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Daughter of the Profane

Sabine was grateful for what little of her life she could control. She kept her hair long to plait it differently every morning, even if it was hidden under her veil. She ripped the hem of her sleeping gown well above her knees. She snuck a tin of rouge, forgotten by a laywoman, under her pillow to wear late at night. She would press the deep red pigment onto her checks and across the high bridge of her nose, wrap her woolen blanket over her shoulders, and pad down the brick and stone hallway to a familiar door. Warm arms would drag her into the room and she would drift through the night feeling as though her life truly was her own. Sabine thought of those things often, most often during the morning Hours, sat in the chapel shoulder to shoulder with other veiled women. Her sisters’ voices, gentle and quiet, echoed after the Abbess as she led a rote morning prayer. The words were easy, practiced, and Sabine murmured into her clasped hands a final amen to end the prayer. At the dismissal of the Mother Superior, Sabine and the others rose from the wooden pews and filed silently from the modest chapel with their heads bowed. The convent she spent her days in was undeniably beautiful. New and modeled in the style of pre-Reformation spires and high ceilings, she could feel the grandeur of the whole complex, even in the most mundane areas. The towering brick and stone walls were sturdy, if a bit oppressive, and provided a sense of safety and refuge. Only recently were restrictions against the open practice of Catholicism and the building of convents and cathedrals in the Roman style lifted, and a small swarm of holy women flitted across the country in need of homes. The buildings were splendid, no doubt due to the charitable donations of recent landowning converts, and Sabine could not forget the awe she felt early in her stay. Were she only visiting, Sabine thought, she would be entirely enamored with the impressive architecture. But the years of wondering the grounds, with the rest of her life hanging like a loose beam over her head, made Sabine feel caged. The bars were gilded, but bars nonetheless. She did not take her position for granted, nor did she truly loathe her parents for their choice to send her away. They spoke often of their parents’ flight from France to escape the intellectual violence of the country, and Sabine knew they sacrificed much to raise their only daughter. One of only two surviving children, she was well loved and raised to be thankful for everything given to her. It was that love, she believed, to be why, when they caught her kissing the Protestant girl that lived two streets down, they sent her to begin her novitiate in Liverpool. Her mother knew she feared the thought of having to marry a man, even if she could not understand why. But, there were few options for a girl like Sabine. If she were to marry Christ, however, then she would never have to bear the touch of a man or the birth of a child and could live her life with a fraction of independence. It was not perfect, but there were crueler fates her parents could have placed upon her, so she always wished them good health in her nightly prayers. Sabine was quiet as she walked from the chapel. Her mind was on tonight; she would be sitting vigil overnight in the Infirmary, alone. The Infirmaress was away, making a house call with Father Hughes, the handsome Parish Priest from nearby St. Peter’s. She wasn’t worried and her nerves were calm, but she woke with a heaviness in her stomach that breakfast did not soothe. She wondered if it were an omen of some kind, like a dark bird cawing at one’s window or the invitation of famine by serving bread upside down. Her Mother Superior would balk at Sabine’s penchant for entertaining omens, but she never forgot how the horseshoe nailed above the door, always prong up, had seemingly swung itself upside down the day she was caught with Protestant lips on her own. Maybe God really did send signs, she thought as she pushed her way through thick wooden doors, so what is He telling me now? “Sister Chastain,” a voice called, dragging her from her thoughts, “Please hold the door!” Rushing to her was a taller woman, her dark cheeks flushed as though she were exerted. She nodded to Sabine in thanks as she held the door open, allowing them to both walk through to the covered breezeway. Sabine kept her face forward, only moving her eyes to glance over at the woman. “Good morning, Dear Sister,” she said with a smile, “Are you feeling unwell? In need of an escort to the infirmary?” The woman, Sister Esther Kumari, wiped at her brow with the back of her hand and coughed delicately. She closed her eyes and dropped her shoulder into Sabine as though she were fainting as they walked. Sabine caught her, prepared for her dramatics. They both laughed quietly as Esther straightened herself, adjusting the pleat of her habit and tucking away an unruly curl. “I was told you will be alone tonight and I wanted to perhaps scheme with you on how to make the night go by quickly.” Esther kept her head low and mouth small as she spoke, knowing that she