get used to that height,” the woman said lightly, glancing down at her shoes. “Unless you’ve practiced before. But you’ll get the hang of it. Eventually you won’t even realize you’re in them.”
She said it with a faint, knowing smile.
“The ballet heel training will help,” the woman added. “Have you started that yet?”
Evelyn said the woman seemed to be trying to recall her own experience—she had gone through The Joining as well.
“I don’t remember exactly when that begins,” she said after a moment. “But it teaches you how to carry your weight properly.”
“Two weeks in,” Francis interjected.
Evelyn described her tone as flat, almost like she was reciting something prepared.
“That’s when I was fitted for mine,” Francis continued. “Around the same time, I was introduced to the armbinder. Or ... was it the straitjacket?”
“Straitjacket first,” the other woman replied quickly, her tone clipped. “Within a few days. First weekend, at least for me. By the third night, I was sleeping in it.”
“That’s right,” Francis said, glancing toward Evelyn. “So, you’ll probably get yours tonight.”
“The armbinder,” the woman added, her eyes briefly flicking over Evelyn, “came with the ballet heels. I think a few days after that.”
Evelyn said that as they talked, the two of them compared experiences with a kind of precise, almost clinical efficiency—what arrived when, what hurt most, what eventually stopped feeling unusual. She said she stayed silent. She didn’t know what to say.
They spoke about it, she said, as though it were routine.
“What happened after that?” I asked her.
“Evelyn?” I said again when she didn’t respond immediately.
She looked at me.
“What happened?” I repeated. “You’ve told me parts of this. The conversations that afternoon. Did something happen later that you didn’t mention the first time?”
She just looked at me for a moment, still inside the memory, as if listening more than responding.
Francis, she said, eventually remarked on how quiet she had been as they walked toward the house.
Evelyn said she let out a small breath.
“I’m just taking it all in,” she remembered saying. “Getting used to being seen like this.”
Francis nodded.
Evelyn said she then confided in Francis that she had given up her apartment and put most of her belongings into storage. As she said it, she felt herself on the verge of tears.
Sensing the shift in her mood, Francis guided her quietly away from the others and into a small half bath off the back entrance. She closed the door behind them and sat Evelyn down on the closed toilet seat, giving her a moment of privacy and space to steady herself.
“Yeah,” she said. “I know.”
Then, Evelyn recalled, Francis gave a small, reassuring smile. She said she had gone through the same thing—not the crying itself, but the feeling of having given up so much. The sense of losing her identity in the process.
“The apartment won’t matter,” she said more firmly. “It won’t. Trust me. Once you marry Daniel, you’ll have your own home.”
“And the things in storage—you’ll go through them later. After a year, you’ll know what matters. What’s sentimental ... and what you can let go of.”
She paused briefly.
“And your friends—you’ll still talk to them. On the phone, if you want. The ones that matter will still be there in a year. And if they aren’t ... they were never really your friends.”
Evelyn said she looked down then and remembered swallowing hard.
I wrote that down. Friends. Only phone?
“Evelyn,” Francis said.
She said she looked up again.
“I know this is new,” Francis continued. “And it’s difficult to understand. It doesn’t feel real yet. But you’ll see your life is better for it. Like everything, there are compromises. Trade-offs.”
Evelyn said she nodded slowly.
And she said she was surprised when Francis asked her if she loved Daniel.
She then reached down and helped her stand, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from her face and smoothing her makeup so it looked right.
I looked at her and jotted down another note.
“No crying. No complaining,” Francis had told her firmly. “Unless you’re in pain, you don’t complain.”
“The clothes are tailored. If they don’t fit right, it’ll be fixed. If the hose don’t fit right, they’ll get you a different brand. And if the heels still hurt after you break them in, they’ll get you fitted for different ones.”
“As for these...” Francis reached down and gently grabbed the box that held Evelyn’s hands in place. “They’ll get easier as time passes, I promise. Just relax. Don’t fight them. I did at first, and I can tell you, I lost.”
Evelyn described how Francis’s eyes flicked up to hers. They were calm. Certain.
“I don’t even need to explain how real they are,” Francis had told her flatly.
