I went to Sanctuary with blood on my hands. I hadn’t bothered to wash it off when I left the infirmary, but now I wish I had taken the time. The blood has dried into a rust red and was tight under my finger nails. I briefly considered rubbing it off on my skirt, but Mother would have a fit if I returned with bloodstains on my clothes. No, I would wait until I reached the summit.
My bones ached and I longed to lay in the bushes and forget about the pain, the terror and, most of all, the hope. But my battered mind craved the serenity of the Sisterhood and forced one foot after another.
The first moment of calm came when I saw the stone arches of the gateway and the statue of Marita beside. I went to my knees beside the Mother of God and whispered a prayer. There was a well at her feet and I took time to remove all the blood from my skin; there was no place for war here. Satisfied at last, I let the water drip from my fingertips as I passed under the arches.
The robed figures of the Sisters floated past as I walked through the Night Garden to my place. I recognized some faces here and there, widows and orphans who had taken the veil after the death of loved ones. Other I only knew from my nightly visits, women from the other side, whose motives I could only guess. I was usually bursting with questions I could never ask - the idea of approaching a Sister for anything other than spiritual guidance made me cringe with mortification.
I ducked under a cypress branch and smiled as I saw my pond. It was clear and still, dotted with lilypads and reflecting the full moon. I walked to the far side and laid next to a rose bush. It was silent except for the wind through the trees and the nightbirds singing.
(The high walls of the Sanctuary kept out the sounds of fighting.)
I loosed my hair from it’s braid and fanned it around me, working the tension from my scalp. With my ankles and wrists crossed, I allowed my eyes to close, letting my mind wander away from the valley, over the mountains and toward places I could only dream of; to my imaginary village where the hours were marked by life, not death; where you listened for children’s laughter, not distant gunfire; where the end of the day was met with families reuniting, not broken irreparably. If only this place existed outside of my dreams.
“May I join you?”
I opened my eyes to find the silhouette of a woman above me. Even though I couldn’t see her face, I knew I wouldn’t know her. Even in the moonlight, I could see that her hair was fair, long and straight, her body was naturally slender, not the slimness of hunger. As if that wasn’t enough, her eyes threw back the reflection of the moon, inhuman in their brightness.
Felix.
I considered saying no. She would leave quietly, probably already anticipating my answer; she would have known what I was when she came over. My lips opened over the words, but wouldn’t come forth. It was what my father would have had me do. And I had had enough.
“Please.”**********
So, this is a short story that I wrote over the summer when I was trapped in an '86 Westie with my family in California. It's the only thing I've ever come close to finishing, the only notebook that I have ever filled and I am a little bit proud. I will be posting parts as I transcribe them to my google doc.
*I think I'm funny :)
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