Bad Habits: A Dark Anthology - Yolanda Olson Page 0,43
had the night I was abandoned on the doorstep of the church. At least that’s what Sister Mary Concessa told me. It was like even God himself had been warning her against opening the door and letting in the misery I would inevitably bring to the convent. Every single day since, she’s wished she hadn’t listened to the voice that had egged her on.
The stuck-up bitch hates me more than she hates the devil, and that is saying something. Her eyes never roam far enough away for me to do any of the trivial shit she accuses me of, yet once again, I am bare-assed and about to get a lashing. She pulls out a long, brown leather strap which she hides in her office for just this purpose. I bet she enjoys seeing me bent over her desk like this, panties around my thighs, my habit gathered around my waist. I see the way she looks at me. She only hates me because she’s terrified of what my presence brings out in her. I make her desire dark and perverse things. It festers in her mind, warps her thoughts. Spend your life in a convent and the beast is bound to rear its ugly head eventually. Mary Concessa has a monster lurking inside her, and it comes out to play whenever I am near.
“Celeste, do you understand why you’re here?” Her voice is icy, but the swoosh of her garment and the tap of her shoes on the tiles as she paces behind me are what I focus on.
“No.” I say, and I feel the harsh sting of the strap on my ass. I dig my nails into the wood.
“I will ask you again. Do you know why you’re here?”
“No.” I repeat, earning me another hit.
“You know the punishment for disobedience. I will not tolerate that here. You are supposed to show others the way, Celeste. Teach them what is good and right in God's eyes.”
Is this her idea of what is good? Or right?
I don’t answer her, and she brings the strap down once again. I barely catch my breath before the whip strikes my flesh another time. I bite down on my lip so hard I taste iron, but I will not cry out, show weakness. I refuse to give her the pleasure that hurting me brings. “Father Thomas will hear about this.”
Oh, I am counting on it. I want her to tell on me, like she always does.
This time, she thinks I’ve been sticking my hands in the tithe jar. That is the stupidest thing I have ever been accused of. Still, I take my ten strikes then straighten myself up.
“I trust you’ll think twice about stealing from the church.” I turn and stare into her cold, obsidian eyes. She’s aged considerably, premature lines etched into her pale skin. Hate does that to people. Makes them uglier than they are.
Sister Concessa is a scrawny woman in her mid-forties, her habit hanging from her frame. Her skin is pale from lack of vitamin D.
I could snap her wrist in one go, and I've often imagined doing it, twisting it until she’s on her knees in front of me, begging to be spared. I push past her instead, slamming the door behind me.
Once I’m in my room, I shut my door and lean back against it. I will not let Concessa deter me from my purpose.
My room houses an uncomfortable single bed covered in white linen and a gray blanket for colder nights. The mattress is so worn the springs dig into my back. I have a small, dark wood wardrobe as well as a side table. The single, small window looks out at the bricks on the side of the school building.
This convent has been my home for eighteen years, this room my refuge. Convent life is communal in nature so this is the only place I am afforded some semblance of privacy. This is where I prepare my mind for the greater tasks ahead of me. I open my wardrobe, a relic, and gently pull off the poster of the Holy Mother to reveal my only valuable possession which hides behind it. I pull my tunic over my head and drag down my cotton panties. I frown at the angry red marks that run across my ass cheeks. We aren’t allowed mirrors, but nobody knows about this one. It is my little secret.
Vanity is a sin. To love God completely, one must not be self-absorbed.