Evelyn said Francis emphasized that the restraints were real. That the family used real restraints—the kind used in prisons. And if prisoners couldn’t get out of them, neither would she.
Josephine had once explained it to Francis in practical terms, speaking plainly about the restraints themselves. She said she didn’t like uncertainty, especially when it came to future daughters-in-law joining the family. In her view, the restraints weren’t symbolic or optional—they were a way of ensuring continuity and accountability during The Joining.
She didn’t want to worry about someone slipping out of the process or disappearing when things became difficult. Instead, she preferred knowing that expectations were physically reinforced during training, so there was no ambiguity about where anyone stood.
It wasn’t about suspicion, she insisted. It was about peace of mind—about being able to trust that if she needed someone within the structure of the family, she would find them exactly where they were supposed to be, still within it, still following what had been agreed to.
“I’ve learned that they have more money than God,” Francis told her, continuing. “If there’s something you need, they’ll get it. Clothes, shoes, makeup—anything that doesn’t work, they’ll find something that does. They’re really good about that.”
She paused, letting it sink in, then looked at Evelyn directly.
“But here’s something you need to understand. They don’t accept people into the family easily. Once they do ... you’re in. You become one of them. You’re one of us. But you need to understand your place.”
Francis held her gaze, unflinching, asking her if she understood.
Evelyn said she only nodded.
“Okay. You good?” Francis asked her.
“Yeah,” she replied.
“You’ll be okay, Evelyn.”
Evelyn said Francis comforted her as she pulled her into a quick hug, telling her that Daniel seemed like a decent guy. That he had his quirks, but he was a good person.
She couldn’t say that about all the men in the family. There was one of Daniel’s brothers—something of a black sheep—who had never married but kept younger women around, usually college-aged. He referred to them as “muses” and paid for their tuition and living expenses in exchange for them dressing for him, wearing restraints, and attending private events with him.
Francis said Evelyn would eventually meet him someday, and that she would quickly learn she had a good thing with Daniel.
That’s when they opened the bathroom door and stepped back into the house.
The conversation then changed. And Francis just got to the point.
“So, it’s safe to assume, that, none of that is going to be a problem?”
That’s what Francis asked her next.
She was referring to the restraints.
They talked about how Francis thought Evelyn had been surprised by the conversation earlier—the one with Marcelline, whom she believed was the woman they had spoken to. That’s why she asked her if the bondage was going to be a problem.
Evelyn said she was surprised that it was part of The Joining.
But she acknowledged that the training included her role as a wife—her role in the bedroom, and everything that came with it. She said all of that had been explained to her already. She had simply assumed it would be more private, something between her and Daniel.
She said she wasn’t entirely sure how she felt when Francis told her, “But we’ll be involved in getting you ready for it. I will. Penelope. The others. And of course, Josephine.”
“It takes time to acclimate,” Francis continued. “Nobody is comfortable with everything immediately.”
Evelyn said Francis told her it took nearly a year before she could sleep comfortably in an armbinder—before her shoulders and arms stopped aching from it.
I jotted that down, then paused. You don’t sleep in an armbinder. It can cut off circulation. That’s not its purpose. It can cause nerve damage. The fact Francis was describing it that way was concerning.
Evelyn continued, explaining that Francis said the same was true of the ballet heels. Nobody puts on shoes like that and immediately knows how to walk in them.
Some of it would be hard, some of it easier. And the straitjacket came up again.
“It’s mostly learning to accept the restriction,” Francis insisted. “The helplessness.”
I watched as Evelyn lifted her hands slightly, as if her wrists were bound and held close to her waist.
“Evelyn?” I said.
She blinked, then looked around.
I could see it on her face.
Francis was gone.
The lawn was gone.
The strings of lights, the music, the voices—all of it vanished.
She stared at the beige carpet, the same one she stared at every Tuesday at this time for the past few weeks.
Then she looked up at me.
“Evelyn?” I repeated gently.
“Sorry,” she said automatically.
“It’s okay,” I replied. “I lost you again.”
She looked around the office, slightly disoriented.
“Sorry,” she said again.
I let a small pause sit between us.
“I want to pause on something for a moment,” I said gently. “Because this isn’t the first time you’ve slipped back into the memory like that while we’re talking.”