Chapter 31 Avalynne
AVALYNNE
Iwake to a headache hammering between my ears and a searing pain splitting my back into pieces. With a gasp, I sit upright in a bed I don't recognize in a room I've never been in before. I look around quickly, finding the space windowless and barren.
Where am I?
The air hangs thick with the fetor of mildew and the faint, unsettling smell of something old and forgotten.
My gaze scrolls across the time-worn stone floor and around the plain walls.
There's nothing in here, though, except for the bed I'm on, a coarse blanket thrown atop it, and a simple wooden desk in the corner where my belongings have been unceremoniously tossed.
My aunt's journal lies open and upside down as one of my habit skirts spills over the teetering pile and off the desk, puddling on the floor.
With a wince, I drag myself out of bed, gritting my teeth as my naked feet meet cold stone.
I stagger to the door, my head throbbing with every step, and tug on the iron handle.
It doesn't open, though. It doesn't even move an inch.
My heart hammers with rising panic as I pull it harder, wrapping both hands around the metal, but it's no use.
The door is locked, and there's no prying it open.
"Help!" I shout at the wooden door, and the cry echoes off the walls, bouncing back and mocking me.
The effort sends the jackhammering in my skull into overdrive, spearing pain down my neck. I steady myself against the door as the room lurches around me.
Darkness sparks at the edges of my vision, and I shut my eyes with a swallow.
I need something to drink—water. I need water.
The thought propels me forward.
Disoriented, I stumble into an adjoining bathroom, finding it just as bare as the bedroom. Cracked old subway tiles line the walls, and a grimy mirror above a rusting sink reflects an image of someone I barely recognize.
Desiccated blood mats my hair to my head across my right temple, and even my freckles seem to have lost their color.
I blink at a ghost before I spin the metal knob next to the faucet.
Water sputters out, ice cold and rust-stained.
It gurgles and then clears. I cup my hands, my fingers trembling as I bring the water to my lips and drink.
Then I drink and drink until my stomach churns, the water metallic and acrid.
Finally, when my stomach feels like it'll burst, I take a deep breath, holding onto the chipped porcelain sink. I close my eyes before I look down at myself, finding charcoal markings marring my skin. Dark lines snake across my flesh and bleed into each other, smearing me in ashen black strokes.
Memories come back in flashes.
Evening vespers.
Reverend Mother.
The altar in the basement.
The flogging.
The chanting and the runes.
I spin so fast it makes me dizzy before I look over my shoulder and back into the mirror.
Angry welts crisscross my back. They aren't bloodied or bleeding, but the sight of them makes my stomach lurch all the same.
Vomit rakes its way up my throat, and I barely make it to the toilet before I spill my guts.
It burns and makes me choke even more.
I gag.
I can't take it.
I need the shit off me.
I need it off of me right now!
The thought howls in my mind as I stagger into the plain shower. Dirtied white tiles and cracked grout chill my feet as my hands fumble with the knobs. There's no curtain, just tile and a rusty drain that's seen better days.
Water gurgles and knocks in the pipes before it sputters out the shower head in a deluge of bitter cold. A thousand tiny needles bite into my skin when it hits, but I don't move.
I have to get them off me.
The hot water knob spins loosely, doing absolutely nothing when I try it. I resign myself to standing there, letting the cold water pour over me, and gasping as it meets the wounds on my back.
Icy water mingles with the blood at my temple and the charcoal painting my body, and it swirls down the drain in a sickly, dirty pink. I scrub the markings on my skin with my fingernails until my flesh aches, but I don't stop until the symbols are gone.
Only when I'm finally clean do I turn off the shower. Shivering and soaked, I make my way back to the bed, but the room feels even colder now. I'm dizzy. I'm thirsty, but even more than that, I need sleep.
Dripping wet, I collapse onto the bed, my skin sticking to the wool blanket. Then I let the darkness take me once more.
I don't know how long I'm out, but a strange sensation on my back makes me stiffen when I finally wake again. Carefully, I reach behind myself, finding a thick salve has been applied to my wounds.
Who did that? And where did they go?
My gaze tumbles to the floor. A tray with food and water sits just inside the door.
I climb out of bed, yelping when my back screams at me to stop.
Stumbling over the tray, I pound on the door, calling for help, but the only response I receive is the hollow echo of my words bouncing back at me.
I pound on the door again, and it shakes beneath my fists, but no one comes, not even when I yell until my voice is little more than a rasp.
Only then do I give up, crumbling to the floor next to the tray of food.
I force myself to eat the entire thing, though the bread crumbles to dust in my mouth and the apple tastes halfway on its way to rotten. It's not enough to keep the gnawing hunger at bay.
Hours—days, I don't know—blur together in a haze of pain and exhaustion. Each time I wake, I find fresh salve on my back and another tray of food just inside the door. I go through the motions. I eat. I sleep. I scream for help until my voice gives way, but nothing ever changes.
The same stone walls, the same silence, the same locked door surround me.
Finally, my attention falls to my aunt's journal among my belongings on the desk. With nothing else to do, I grab it and begin to read.
From the Epistolary Records of Saint Margaret of Castello Convent in the Wardship of Eleanor Grace Immorier entrusted to our care July 1, 1862 – February 16, 1863.
August 26, 1862
Dearest Father:
I wish I could say I was doing well, but such is not the case.
I am sick day and night, likely a result of the dreadful fare they give us here.
The bread is often hard enough to break one's teeth, and the soup is thin and tasteless.
I yearn for the meat pies Mama made and the delicate cakes sent from the city.
I understand my sin now, but I beg of you, please let me come home.
How many letters have I sent? And all remain unanswered. Do they even permit them to reach you?
Reverend Mother Mary douses my head with cold water when I talk too much or when she catches me staring at the walls for too long. She is ever vigilant, ready to break me from the spell of the devil's song.
Frost paints the grounds, but the landscape is a cruel contrast to the harshness within these walls.
I cannot stand to be outside for too long.
The habit they give us is not thick enough to banish the cold, and I find myself shivering, even indoors.
I wish they would provide us with outer garments or heavy coats, but no one, except Reverend Mother, has one.
I do not think we are allowed such indulgences.
I told you about Sister Anna. She took her vows today. It was a beautiful ceremony, but I attended it with a heavy heart. There is something in me, growing in my womb, and I fear God will never allow me to be his.
The spirits still dwell in me. Sometimes, they whisper in the air, and I see them slink from the shadows, reaching out toward my feet.
Reverend Mother says hysteria afflicts me, and she has grown fond of pouring boiling water on my feet to scare the demons away.
It hurts terribly, blistering my toes, but she says she is on a mission to free me from the devil.
The nuns give us punishing baths when we do not behave. They strip us bare and scrub our skin raw with burlap, the rough fabric tearing at our flesh until it is red and bleeding. They mutter prayers and blessings as they do so, convinced this will cleanse us of our sins.
Sometimes, I wonder if you ask about me or if I have been forgotten these past months. I fear that I will be erased from the family portraits and registers one day, as though I never existed.
There is a sickness in me, a longing for companionship that the voices feed upon. They know I am weak, and they seek me out.
Still, I pray to God every night for forgiveness and the salvation of my eternal soul. I ask Mary Magdalene for help, for she is the one I relate to most, for though her life was cruel, she rose to God's favor, just as I hope to do with you. Please, as always, give Georgie and Marcus my love.
Forever yours,
Eleanor