was inviting Sabine to play a dangerous game. Sabine’s smile widened at the thought; Esther sneaking from the dormitory and into the infirmary, one of the few places in the convent open to them with an office, but more importantly, with a locking door. On normal nights, the Infirmaress would carry the key on her belt as she made her rounds, or she would sit at the small desk and draw up final words for the families of the departed. But Sabine would be handed the key, only for tonight, and she and Esther could finally have a private moment. Sabine realized as Esther pulled open the infirmary door, eyes scanning the beds and walls, that she wasn’t just walking her to her chores for the day to be kind. Esther was scouting out the building in the light so she would be able to slink through the curtained-off areas in the dark. Esther was much better in the dark than Sabine; her sense of space and recollection of where she has been was always impressive and made her fit for sneaking. Unfortunately, Sabine’s roommate was much less tolerant of others in her shared space than Esther’s was and therefore Sabine was the one forced to sneak clunkily through the halls at night. Even with her tolerance, Esther and Sabine could only be so close, so intimate, before even she would become uncomfortable. They respected that, grateful that Sister Carol only shook her head when Esther would press kisses across Sabine’s face. But they craved more. Neither woman was entirely sure what exactly they were craving, but they knew that they wanted to figure that out together. Of course, they knew how children were made when husband and wife were involved, and knew that their own hands could be enjoyable. So, Sabine thought, would the hands of a woman she loves be just as nice? They walked together to the office, giving Esther a chance to map out the route in her mind. Sabine entered the small room, barely big enough for a desk and a few cabinets, and grabbed some clean linen from the lowest shelf. She dropped the sheet to the floor and ground her heels into it for a moment, digging dirt into the fabric. She picked it up, rubbed the fabric together to smudge the stains so they looked less like footprints, and left the room. Handing the crumpled sheet to Esther, she closed and locked the office once more. “An excuse for why I dragged you all the way out here and away from your chores.” Sabine’s smile was sly and matched the conspiratory twinkle in Esther’s eyes. They had to be careful; many other women in the convent had secrets they kept, but if they were too obvious, one of them would likely be sent off to Ireland or some other far reach. Some things had to be quiet, done or said only under thick wool blankets on stormy nights. Some things had to be quiet, done or said only under thick wool blankets on stormy nights. Esther gave Sabine a quick nod and bid her a farewell. When she turned, the long skirt of her habit brushed against the end of Sabine’s and it felt as intimate as Esther’s hand on her thigh. She sucked in a breath and held it for a moment, willing her heart to settle. Her body was warm and she felt light, despite the heaviness still digging into her stomach. She reminded herself that there was no horseshoe nailed above the door here and no one who would come knocking on it to spoil her fun. She had no patience for omens tonight. Sabine clutched the thick blankets to her chest as she walked down the aisle of curtained-off beds. Only a few of them were occupied that night, and only one patient seemed to be in need of extra care. The further she walked down the aisle the more clearly she could hear her Sisters’ hushed voices. “He is so pale and so cold,” she heard one voice say, “These chills should come with a fever, and yet his skin is icy.” Sabine slowly approached the hanging fabric divider, following the voices. “Pardon me,” she said as she parted the curtains, entering the small space. The two women in the room turned to face her, happy surprise on their faces. “Ah, Sister Chastain! Wonderful to see you,” said the smaller woman, her full cheeks scrunching her eyes as she smiled. She stepped towards Sabine, arms outstretched in greeting. The other woman closer to the bed regarded Sabine with a soft smile and small tilt of her head. “Good evening, Sister Matthis, Sister Jacobs. I’ve come to sit with Monsieur Smith ‘till morning.” Sabine’s large eyes drooped as she glanced at the pale man who shook ferociously under the blankets. Though she smiled, the other women could see her apprehension clearly. Sister Matthis, hands still open, led Sabine to the side of the thin bed and gestured down at them man. “We have done everything we could for him,” she whispered, careful not to wake the patient she worked so hard to put to sleep, “All we can do now is make him as comfortable as possible until the Lord is ready to call him home.” Sabine nodded, slowly draping her blanket over the sleeping man. She smoothed it as well as she could and brushed the back of her hand across the man’s damp forehead. She jerked her hand away with a gasp, startled by how could his skin really was. Sister Jacobs, stopped at the partition, turned and spoke, “We