3. Alena
The Past
2 Weeks Ago
Boston
Darkness envelopes me, allowing me to float aimlessly in its passionless abyss. It cares not who or what I am. It cares not that I have sought comfort in it once again.
It simply exists without prejudice. Without judgment.
Welcoming me every night like an old friend with a hug of endless oblivion.
It’s the only thing I can count on to always be there for me when I need it. Sleep is my only escape these days, my days full of a thousand little torments.
Since the day the Prophet declared me tainted before the entire Boston congregation, Sister Agatha has made it her personal mission to make my life a living Hell.
Filling my waking hours with hard labor or mind-numbing tasks that rot my brain. If I’m not on my knees scrubbing at dirt so old it’s become a part of the stone, I’m on my knees praying to the Almighty.
Praying for what, though? It has never been explained to me.
Most people pray for God to forgive them. For their loved ones to be protected. For His love and guidance.
I have no loved ones. No one I care for, and no one who cares for me.
Not since everyone, my parents and God Himself, turned their back on me ten years ago.
According to the Order’s teachings, I am beyond saving. There is no eternal paradise in my destiny.
No hope for salvation.
Simply being born is an unforgivable sin.
I’m doomed to burn in misery for eternity when I pass from this earth.
What’s the point then? What’s the point in keeping me alive? I often wonder when I finally get to lay my head down at night.
If I’m at risk of one day spreading my legs and birthing evil into the world, as Sister Agatha likes to put it, why risk my existence? Why keep me breathing?
I dared to ask her one day when she was having Jeffrey severely beat me for something I had no control over. Somehow, I had unintentionally ‘seduced’ two seminarians while scrubbing the floors and nearly lead them to eternal damnation.
Her answer, while Jeffrey brought his rod down on me, was, “The Prophet still has a use for you. Your cursed birth will not be in vain.”
I wanted to laugh hysterically, but struggled just to breathe past the pain.
Use for me? What is his use? Using me as a slave to scrub the entire catacombs clean?
At the time, her answer was so outrageous and ridiculous, I couldn’t take it seriously.
But now, I wonder if perhaps the madness I’ve felt creeping into my thoughts lately prevented me from believing it as a way to protect me.
A person can only endure so much torment, so much misery, before they begin to break.
And I’m quite sure that I am breaking.
The cracks in my soul, my psyche, are old and run deep.
It won’t be much longer before I shatter completely.
Over the past few weeks, dark, violent thoughts have slithered their way into my brain.
Sometimes I picture myself growing incredibly strong. Suddenly able to rip into all of those around me.
I want to tear their limbs from their bodies.
I want to punch my fist into their chests and yank out their hearts.
My mouth will fill with salvia as I picture the stone floors painted red with holy blood.
I want to choke the nuns to death with their own rosaries. I want the priests, especially the ones that give me sly, leering looks when they think no one else is looking, to choke to death on their own cocks.
So much burning rage will suddenly fill me, I feel like I could tear the cathedral down to the foundation with my bare hands piece by piece.
And it terrifies me.
I’ve never raised my hand against another, even when they’ve raised theirs against me. Despite everything the Order has put me through, I do not want to cause others pain.
How could I? How could I wish for another soul to experience even a fraction of what I’ve felt on a daily basis?
Just the idea is sickening. The suffering of others, even those who may have wronged me, brings me no joy.
But every day it’s becoming harder and harder to fight these violent urges. A… hunger is beginning to grow inside me. A hunger I cannot sate with food or water.
And no matter how many times I bite the insides of my cheeks, how many times I chew on my own tongue, or fill my mouth with blood, I crave more.
It’s maddening. So maddening I’m starting to feel the cravings in my sleep.
I’ll wake up after tossing and turning all night, my stomach cramping and my sheets tangled around my legs. The sheets will be torn in places or completely destroyed, as if my nails shredded them to pieces.
I’ve received two beatings so far for ruining my bedding, and I’ve been warned the next time it happens I won’t receive any replacements. I’ll be forced to sleep with no bedding at all.
As if my life isn’t miserable enough… I won’t even have the luxury of a sheet to cover me thanks to my dreams.
Heat fills my veins at the thought and my stomach cramps hard. Almost as hard as it did during the Judging.
The edges of oblivion begin to shimmer, darkness loosening its grasp around me.
Fearing I might be expelled back into reality, I try to dive deeper into the abyss.
But another hard cramp yanks me back to the edge of consciousness. This cramp hurts so bad it has me pressing my knees together and swallowing down the bile rising in my throat.
Sucking in a deep breath, hoping to ease some of the terrible ache, I swear I can smell incense in the air.
Then I hear the hymn. The very hymn that gave me comfort before the Judging. The hymn that tricked me into believing that God loved me and I was safe.
