Chapter 19 - YOU ARE FORGIVEN.

I woke up from my own screaming.

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯.

Another inane night terror that got me shaking.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺?

Apart from fear, I couldn't recall it like I could not recall the many more before it.

Exhausted, I readjusted myself, my pillow and my prickly blanket, rubbed beads of fever off my forehead, inhaled/exhaled, closed my eyes and. . . . .found myself in the middle of nowhere, on parched land with not a trace of moisture.

Thirst pierced my throat, and sadness impaled my heart — intolerable experience. In desperation I tore desiccated soil with my nails until they bled, wheezed and coughed. Cried for help, for water. For relief. For mercy. For God.

But above me the skies were mute, formed hot masses of brown clouds. Beneath me the ground burned. Around me stretched drought, endless searing desert. And every breath I took in that place felt like swallowing hot coals; it turned my thirst to torture.

When I jerked up again, in cold sweat on soaked sheets, I sprinted out of my cell to the nearest faucet I could think of. But no water would come out. Only the sound of it. I banged on it, wailed at it. Swore at it. Twisted its handles this way and that way. Nothing.

I darted to the other faucet – same shit, not a drop would drop. Only the sound did, as if mocking me. At that point my chest could fry eggs, that much it burned. I shouted at the top of my lungs…and woke up, in cold sweat on disgusting wet sheets, with dehydrated lips and racing heartbeat.

𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯.

When I made my way to the faucet, I was frightened. What if this was another cruel dream? But the water ran at last, and I jumped on it with relief, gulping tons of it for a long, long time. Then I would fall asleep for the tenth time and wake up to 𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜-𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜! the next morning, utterly shattered.

Like this – seventeen nights. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘐 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘐 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬? I'd think to myself as I'd force my achy limbs to rise to the days that were no better.

I had developed a nagging itching which resisted all medication. Actually, the more drugs I used the more I scratched my skin, and I did it so intensely that the sleeves of my habit and the fabric near my chest had gotten damaged from constant friction.

This had messed up my skin so badly that at some point I couldn't even look at myself in the mirror as all I saw was a ghost with many red sores glowing on her pale body.

Aside from painful itching, my thirst and hunger amplified to an unbearable degree. Gallons upon gallons of water could hardly replenish me. And no amount of solids that I'd steal from the kitchen to graze on endlessly would curb my acute hunger.

This hell would become my new normal: I'd drink and eat and scratch all day, then go to bed at night, toss and turn and scratch. And eat and drink. And 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩! And fall into another senseless nightmare that would drive me to the edge of sanity.

I blamed it all on Asmodeus, thinking it was the fiend's way of breaking and subjugating me. And I believed it, for I had noticed through many observations that the episodes flared at the slightest thought of resisting evil.

I only had to picture myself walking abbess's righteous path, abstinent from the tamed-by-my-temperance sin, and the torture began. I thought, 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘳𝘪𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘺 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘸𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭. And scratched hard. I thought, 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘎𝘰𝘥'𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦. And hungered immensely. I thought, 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘴, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳, and burned with thirst.

Bible said: prayer is the best medicine, and so I prayed. Prayed during Lauds, and Vespers, and Compline. Prayed even on breaks between divine offices and work, prayed during meals and recreation hours, spent all of my free time in the chapel, begging the Lord for a million's time to forgive and rid me off this hell.

I pretty much slept on the altar, like a sacral sheep ready to bleed in the name of redemption. I was exhausted, with old tears dried up and crusty on my lashes, with fear accelerating my heartbeat, with itchy fever throbbing angrily beneath my skin.

Certainly, I thought, it had to be Asmodeus's doing; however, the demon itself was entirely gone. No more would its eyes glow in darkness, or its monstrous voice split my ears, or its wicked presence impregnate the air. The only thing left of him was my ever-aching, hungering, thirsting body. But I endured, I was willing to, if it meant proving the demon wrong, showing it that not all men were weak. So long as I was able to endure, I was winning.

†††

Fast forward. Wednesday. Thirty-one day of my suffering.