do not believe he will make it through the night. He is much too cold and much too pale. And his veins must be parched because we could not get a single drop of blood from him.” Her dark eyes showed clear concern and, to Sabine’s surprise, confusion. “Were his chest not heaving I would think him dead.” Again, Sabine nodded, once more reaching for the man’s brow. It felt as if she were pressing her fingers against glass on a snowy morning, and though she had never once touched dead skin, this is how she imagined it would feel. Cold and hard; lifeless. Sabine was scared, the weight in her stomach dropping even lower than when she woke that morning, but she held herself upright. She may not have chosen to live her life here amongst these holy women, but she could control how she faced her duties. She hoped to face them with grace, even if all she felt at the moment was fear. The women around her found their strength in God, and though she tried, Sabine struggled to do the same. Instead, Sabine found her strength in her Sisters; their unending kindness, their devotion to a God they loved, their stone-faced determination to save as many lives as they could. Though their hands are rough from their labor, they remain soft, and are calm in the face of blood and gore. Death is oft a friend to her Sisters; an absolution from their patients’ pain and a door to the loving arms of their God. So, Sabine straightened her spine, softened the nervous crease between her brows, and smiled at her Sisters. Sister Matthis joined Sister Jacobs at the curtain, casting Sabine one last look. “God be with ye,” Sister Matthis said as she ducked through the parted curtains. “Bonne Nuit, Sisters,” Sabine called back. She looked down at Mr. Smith. His skin was glowing in the light of the candle, as stark as the sheets he rested against. It will not be long, she thought as she slowly kneeled next to the bed and clasped her hands. She prayed for his comfort, for his soul, for him to be forgiven for his sins. She did so dutifully, as she and the others were taught by their superiors. She would repeat these prayers until the candle burned low, then leave him to rest while she waited in the office for Esther. She would return to his side before the sun rose to check on him before the others would be in to relieve her. After nearly a dozen cycles of her prayers, Sabine was jolted by soft murmuring coming from the man. She rose and brought her ear closer to his lips, ready to catch what may be his final words. His voice was quiet and cut with small gasps. She held her breathe, not wanting to waste his words on thin air. “-gry,” she heard. Confused, she pressed closer and urged him to repeat. His eyes were closed tight, veins bulging on his forehead. Sabine could feel his harsh breaths against her cheek, just as cold as the rest of him. “So,” he rasped out slowly. “Very,” his hand rose from the bad and Sabine reached to hold it, to provide him comfort in his final moment. “Hungry.” Sabine frowned in confusion and began to pull away. He suddenly ripped his hand from hers and latched onto the white breastplate of her habit. Sabine gasped and jerked away from him but found herself held in place by his firm grip. He pulled at her with the strength no dying man should have, and the fabric yielded to his hand. It ripped with a terrible sound, and Sabine was stunned by the cold air on her exposed neck. More startling, however, were the man’s teeth. As he sprung up from the bed, ripped fabric still clutched in his bloodless hand, he opened his mouth snake-wide. Behind his cracked lips were animal-like teeth; two needle-sharp points where his eyeteeth should have been. His eyes were blown wide, pupils so large Sabine could not make out their color. He lurched towards her, teeth latching onto her neck. “Non,” was all she could get out before the pain stole her breath. The man’s momentum brought them both to the ground, leaving Sabine trapped between his freezing body and the cold floor. Though surrounded by cold, her body burned. Fire raged from her neck and poured through the rest of her body as if it were setting her blood alight. She thrashed against him, but his grip on her shoulders was crushing and her legs were tangled in the thick folds of her skirt. The man gulped against her neck and ice shot through Sabine. A numbness traveled through her limbs and settled in her shaking fingers. Frozen, she fixed her wide eyes on the ceiling, feeling the man drink her life away one deep gulp at a time. She shuddered, not at the pain blooming within her, but at the apathy she felt crawl into her mind. Sabine knew that she should fight, scream, claw at him until he freed her, but her mind clouded with thoughts of release. Of freedom. Of floating away to meet the God her Sisters so loved and the Christ that she was dedicating her life to honoring. The hard floor opened itself to her as if it were a down bed and her eyes slipped closed. Through the warm haze of her mind she heard the heavy door to the infirmary pull open. As if struck by lightning, Sabine’s body jolted with a cracking force. What if this monster attacked Esther as well, she thought, what if Esther is