As the singer’s voice rises, reaching an octave only angels can sing, I sense arms wrapping around me, cradling me in an embrace.
It’s been so long since another person has touched me in such a way, without a hint of malice or violence, I’m stunned into complete stillness.
I don’t know if it’s real or something subconsciously conjured up by my touch-starved brain, but to be touched by hands not that are not my own is something I haven’t felt in so long it brings tears to my eyes.
The arms begin to rock me, as if trying to soothe me and ease my pain.
Then I feel the fuzzy warmth of affection blooming behind my ribs like a flower opening up to sunlight.
The sensation is so foreign, though, so out of place, it unnerves me.
Am I being tricked again?
Is there a malevolent being trying to play tricks on me?
God rejected me, I remember it clearly.
The Prophet declared me, “Tainted!”
My father and mother turned their backs on me and abandoned me as the entire congregation hurled insults, slurs, and shoes at me.
I haven’t seen sunlight in over ten years. I’ve lived every day since the Judging beneath the cathedral, entombed in stone like a walking corpse.
Is this the Devil reaching out to me? Like Sister Agatha has always claimed he would? Is he trying to seduce me with empathy and tenderness?
Was it actually him I felt when I first heard the hymn?
Anger boiling my blood, I shove the arms away.
I won’t be fooled again.
The hold of the arms breaks from my force, but a second later they’re trying to wrap around me again like two desperate snakes.
Growing more and more enraged by the cruel trick, I shove the arms away again and scream, “No! Let me be!”
The sound of my own screaming voice rings in my ears and smashes through the veil of the dream.
Sitting straight up in my bed, I look around my small cell.
My eyes wild and searching for the intruder that was touching me. Half expecting to find one of the creepy, leering priests or a young, hot-blooded seminarian trying to climb into my bed.
It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened…
But there’s no one there.
Only the bare stone walls of my small room weeping their endless murky tears.
Feeling incredibly foolish, I close my eyes for a moment and lean my head back. Wondering if I’m already mad as I try to catch my breath.
The arms felt so solid, so real, I swear there was a person truly holding me.
Am I that desperate for another’s touch that I’m starting to dream it? Subconsciously ache for it?
Disgusted with myself for being so pathetic, I shake my head.
Ready to forget the stupid dream and get on with my day, I start to slide to the edge of my bed, but stop when I notice a strange wet sensation beneath me.
A moment of shame washes over me. Did I have an accident while I was sleeping?
Yanking my itchy brown cover back, my vision fills with red.
I’m bleeding all over my white nightgown…
How am I bleeding?
My heart jolts with adrenaline and my stomach cramps again.
Reaching down, I gingerly pluck at the gown sticking to my thighs.
Then realization dawns on me like a punch to my gut.
I’ve started my period.
“No…” I moan as I look down at the mess on my bed, frozen in horror.
I’m unable to move, paralyzed and petrified by all the implications.
For the past ten years, I’ve been living on the razor’s edge of hope. Hope that somehow the Prophet got it wrong. That I’m not the evil creature they say I am.
It’s heretical to say such a thing, let alone even think it, but it’s the one thing that’s kept me going. Living and breathing through all the misery.
In my heart, I’ve secretly hoped they would all come to see the truth one day and I would be set free.
Free from this stone prison. Free from these chains of faith they’ve wrapped around me.
And the one thing that has kept this hope alive inside me, nurturing it and protecting it through everything, is that I’ve yet to manifest.
I’ve been declared tainted in the eyes of the Order, but I’ve shown no signs of it.
I bear no mark upon my body.
There is no red figure eight staining my skin.
When I reached the age of puberty a couple of years after being imprisoned here, Sister Agatha was certain I would show my true nature any day.
She taunted me every morning with all the horrors I’ll suffer in Hell after I die while her hawkish eyes ran over my naked body, searching for the mark that would doom my soul to eternal damnation.
But even she eventually gave up, growing tired of waiting.
I’ve gone beyond the point of being a ‘late bloomer’. At the age of twenty, I’ve begun to foolishly hope I will never bloom at all.
Until now…
I’m still staring at myself in horror when the door to my cell bangs open and bounces off the wall. Grabbing my blanket, I scramble to cover myself as Jeffrey comes stomping into my room with his fists clenched.
Wearing only a pair of dark pants, his chest is bare and showing off the holy markings he’s earned in his service to the church.
Words written in a strange language I don’t recognize wrap around his shoulders and biceps, trailing down his arms like vines. Various crosses, both big and small, dot his skin, as if they were randomly placed, but I know each placement has some kind of meaning and significance.
The most significant marking, however, is the symbol of the Order itself. The encircled cross bearing four nails takes up most of his chest space, covering his skin from his pecs down to his abs.