I remember how little control I had over the fever that burned just under my skin. During Lauds I scratched myself with more zeal than I worshipped (and I worshipped passionately), fanned myself with a prayer sheet to cool off hot flashes.

Valeria watched me.

At breakfast I destroyed an entire bowl of porridge, two thick pieces of bread, one big orange, one big apple, five crackers, a cup of hot tea and two bottles of water in under five minutes.

Valeria watched me.

During work I took frequent breaks to scratch my skin to wounds, growling from discomfort like Philip growled from nagging fleas.

Valeria watched me.

After Vespers my stomach pangs and pruritus reached their peaks. That was probably the worst episode I had in those four weeks. It was a miracle I did not draw a knife into my ribs when I scratched them with it angrily in between cutting potatoes, and struggled to not devour the food I was preparing before it had been brought out to the refectory. Although… I managed to drain 1.5 liters of water in less than 30 minutes.

At dinner I gobbled my chunky stew and gulped down my thick drink so quickly my belly spasmed. And still I was not satisfied, still thought of sneaking into the kitchen and binging on the days-old leftovers while others slowly savored their sacred meals to Psalms. 𝘛𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘌𝘷𝘦, I reminded myself and refrained, partially because Valeria watched me.

She hardly said a word to me since that day when I had basically sent her to hell along with the others, but she sure wouldn't stop staring at me with that highly concerned expression of hers. She was angry with me, but not more than she was worried, so now and then she still sneaked food contrabands into my cell, would give me a thin smile if our paths had ever crossed.

She was like that, a friend I did not deserve because with my painful episodes taking up all of my energy, Val appeared to me like a classroom full of bipolar second-graders – too much to handle. So I thought it best to spend the next quiet hour in my cell, resting, digesting and away from Valeria's prying eyes.

My room was lovely at that hour, I remember, with golden sunset and chirping of juncos penetrating its minimalistic space. Peace and quiet, which I did not acknowledge. I simply flopped on my squeaky bed and lay there, intoxicated by a food coma, bloated stomach and pounding headache, itching and scratching all over while the loveliness of the moment slipped between my fingers like sand.

I could not rest and digest, not even with all the monastic bliss. I was very uncomfortable, in pain. Out of touch with myself. Out of balance, out of whack. And no matter how much I prayed, how much I begged to be healed and forgiven, God would not accept me.

"Granny…oh. I screwed up. I screwed up…" I muttered, recalling her curses when she bathed me off menstrual blood. 𝘞𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘺, 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭 𝘢𝘪𝘮𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵. Yep. This was exactly her warning, but too late.

What God would want me now that I was the whore of whores, used by the devil himself? I was of no interest even to the devil now that he used and threw me away like a damaged toy.

I cried. And the more I cried the lonelier I became. I had no one to talk to, to get this impossible weight off my chest. I thought of Valeria. She would come, I thought, angry as she was she would listen to me. She would believe me. Together we would figure out how to help me. She would come. She was a real friend.

I grabbed the phone, that old thing, Ronan's gift. It was still paid for the month of December. Still had service for me to shoot Val a text. But as I started to punch in the letters, a voice, so quiet yet so loud, resonated in my head, 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦.

The phone slipped right from my hand and hit the floor. So no matter from what angle you looked at it, I was fucked.

I wailed.

"Damn you, you…𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳! Damn you! If you could die, I wish you'd die the worst death!"

Silence was my answer, and my bitter sobbing bouncing from wall to wall.

No, this weight was too much to keep bottled up for any longer. I needed to speak to someone about it. I needed to seek help. 𝘚𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦. Inevitable for whom? And what was to happen anyway?

If it was just me who'd suffer, I was willing to risk it. But I wouldn't risk Val. No. I couldn't risk her life. I thought long, then I thought of something that would not make anyone suffer. 𝘚𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦.

"We'll see about that, you fucker," I spat at the bench installation, got up and marched out, slamming the door behind me.

𝐈 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 in the meditation garden on the East wing of the monastery: the archbishop, sister Rosalyn, the abbess, father Anthony and several other unfamiliar faces.

