Page 4 of The Fallen

The others file in beside me, hemming me in. For a moment, I feel trapped, unable to breathe. Where it was once far too cold, it is now stifling, threatening to choke me as I reach for my rosary. I only need to breathe. Just one deep breath.

As I pray to myself, I run my fingers along the worn beads, allowing the familiarity to comfort me and shore me up. Soon, the tight band squeezing my heart loosens until I can draw in a full breath of air. Next to me, the other Sisters seem to not notice my distress.

Not that I want them to. It’s silly to have my heart pound so hard at the very idea of taking communion from this Alpha. My muscles clench, nearly drawing a groan from my lips, but I manage to stifle it before drawing any extra undue attention myway. Perhaps after Mass, I’ll see one of the Sisters practiced in medicine. Maybe she can tell me what ails me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, begging God that I am well, and that nothing is truly wrong with me. I’ve never felt this way before, never had the very air I breathe pulled out of my lungs by some unseen hand set to rob me. Again, the hysteria rises as I clutch my rosary.

As I chant within my mind, the door opens from behind us. The other Sisters stand as still as a statue, but I long to turn and look, to see the priest as he enters these holy chambers. Again, my heart pounds in my chest, so hard and strong, I fear the others must hear it, but they make no mention.

They all stay with their eyes affixed to the crucifix, the same place I’m supposed to be looking. All my thoughts should be there, residing in Him who we serve. And yet, as the spicy scent of incense and man hits my nostrils, I am nearly brought to my knees.

An odd cramp twists my uterus, nearly doubling me forward. Though I catch myself on the pew in front of me and hold myself still, my actions garner curious glances from the other Sisters and a stern glare from Mother Superior. Next to her, the Abbess shakes her head and straightens her shoulders, silently chastising me.

But then, they can’t possibly know there’s something wrong. None of them have any look of concern on their faces. Does this mean I am fine and merely going into hysterics for nothing? As I force myself to stand up straight, the Father Confessor edges ever closer, his feet silent against the cool stone.

He walks as if floating on air, as if he himself can also walk upon the waters. Such thoughts are blasphemous, to be sure, but I find myself unable to keep such ideations away. Perhaps this is something I can seek help for in confession.

And yet, the instant that thought comes into my mind, I shove it right back out. Any time spent alone with the Father Confessor is dangerous. At least it is until I can get these wild machinations out of my mind. The last thing I want is to be sent away again, cast upon the breeze, to land in an unknown place.

Though it’s rough being so new, I’ve already found somewhat of a home amongst these women and the students I tutor. It’s not perfect by any means, but it can only grow. At least, that’s what I hope.

To be forced to leave, to start over anew yet again... it’s somehow more painful to imagine than standing in front of the Alpha Father Confessor himself as he berates me for my numerous sins.

My body twitches as he passes by. His scent invades my nostrils, bringing that odd cramp back into my body. Cool wood meets my palms as I dig my fingers into the curve of the pew, forcing my body to remain upright.

He pauses. The Alpha Confessor pauses. Why? Why has he stopped?

Turning, his gaze locks onto mine. For a moment, time stands still. His light blue eyes bore into me, darkening by increments until they’re black and glazed over. However, as soon as I blink, they’re back to his normal color. I must have imagined it.

Now, more than ever, I worry about my very sanity. What can this possibly mean?

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” his deep voice booms into the small crowd.

My vision swims as I cross myself. “Amen.” The other Sisters cry out in unison, their voices drowning out my own.

“The Lord be with you.” Each word caresses my skin as if he’s touching me with them, tracing the holy greeting onto my body with his fingertips.

“And with your spirit.” Though my lips part, moving in the same words the other Sisters pronounce, no sounds come out.

I am silent, unable to trust myself as I go through the motions, sitting when I’m supposed to sit, standing when I’m supposed to stand, and moving my lips when I’m supposed to speak. On the outside, I am every inch the dutiful Sister, a paragon of holiness. However, deep inside, it’s as if a cavern opens up, as deep as the pits of hell, threatening to consume me with every haggard breath.

His words as he reads from the Holy scriptures sound like static in my brain, a fuzzing around the edges threatening to pull me under. Around me, the others perform the call and response with an enthusiasm appropriate to the ceremony, and yet, I cannot.

I’m far too consumed with the way my pulse slithers over my body and settles between my legs. I ache and throb, my insides twisting as if my body is pulled into a spasm. But I’ve never had a spasm between my legs before. To be sure, my arms and thighs have had their fair share, but it was nothing a quick, thorough massage couldn’t cure.

Hopefully that’s all that’s needed to bring my body and spirit back to rights. Exquisite agony shatters through the muscles of my thighs as I dig my nails into the skin through the thick fabric of my habit. The sudden bite of pain allows my head to clear, just in time for the Father Confessor to begin the Liturgy of the Eucharist.

I do my best to follow along, to say the right thing, do the right thing, but I’m distracted, unable to put all my attention toward God and His word. All I can think about is the Father Confessor’s dark, unruly hair as it curls around the nape of his neck, his long, strong fingers as he skims them over the altar book, and his haunting gaze that seems to somehow always land on me.

Heat floods my system, nearly driving me to my knees. What unholy feeling is this? It’s as if hellfire laps at my heels, threatening to engulf me.

A sharp nudge to my ribs slams into me, causing the small muscles in my ribs to seize up for a moment. What breaths were already difficult to draw are now near impossible as I force my mind back to the ceremony. Already the Sisters next to me on the left are in the aisle, making their way up to where the Father Confessor waits with the Eucharist.

Saliva pools on my tongue as I make my way forward, inching ever closer to the man who haunts my days and nights. Though there are still others before me, it’s as if he’s watching me, studying my every move. Every twitch causes his gaze to slide over to me, like a predator hunting his prey.

A wolf among the sheep.

But such thoughts are blasphemous if not outright absurd.

---