2- Truth Of The Church

When I arrived at Sacred Mercy, Margaret had been my only friend. She was the only one who dared to speak to me.

No one wanted to be associated with a girl who was found at a bridge about to end her life.

They believed I was a demon.

A demon of despair.

A lot of prayers were done on me, but even before then Margaret had talked to me. She had helped me bathe. Cleaned me up. Treated me like a human being.

Seeing her innocent green eyes filled with tears, begging me for a favor I could not fulfill, broke my heart.

"Celeste… you… you would rather see me thrown to him than take my place?" Her voice cracked, hands shaking.

I swallowed hard, my own hands trembling. "Margaret… what you're asking—"

"You're stronger than me!" she cut in, clutching at my sleeves. "You're always stronger. You can survive him. I can't. Please!"

She pressed her forehead to my shoulder like a child. "I've seen what he does. The other girls. They come back broken. Some don't come back at all. I'll die, Celeste. I swear I'll die."

Her fingers dug into my arms hard enough to bruise. "Please don't let them take me."

I closed my eyes, forcing myself to breathe. Why is it always me?

"What about me, Margaret?" My voice came out harsher than I meant. "Do you ever think of that? Lust put me in the position I'm in today. I cannot fall for it one more time. Even if you are my friend."

She flinched, but her grip didn't loosen. "I'm not asking you to enjoy it. I'm asking you to save me!"

"I've already been there," I whispered. "I've already lost everything. My mother. My family. Myself. I'm barely holding on, Margaret. If I go to him, it won't just be my body he takes. It'll be the last piece of me that's still alive."

She stared up at me, eyes shining with desperation. "Then let him take me instead?"

"No." I shook my head. "I won't choose for you. I won't condemn you. But I can't save you either."

"Celeste…" Her knees buckled. She sank down on the stone floor, clutching the hem of my habit. "Please. Please don't do this to me." Her voice broke into sobs. "You're the only one I have."

"I know," I said quietly. My throat burned. "And I'm sorry."

She grabbed my skirt like it was a lifeline. "You're my friend. You're my sister. You're supposed to protect me."

"I've tried," I whispered. "But I can't trade one death for another. Not again."

Her sobs filled the little storage room, bouncing off the stone walls. She clutched my legs, nails biting into my skin through the fabric. "Celeste, please. Please. I'll do anything. I'll take your chores for a month. I'll pray every night for your soul. Just please don't make me go to him."

I bent down, prying her hands from my skirt. "This isn't about chores or prayers." My fingers shook as I pulled free. "This is about surviving. And I can't die for you, Margaret."

She lifted her tear-streaked face to mine. "You'd let me die instead?"

Her words pierced me like a blade. I wanted to tell her no. I wanted to lie. But my mouth wouldn't open.

"I'm sorry," I managed. "I can't."

Her sob turned into a wail. She slumped fully to the floor, palms flat on the cold stone, head bowed. "You're cruel," she choked. "You're cruel. You're just like them. Just like everyone else. Selfish. We were told to be selfless like Jesus, but you can't even die for me. A friend. I hate you."

"I'm not any of those things," I said, but it sounded weak even to my own ears.

I turned toward the door walking fast.

Behind me, Margaret's voice rose, ragged and desperate. "Celeste! Don't walk out on me! Please! Don't leave me!"

I stopped with my hand on the handle, my back to her. My eyes burned, but I couldn't look at her. If I looked, I'd break.

"I'm sorry," I whispered again. "I can't save you."

“Celeste! Please! Please!" Her sobs turned into raw begging, her fingers scraping against the stone as if she could drag herself into my shadow.

I pushed the door open. The hallway beyond was dim and cold.

Behind me, Margaret collapsed fully, her forehead against the floor, wailing. "You're the only one I had," she sobbed. "You're the only one I had."

I stepped out, pulling the door shut before her voice could shatter me completely. My hands shook as I straightened my veil, the fabric damp where her tears had soaked it.