Their grave expressions suggested a grave discussion. Their attires contrasted vividly against the purity of their snowy surroundings. Women in black, men in white. Like chess pieces they stood in two lines, faced, it seemed, exactly who they were supposed to face and no other, spoke one at a time while the rest listened, erect and immovable until addressed. I imagined that that was how serious matters were handled, by playing games.

I did not dare approach them, intimidated by their serious looks, but I tried to pry out sister Rosalyn's attention by means of gestures. She saw me almost immediately, as if sensing my jittery presence. Her nod was the slightest when she excused herself and retired my way.

I only held her for one minute, asked her for a favor. She never wondered why, only gave me a curious stare and the slightest nod. "He is available at eight," she said. "I will arrange."

"Thank you."

And back she went, the black queen, to finish her game.

At exactly eight o'clock of that evening, I sat in a confessional booth and passionately dumped my problems on William Dene's ear. At first I wanted to be vague, ask a few questions without mentioning names. I wanted to find a loophole and speak about my tragedy without actually speaking about it. But somehow every word I tried to conceal rolled off my tongue so effortlessly that I didn't even notice the moment I blabbed it all out.

I told the archbishop the truth, that, though unintentionally, instead of archangel Raphael I had summoned an evil spirit, and that because of that spirit the monastery had suffered the latest calamities.

I told him that his blessings did not help drive the demon out as it had returned shortly after the ritual.

I told him the fiend's name, and the things it had made me do, minus the fornication part (sex…plain ol' sex) as I was too ashamed to admit it even to myself, much less out loud to the clergy.

I told him about the incidents at the funeral and the mass, and that I was not crazy but provoked to appear mad.

I told him of Asmodeus's prophesy, and that I was afraid of it coming true.

I told him about the Montreal predator.

I expected for the archbishop to contradict my nonsense with reason, or at the very least sound suspicious of my fiddles, but he only listened to the very end of my story with utmost equanimity.

"You played with fire, child, but sharing this have done you good. God sees your intentions and will not abandon you."

"I hope and pray on it every day, father, but…I'm afraid God is angry with me, for all the sins I have committed."

"His anger is great, but so is His benevolence. Pray to the Lord with all your heart, and His grace will shower you."

"I will, father. But what should I do now? How can I get rid of Asmodeus?"

"I will help. Now that I know exactly what I am dealing with, I can properly dispose of it."

"It's not that simple," I warned him. "That thing is really strong, and dangerous. It can do things beyond reason. It sets fires, poisons animals, repels your blessings. It knows things that did not happen, that will happen. It lifted me once off the ground and left horrible bruises on my neck. It possesses people!"

"It is strong," he said dourly, "but God is stronger still. And if you have any faith in Him, we will rid you of the fiend. Now, I will need your assistance. First, tell me how exactly did you conjure it?"

I told him all I knew, all I remembered, every detail, leaving nothing behind, not even how I sneaked into the greenhouse for mint and cut myself. Not even how I thought it was all a complete waste of time.

The only thing I kept from him was Valeria's name. I did not want to involve her in any of it, and so I claimed all the actions and ritual attributes as mine. My fault, I told him. All. My. Fault.

"I need to see that book." The archbishop said.

"I will bring it to you. Where?"

"To the chapel. We will not speak of this to others, to not stir panic."

"Understood. When?"

"When does it visit the most?"

"At nighttime mostly, but sometimes during the day," I replied, remembering funeral and Samson with shame and sadness.

"Night it is. We need a pig," concluded the archbishop. "A strong spirit must be cast into a strong beast."

He was replicating Jesus's rite, I thought, trying to exorcise the demon into a swine. "We do not have pigs in our barn."

"I am sure one can be delivered. I will speak to your abbess."

"Will you tell her about Asmodeus?"

"No." He replied gravely. "At least not while the evil is on the loose. Now go, sister, and pray with your heart. I will be expecting you in the chapel tomorrow after the last office. Make sure no one sees you."

"Yes, father, I'll be there and will bring the book and–I'll pray, all night if I have to. But I will. And, father…" I paused, "…could my deeds really ever be forgiven?"

"God is good, Genevieve. You are forgiven."