Page 37 of Unholy Fate

How could I let them defile me without even trying to defend myself?

Serena’s knock startled me from my dark contemplations. “Hey,” she said, sticking her head in the door. “I wanted to check on you.”

I forced my lips to curve up and murmured, “Hi. I’m okay.”

Serena’s frown deepened, but she accepted my lie. “I’ve brought you some breakfast. Try and eat, Sister Evelyn. You’ve been through so much, your body needs food and rest.”

Bless her for not asking what had happened. No doubt Father Hudson had already told her though.

She had no idea. If she knew the truth of last night, she’d want nothing to do with me. Would anyone?

I leaned back against the pillows, the exhaustion and discomfort real. “I think I just need some time.”

Serena hesitated, then inclined her head once. “Okay. But if you need anything, I’m here for you, Sister Evelyn.”

She placed the tray carrying a mug of milky tea and golden-brown buttered toast on the bedside table. With a final worried glance, she quietly slipped out of my room, her soft footsteps fading down the hallway.

Alone, I stared at the food, my appetite gone. I put my head on my knees, replaying the events of the previous night in my head. I had thought I was safe, protected by my vows, my righteousness. Pride in my virtue had been a gateway sin.

Now I was tainted, stained by a night I could never undo or forget. I closed my eyes, desperate for any escape, but it eluded me.

After a few minutes, I forced myself out of bed and into the bathroom, needing to wash away the remnants of my strange and disturbing dream. The warm water stung my nipples and neck, but I welcomed the pain, desperate to feel something other than the turmoil inside me. I moved cautiously, avoiding the most sensitive areas, though the soreness seemed to have settled into every fiber of my being.

As I cleansed myself, the ghosts of the sensations from my dream returned unbidden, making me clench my thighs together. Why did I feel like this had all happened before? The thought plagued me, but I couldn’t quite place its origin. The more I tried to remember, the more elusive the insight became.

Freshly showered, I slipped into an old skirt and blouse in soft cotton, my body still aching. Changing the sheets to deal with the odor helped me settle a little, and I attempted to distract myself more with a book, but the words swam before my eyes. My thoughts kept going back to the dream and chastising me for not trying to fight.

A knock on my door startled me from my reverie.

It was Serena, this time carrying a steaming bowl of soup and a plate of crackers. She picked up the uneaten toast and cold tea. “You need to eat.”

This time she handed me the bowl, her quiet care a soothing balm. She knelt near the bed, waiting for me to eat.

We sat in a comfortable silence, the gentle rhythm of her breathing almost hypnotic, encouraging me to confess. The carnal dreams, lingering pain, and the freshly healed wound—they were a torrent hovering on the tip of my tongue before shame’s icy fingers silenced me.

Instead, I took a sip of the soup with a trembling hand. After swallowing, I murmured a soft “thank you.”

Despite its familiar warmth, the light scent of the herbs in the broth, the vegetable soup offered no solace to the churning in my gut or swirling mind. Nor did Serena’s company.

Even trying to focus on eating and camaraderie, the unsettling images of the night’s vivid dreams, the terror laced with undeniable pleasure, kept flashing through my thoughts.

My faith brought me no comfort in this moment.

With the meal over, Serena took both trays, her absence amplifying my self-reproach, the empty room a depressing reminder of my failure to confide in her.

I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms. Why hadn’t I stopped them? Why didn’t I fight harder? Tears spilled down my cheeks as the burden of shame pressed me down like the foot of some huge beast.

Once again, a feeling of familiarity crept in, making me wonder if this had happened to me before. But when? Why couldn’t I remember?

I didn’t know how I’d ever find peace or understanding again, but I couldn’t continue on like this. My secret was too much to bear alone. The need to unburden became overwhelming, but not with Serena—she was young, a novice without training. Sister Mary had not yet confirmed an appointment for therapy, so I couldn’t talk with her either..

Speaking with Father Hudson would help. He was there at the beginning; he’d help me understand this. I wiped the tears away and steeled myself, forcing my shaking legs to carry me out of the room and down the corridor to what I hoped would be the beginning of my redemption.

I found Father Hudson in his office, the open door revealing him seated at his desk, the quiet rustle of papers the only sound as he reviewed his paperwork. I knocked on the door, a hesitant rap against the aged wood, and he looked up as I entered, his expression wary.

The air crackled with a strange tension as I sat down, hands knotted in my lap. “Father Hudson, could you hear my confession?”

He cleared his throat, the sound raspy and strained, his body tense, never quite looking me in the eye. “Of course, Sister Evelyn.” He gestured toward the small, almost illegible notice on the wall. “My confessional times are posted on the door. I’d be happy to hear you then.”

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