One hundred and thirty eight

The scent of him was still on my skin.

It was a foolish, frantic thought, one that had haunted me from the moment I’d slipped from Father Roman’s room and back into the cold silence of the convent at night. I had scrubbed myself raw in the dim light of the communal washroom, the water stinging against the tender marks his hands and mouth had left on me. I had changed into a fresh habit, the rough wool a familiar penance against my clean skin. Yet, as I had finally collapsed onto my narrow cot, the memory of his weight, his taste, the shattered sound of his release, had followed me into a deep, exhausted sleep. Fuck, it was good.

Now, the afternoon sun slanted through the high window of our dormitory, painting a guilty gold on the floor. I was still groggy, my body feeling heavy and used, when the door opened. I had slept through the morning and ignored the morning prayers.

The air changed. Two figures filled the doorway: Mother Superior, a tall, severe silhouette against the light, an