Having such a large tattoo is a point of pride. Not every young man who is chosen and called on to serve will earn the honor of bearing the cross, and those who do may not earn one quite as large.
Whatever Jeffrey has done to earn it, though, is beyond my scope of knowledge.
Especially since it feels like he spends most of his time bullying me.
Head swiveling on his neck, Jeffrey takes in my small cell through narrowed eyes, as if he’s searching for a threat. When he spots nothing out of place, he turns his attention to me.
Glaring at me through the blond hair falling into his eyes, he snaps, “What happened?”
Pulling the blanket up to my chin, I clutch it in a white-knuckled grip.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. Maybe too quickly.
Eyes narrowing until they’re mere slits, Jeffrey stares into my eyes with suspicion.
I resist the urge to squirm under his scrutiny, my heart racing with fear.
He never believes a word I say. Not since the day Sister Agatha turned him against me. He’s been taught that my sole purpose in life is to tempt him and lead him astray, and he fully believes it with every fiber of his being.
His gaze dips, focusing on the way I’m gripping the blanket, and I can practically see the wheels in his head spinning.
“It was just a bad dream,” I insist. “I’m sorry I woke you up.”
“Oh?” he asks, narrowed gaze flicking back up.
I nod my head and sink back against my headboard.
The way he’s looking at me, with that wrinkle appearing between his brows, it’s clear he’s not buying a word I’m saying.
It’s not a complete lie, though. I truly did have a bad dream. He just doesn’t need to know about my period.
If I can somehow keep him from discovering it, keep Sister Agatha from knowing, perhaps I can figure out a way to hide it.
“What were you dreaming about?” he asks almost casually, as if he’s truly interested.
But I smell the trap instantly.
He’s never casual, and he’s never truly interested in anything I have to say.
We don’t converse in the way normal people do.
I’m forced to endure his company daily, but our interactions mainly consist of him keeping watch over me and ordering me about.
I’m not a real person to him. I’m his charge. His responsibility. A burden he must bear. Not a confidant. Not a friend.
Not even an acquaintance worth his breath.
“Were you dreaming about the fires of Hell, perhaps, and all the torment you’ll endure?” he asks as he takes a menacing step toward my bed.
Before I can even respond to that, he answers the question himself. “No… dreams like that wouldn’t frighten you, would they? They would be comforting. You want to bask in the flames. You want to lead every man there to join in your unholy dance.”
There’s anger in his words, as if I’ve somehow personally offended him in some way. Most of it probably comes from being shackled to me day after day.
But I’ve noticed it’s been becoming worse and more frequent over the past few weeks, like my awful urges. He’s quick to snap at me for the littlest of things lately. Quick to lose his temper and lash out at me.
“I have no desire to lead men anywhere,” I exhale in denial, knowing it’s pointless.
Regardless of what I say, Jeffrey and the entire Order itself believes the worst of me. I’ve done nothing, said nothing, to support their beliefs. I’m so careful of how I act, of what I say and do.
I live every day on pins and needles, knowing even the smallest of things will give them more reason to hate me.
But unless God Himself descends from Heaven and declares me to be clean and untainted, they won’t be swayed.
I must still speak my truth out loud, though.
Speak it or forget it.
If I keep holding everything inside, I fear one day I’ll start to believe it.
My denial causes red to flush up his neck and his eyes seem to shine even brighter as he reaches the side of my bed.
“Perhaps you dreamt of God and His greatness gave you a scare then?” he grits out.
The way he towers over me, fists clenching again, causes me to shrink toward the other side of my bed.
I don’t know what has gotten into him, but he’s truly frightening me now.
He’s a big man. Much bigger than the boy who first hit me with the rod. There’s not an ounce of fat to be seen on his body. He’s wide, thick, and all corded muscle.
Sculpted into a warrior of God, he’s the tip of the Order’s arrow.
I’ve felt those huge, clenched fists of his pound into my flesh many times, but it’s always done in punishment, and always done with Sister Agatha present.
As awful and sick as Sister Agatha is, her cruelty does have some limits.
She never allows him to go too far. Bones are not to be broken. Organs are not to be harmed. I must be able to walk away on my own free will.
A visit to the hospital would draw too much unwanted attention and questions.
Yet Sister Agatha isn’t here right now…
Afraid to answer his question, I grip my blanket even tighter and slowly shake my head.
Perhaps if I admit that is indeed the case, he’ll be satisfied and leave. But I can’t bring myself to do it.
I can’t bring myself to accept and embrace the horrible creature they believe me to be.
I’m not evil. I have no desire to corrupt others, and I can’t pretend otherwise.
Not if I want to keep what little sanity I have left.