the one to find her body? She screamed in her mind and willed her fingers to move towards the rosary beads tucked under her cincture. Using the strand, she pulled the large ebony cross into her hands and bashed it across any part of him she could reach. When the dark wood pressed into his cold skin he leapt away from her with a high hiss. His whole body flew backwards and slammed into the bed. Sabine scrambled back across the floor, holding the cross between them in a shaking hand. Her hot blood ran freely down the front of her chest from her wounds. Her head was light and her eyes remained unfocused no matter how many times she tried to blink the fog away. Hope and desperation were the only things keeping her eyes open and hand raised as she watched the man’s blurry form back through the curtains. Finally alone, her shoulders slumped and her chest heaved. She held the rosary tight in one hand and used the other to prod at the two jagged holes on her neck. They were tender and throbbing, her bleeding slowed to an ooze. Her hand followed the blood down her neck, her chest, her stomach. It soaked the entire front of her, all the way down to the tops of her thighs. She felt sick. She felt hot. Her stomach rolled over itself but she had nothing in her to expel. Sabine’s ears perked at the sound of footsteps. Panic told her it was the creature returning to finish her off, but the soft hands that cradled her face told her differently. She was being spoken to, but she could not make out any words. A face was level with her own but the low candlelight cast deep shadows over it. The hands on her cheeks patted down her body and pushed up the hem of her thick dress. She could hear their panic, even if she could not understand their words. Her body was exhausted, and the strong hands and tight voice were pushing her mind further into the blackness around her. She tried to reach for the hands, tried to tell them that a monster was loose, but nothing would come out. She struggled with every blink to reopen her eyes, until she could no longer fight the darkness. She fought as hard as she could, but she had nothing left. She smiled, calmed by the fact that, if she were going to die here, at least she tried to live.

She Who Lives In My Temple

Nephele loved her bed. It was a metal daybed with a white enamel coating, gold accents, and ceramic finials covered with pink ditsy roses. It was full sized, perfect for her and her sweet ragdoll cat, Dolores, to sprawl comfortably. She even bought a new mattress for it, still wrapped in its protective plastic in the back of her sister’s truck. And now it was killing her. She was trapped between the back of the frame and the cold panels of the elevator as it slowly ambled up the shaft. When her sister helped wedge her and it into the small elevator it was tipped on its side, resting upright on the corner of the foot board. Her sister pressed the fifth floor button for her and the doors closed with a squeal. When it lurched to a start, the frame slipped from Nephele’s sweaty hands and squished her against the wall. It wasn’t heavy, but it knocked Nephele’s head into the wall and stunned her, her feet slipping out from under her. Her head was caught by one of the metal bars and she couldn’t lift it off since the tipped-up corner was pushing into the door. She listened as the elevator dinged past each floor, willing it to make it to the fifth before she passed out. Her eyes were watering and she strained against the bars, trying the make enough space to at least slip her head free. The elevator dinged and lurched again, and the pain made Nephele cry out. It was silent for a moment and she feared that the door wouldn’t be able to open because of how hard the frame was digging into it. Then, with an awful scraping, the doors dragged open and Nephele was able to push the frame across the threshold and out of the lift. She dropped to her knees, one hand holding onto the frame and the other rubbing her temple. She sat there for a long time, until the elevator dinged and tried to close on the frame. With a heave she pushed the frame completely from the angrily chiming box, huffing and sweating. Nephele kicked at her bed frame. “You motherfucker, you almost split my head in half! And after all we’ve been through!” She kicked at the frame again. “I even got new wheels for your stupid trundle.” She looked down the hall to the door of her new apartment but jumped when her eyes locked with another pair. A person stood with their hand on their key mid-turn in the lock, looking between Nephele and the frame resting sideways on the tile with confused annoyance. She smiled sheepishly and waved at her neighbor, face flush with exertion and embarrassment. “Hey there! So sorry, I kind of got, uh,” she gestured at the frame, “sorta stuck in the elevator?” The neighbor watched her silently for a long moment. Her eyes, peeking over thin oval glasses, were red and her eyelids low. She squinted at her face, and Nephele felt her flush rise to her ears. “Did you hit your head,” her low voice crawled from her throat, and Nephele was surprised by its timbre. Full, like her voice came straight from her chest, but ragged, as