In the silence of the hallway, my own voice barely reached my ears.

"I can't," I whispered. "I can't die for her."

But the words didn't make the guilt any lighter.

.

.

The truth about Sacred Mercy had revealed itself slowly over the years.

On the surface, we were what we appeared to be: a convent dedicated to serving God through prayer and charitable works. We tended the sick in the attached hospice. We taught catechism to local children. We maintained the chapel and gardens with devotion that looked genuine because for many of us, it was.

But beneath the surface—literally beneath, in the labyrinth of rooms that stretched under the chapel—Sacred Mercy served a different purpose entirely.

I'd discovered it by accident two years into my time here. Late one night, unable to sleep through another nightmare, I'd gone to the chapel to pray. Voices had echoed up from somewhere below, followed by the distinct click of heels on stone–shoes no nun would wear.

Curiosity had led me down a spiral staircase I'd never noticed before, hidden behind a door that usually stayed locked. The corridor at the bottom smelled of expensive perfume and cigar smoke instead of incense and beeswax.

Through a crack in a door, I'd seen Sister Anna—a quiet woman who claimed to have a weak constitution and often missed morning prayers—kneeling before a man in an expensive suit. But she wasn't praying.

The room was filled with smacking sounds. Her mouth dripped of saliva as she took in the man's cock. Hardened and wet. He had held her hair tightly, pushing himself deeper into her mouth. Her breasts were dangling and hitting his thighs as she sucked his dick.

I was surprised. It was unexpected, but I had felt a slight wetness seeping into my panties. I had wanted to watch and shove my fingers into that aching spot between my legs.

But guilt came in and I fled back upstairs and vomited in the chapel bathroom until my ribs ached.

The next morning, Mother Superior had called me to her office.

She'd known. Of course she'd known. Nothing happened in Sacred Mercy without her knowledge.

"You seem troubled, Sister Celeste," she'd said, her voice pleasant as poisoned honey. "Did you sleep poorly?"

I'd kept my eyes down, hands clasped. "Yes, Mother Superior."

"Nightmares again?" A pause. "Or perhaps… curiosity about things that don't concern you?"

My blood had run cold.

She'd walked around her desk, her fingers trailing along the wood. "Sacred Mercy provides many services, child. Some visible, some… less so. We care for souls in various ways. The Church's work takes many forms."

"I don't understand, Mother Superior."

"I think you do." Her hand had gripped my chin, forcing me to meet her eyes. "And I think you're clever enough to know that some knowledge is dangerous. That doors left open in the night are invitations—or tests."

She'd released me, returning to her desk. "You've been exemplary these past two years. Devout. Obedient. Broken enough to be useful, but not so broken you're a liability. I'd hate for that to change."

The threat had been clear.

So I'd learned to be more careful. More invisible. I avoided the spiral staircase. I didn't ask questions when sisters disappeared for days at a time and returned hollow-eyed. I kept my head down during the evenings when expensive cars pulled up to the service entrance.

For six years, I'd survived by being overlooked.

I'd watched other girls—some who'd come after me—get selected for "evening services." I'd seen how they changed. How Sister Anna developed a nervous tick. How Sister Therese started hoarding sleeping pills. How Sister Claire simply vanished one day, and we were told she'd been transferred to another convent.

We all knew what "transferred" meant.

The system was simple, really. Mother Superior identified which girls could be used—the desperate ones, the ones with nowhere else to go, the ones too broken or afraid to run. She matched them to clients based on preferences and paid obscene amounts of money that went straight to the Church's coffers.

In return, the Church looked the other way. Cardinals received their cut. Local authorities were paid to ignore anything suspicious. And Sacred Mercy maintained its reputation as a beacon of holiness while selling women to wealthy men who wanted to defile it.

I'd avoided selection by being invisible. Too haunted. Too unstable.

I was the kind of broken that wasn't appealing to men who wanted fresh innocence to corrupt.

Until now.