Jeffrey’s chest rises as he sucks in a deep breath, and I find myself holding my own breath, hoping he’ll back down and let the whole matter go. But then he suddenly lunges forward, moving with more speed than a man his size should be capable of.
I shriek as he grabs my blanket and rips it away from me. The rough fabric burning the flesh of my palms as it’s pulled from my grip.
Tossing my blanket to the side, where I can’t reach it, his gaze instantly drops. But it doesn’t drop to all the blood staining my bed.
His gaze drops to my chest and remains there.
I watch as his eyes seem to fill up with something almost... hungry and feral.
An unfamiliar expression that strangely feels familiar. Like I’ve glimpsed it before in a nightmare.
He stares at my breasts pushing against my white nightgown with an intensity that causes me to freeze as if I was just turned into stone.
He’s never looked at me like this before.
Like he wants to… eat me.
I can’t seem to get enough air as he bends over my bed and slaps his palms down.
Panting, I feel like I’m about to pass out in terror.
Then he finally looks down and sees all the blood staining my sheets.
His flushed expression suddenly pales.
“What is this?!” he practically shouts in my face before he rears back.
Finding his feet, he stumbles away from my bed.
His look of horror mirroring my own.
I was so worried about what he was about to do to me, my unexpected period slipped my mind.
Thinking fast, I decide to play dumb and hope he buys it. “I must have hurt myself in my sleep.”
His eyes grow wider with more shock. “You hurt yourself there ? How?”
I open my mouth to try to explain it, but I can’t think of anything believable that won’t make the whole situation even worse.
Jeffrey takes a stumbling step back, and the way his expression changes, the way he looks at me, makes me feel as low as a worm squirming in the dirt.
I can just imagine the things running through his head. All the evil things they’ve convinced him I’m capable of doing.
My bottom lip trembles in earnest as I sit up and plead, “Please, Jeffrey… Don’t tell Sister Agatha. I don’t know how it happened. It happened in my sleep.”
Something close to compassion flashes across his face, as if he actually pities my plight, but then he slowly shakes his head.
Sensing this is my last chance before he fully turns on me, I plead again. “Please, Jeffrey. Please. I’ll never ask you for anything ever again.”
Jeffrey shakes his head harder then his jaw clenches.
“No,” he says, taking another step back. “ No . I will not lie for you.”
Turning away, he stomps toward my door, and desperation seizes me by the throat. Scrambling forward, I chase after him.
Dignity be damned.
“It’s not what it looks like! I swear!” I lie, half-believing it myself. “You know what she’ll do to me!”
Jeffrey continues to march to the door with steely determination.
I manage to grab his arm just as he yanks the door open.
My fingers dig into his firm biceps as I sob, “Just this once, Jeffrey. This once. Please.”
I watch his nostrils flare as he sucks in a sharp breath. Then he slowly turns his head to look at me.
Tears filling my eyes, I stare hard into his, silently begging him to spare me from what’s to come next.
It wouldn’t be a lie or a sin for him to keep this secret.
Jeffrey’s face actually softens as he takes in my tears, and my heart flutters with a brief moment of hope.
Only to crack in half when he looks down at my hand on his arm.
All traces of sympathy on his face melts into anger.
Ripping his arm out of my grip, he shoves me away with his other hand. “I will not lie for you, harlot! I will not let you turn me from God!”
Tripping up on my nightgown, I fall to the stone floor. A choked sob escapes my throat as Jeffrey stomps through the door and slams it shut behind him.
The sound of the wooden bar dropping into place reverberates through my small cell a moment later. The sound ensuring my doom.
There will be no escape. They’ll never let me go now.
Mark or no mark.
I’ll probably never glimpse the sun again. Or get to experience filling my lungs with fresh air. I’ll never know what’s it like to not have a few tons of stone over my head, always pressing down on me.
I’ll be kept in this pit of punishment until I pass away.
Then I’ll burn in Hell.
I don’t know how long passes before Sister Agatha shows up. Drowning in my own well of despair, I don’t hear the door open.
“Alena, what are you doing?” she asks in confusion.
Hearing her voice snaps me back to the present. My sobs quieting, I look up to see her standing in the doorway, scowling at me.
Shaking her head, she stalks forward, her black habit snapping behind her. “Come, get up. There’s no time for that.”
Reaching down, she grabs me by the hand and tries to pull me to my feet, but my deadweight keeps her from budging me.
When I refuse to stand for her or obey, her hand squeezes around mine painfully.
“I said get up. There’s no time for such dramatics,” she scolds. “We must see the Prophet before it’s too late.”
Sniffling pathetically, I pull back on my arm and croak out, “Why?”
Why must I stand before him, especially now? So he can declare me tainted again? Or perhaps throw his own shoes at me?