if cut by cigarette smoke on its way out. Nephele frowned, worried that the stranger was picking on her. “What do you mean?” Her neighbor pointed to her own head, face incredulous. “You’re bleeding.” “What?” Nephele’s hand shot to her forehead and tapped around, finding wet blood gathered on the side of her head that smashed into the wall. She didn’t think she had been hit hard enough to bleed, but the blonde half of her hair was already matting to her scalp. Thankfully the freshly dyed pink strips on the other side were untouched. “Damn it,” Nephele drawled out, wiping her bloody hand on the side of her pants. She patted her pocket for the key to her new apartment, then patted the other pockets when she couldn’t find them. She stood in the hall smacking her waist frantically while her neighbor watched, hand still on the unturned key in the lock. Nephele groaned dramatically and slapped her hands on her thighs in frustration. “My keys,” she whined and slumped her shoulders. She looked back at the elevator as it dinged away, then turned to the bed frame still sideways on the ground. She sighed and walked to the other side, grabbing a bar and dragging it to her door. If she couldn’t get it in the apartment, she would at least get it out of the way of her neighbors and not have it block the elevator. It was day one and she was already botching her introductions, she didn’t want to make it any worse. She propped the frame in front of her door and when she turned back the neighbor was gone, disappearing presumably in her own apartment. She would try to make her cookies, or maybe something savory, to make up for this mess of an entrance. Nephele walked back to the elevator with her hand trying to smooth her bloody hair. “Hey, wait up,” that same low voice called out as Nephele passed her neighbor’s open door. She popped from the entrance with her arm out, startling Nephele for a second time. Nephele stopped and looked at what the woman held out to her. Dangling from her hand was a damp strip of fabric. She pushed it into Nephele’s hand, then darted back into her apartment and shut the door with a click. Nephele stood there, stunned much like she was in the elevator, holding the rag dumbly in an open hand. She could tell it was the bottom of a band t-shirt, but she didn’t recognize the spiked logo. She pressed it against her head as she walked to the elevator. She used the metal walls as a mirror, trying to clean as much blood as she could before her sister would confront her about getting hurt less than an hour into her move. She knew what Penelope would say, and mimicked her sister in the reflection as she wiped her hair. “It’s a sign, Nephy. You should move back home, stay with mom. It’s safer there. Meh Meh Meh.” She wrinkled her nose at the impression, immediately upset at herself. Her sister just wanted to help her, which is why she was even here in the first place and not hauling her and her stuff right back to Washington. Penelope didn’t even want her on the east coast anymore, but she still showed up in New Jersey with her battered Silverado and packed everything it could carry in the truck bed. Nephele left a lot of her life in New Jersey. And Penelope dropped everything and floored it from Chicago in less than eleven hours to get her out of there. With everything her sister did for her, it just didn’t feel right to mock her now. When the door opened on the first floor, Nephele came face to face with her sister, standing with two wrapped mattresses. She smiled when she saw Nephele and dangled her keys in her face. “You left these in the car, dumbass,” she laughed, tossing the key-ring to her sister, “Betcha looked real stupid up there.” Nephele snatched the keys out of the air and sneered. She stuck her foot in the door to hold it open as she grabbed the stack of plastic storage bins they had left in the lobby. She wasn’t happy to be bundled back in the elevator, but at least she was able to stand up straight this time. Penelope leaned her head back and squinted at Nephele’s reflection on the wall. She grabbed a pink chunk of hair and pulled her head to the side. “Ow! What the fuck?” “How’d you manage to bust your head open in the five minutes I didn’t have my eyes on you?” Nephele stomped her heel at her sister’s foot, ripping her head away. “My stupid bed fell and almost knocked me out, but I’m fine. So relax,” Nephele huffed, blowing strands of hair from her face. The elevator stopped at her floor and she pushed her way past Penelope. She marched to her door and dropped the boxes next to her bed frame. When she swung the door open she was amazed by how big the space was. She had only seen it in staged pictures online, now realizing that they did the apartment a disservice. The whole unit itself took up the back left corner of the building, with tall windows covering half of the main walls. Walking through the front door took Nephele into the full kitchen, shiny new appliances reflecting her awe back at her. She dragged her bed frame through the kitchen carefully to the main bedroom just past the kitchen, propping the frame upright before she went back out to help her sister slide the mattresses through