Work Text:
Her frame is long-armed, much in the manner of a young wolfhound. She will grow into her proper proportion. Her hands twitch, spasming around the rosary:
Mouth forms syllables, twists the sound, draws to nothing. A thin line in a freckled face.
Posture is wrong: hunched, clutching the rosary too tight, hands shaking, whispering the same words again, late at night
( please Father I am sorry for my sin but it surges in me and what am I to do please I hunger and do not know what for )
pale eyes wide, shock-wide, forehead almost to the floor now, habit falling, shoulders rising
( i cannot stop the urge and I must, I know I must )
Sister-Sister-Sister, delicate skin and the novitiate knows how it would split
bruise,
flower
( i do not know what i want )
some of them look at her strangely, some of them allow her to linger by the strays, the hounds, with their ears, their tails, their flews.
( it is not this, please )
The novitiate knows she is sick; she was beaten on the journey here, the blood and syllables ground into her flesh. Unseemly.
( please- )
The novitiate does not feel her split palms, cut on nails chewed too ragged, does not feel the blood rolling down her forearm, pooling down her wrists, dripping to the stone.
Some of them, the Sisters, whisper to her:
you have a blessing, dear girl
you have such dedication
do not fear what you desire
Wheezing breaths echo cruelly back towards her. She begs. God says nothing at all.