the door. The rest of the day passed with no more injuries, save for the few times Nephele jammed her fingers and when Penelope tripped over Dolores, who was finally set loose in the apartment. They collapsed together on the bare mattress and passed a can of flat soda between them. Settled in the silence, they watched the deep red sun set behind the city skyline through the window. It was modest compared to the view she had in Jersey. There, through a small gap between the surrounding buildings, Nephele could watch New York City bloom each night. Nephele spent so many nights in the city that she almost never watched the sunset through her own window. She often slept over at her friends during school nights so that they could ride the train together, then waste time in the various parks and green-spaces around the College of Arts and Science after their classes. She would spend the rare nights she was actually in her condo cramming for tests and writing papers. She could still do that here, though she was worried about having to make new friends. Penelope would have to go back to her own home eventually, leaving her and Dolores alone in North Carolina. And she was already struggling to make good impressions on her neighbors. “I’m taking the top bed,” Penelope said, pushing Nephele off the mattress with her feet. Nephele sighed but rolled onto the floor to pull out the trundle. She dug through one of the plastic bins and tossed Penelope a comforter and pillow. “I’m gonna check the doors and windows real quick,” she told her sister, who was already rolled over and snuggled under the covers. Dolores patted by her feet as she checked the front door. She pulled hard on the door, slid the chain in its lock, and stuffed a dishrag in the gap between the bottom of the door and its threshold. There was a metal cover hooked above the peephole and Nephele flipped it shut. She checked each tall window, all of them unopenable. What worried her the most was the sliding door on the back wall that lead to an impressive balcony. The lock on the door was sturdy enough, but Nephele knew how easy they were to muscle open. She would have to get a bar or plank of wood to block the tracks. She looked around at the boxes scattered in her living room. Most of them had clothes, books, and a few tchotchkes she refused to leave behind. With a sigh, she grabbed a flat back dining chair and slotted two of the feet in the track. Nephele knew it made her look paranoid, but she also knew Penelope would understand. She might be Nephele’s biggest bully, but there was a reason she was her first —sometimes only— call when she was in trouble. Satisfied, Nephele made her way back to the bedroom and crawled her aching body onto the low mattress. Dolores curled at her side, purring loud enough to be heard over Penelope’s snoring. Nephele’s head suddenly throbbed on each side, the pain coming back to her as she finally settled. She rubbed at the sore spots, hoping that the exhaustion of the move would force her to sleep. She was nearly dreaming when a dull clattering came from the living room. Nephele shot from the bed, eyes darting around the moonlit room. Penelope snored away next to her and Dolores had shuffled her way up by Nephele’s pillow. Slowly, she rose from the bed and walked on the balls of her feet to the open bedroom door. She leaned against the frame and poked her head into the living room, the space illuminated by the bright moon spilling from the windows. It was silent, and from her bedroom door she saw nothing had moved. She checked the front door, noting that the lock was still flipped and the rag was still tucked under the door. She then moved to the living room, eyes searching for any lurking shadows on the balcony. When she saw nothing, just the chair still wedged against the sliding door, she heaved a sigh and patted her chest. Maybe she was too paranoid. This was a multistory apartment building near a major downtown area, of course she was going to hear things shaking or rattling. She was just letting what the real estate agent told her get under her skin. The reason that the apartment was available at such an amazing —and frankly unbelievable —price was because people tended to move out faster than other units in the building. When she asked why, the agent stalled for a long while before finally confessing: every other person who lived there before claimed that the apartment was haunted by the ghost of the man who was murdered there nearly a decade before. But, the unit was well within her small budget and close enough to a college that she would be able to continue her degree at the start of the next semester. So, she signed the lease. She was even able to negotiate it down a few hundred a month if she signed for a full year instead of the six months she was originally offered. Nephele conveniently forgot to mention the haunting, and especially the murder, to her sister. They would be half way across the country by now if she knew, and Nephele wasn’t ready to give up on her independence just yet. This was her second chance at a life beyond her mother’s walls and she wasn’t going to let anyone take that away from her, living or not.