After Vespers, a recreation hour and a following supper, I washed dishes together with sister Lilith, Josephine and Penelope.
"This is absolutely monstrous," lamented sister Josephine in her strong French accent. "How can anyone do something so atrocious?"
"Especially to kids," added sister Lilith.
Penelope made a sign of cross. "Lord, help us all."
"Amen," the other two echoed.
I stared at them confused, soaping my sponge.
"What are you guys talking about?"
The three women shot me a simultaneous gape.
"Haven't you read the newspaper?" Asked Josephine.
I shook my head no.
"I'll give it to you once we are done with cleaning. Itโnever mind. You'll see."
After we had finished with the kitchen, Josephine handed me that day's newspaper with a front-page headline in black bold ink:
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐
Below was an article about an eight-year-old boy, Julien Carrell, who was found dead in Sainte-Martine. It said the boy's body was brutally beaten, sexually assaulted and dumped somewhere on camping grounds where it was later discovered by tourists.
The graphic description of the crime scene was truly gruesome. The boy was fully naked, the article stated, with dirt stuffed in his mouth and a broken bear bottle in his rectum. Several broken teeth and ribs. The cause of death โ strangulation.
Two pictures were included, the first one of the kid's bruised back, and a close up of his neck on which clearly showed the strangulation marks.
"Ohโฆmy godโฆ" Chills ran down my spine. "This isโthis isโ"
"Atrocious!" Finished Josephine.
"Atrocious is not the word," said Lilith. "Yesterday's article gave me nightmares."
Penelope kept crossing herself over and over, fear contorting her face.
"Do you have the other newspapers?" I asked.
"Josephine?" Lilith addressed the French nun who was now balancing a stack of dirty dishes with distress.
"I do. They are in the library on the rack near the fig plant. But I'd burn them all!"
We joined the rest of the nuns in the community room after were fully done with our cleaning duties, and while the others busied themselves with puzzles, parable color books, sock knitting and other cutesy crafts, I sat in the corner with bulging eyes, reading things so horrendous they did not seem real.
"๐๐๐ค๐๐ ๐๐จ๐๐ฒ ๐จ๐ ๐ ๐๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ๐ญ๐๐๐ง-๐ฒ๐๐๐ซ-๐จ๐ฅ๐ ๐๐๐ซ๐๐๐ฅ๐ฅ๐ ๐๐๐ฅ๐ณ๐๐ ๐๐จ๐ฎ๐ง๐ ๐๐ฅ๐จ๐๐ญ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐ข๐ง ๐๐ข๐๐ก๐๐ฅ๐ข๐๐ฎ ๐๐ข๐ฏ๐๐ซ.
๐๐ฐ๐๐ง๐ญ๐ฒ-๐ญ๐ฐ๐จ ๐ฌ๐ญ๐ฎ๐ ๐ฐ๐จ๐ฎ๐ง๐๐ฌ. ๐๐ซ๐จ๐ค๐๐ง ๐ฃ๐๐ฐ. ๐๐ซ๐จ๐ค๐๐ง ๐๐ซ๐ฆ. ๐๐ข๐ ๐ง๐ฌ ๐จ๐ ๐ฏ๐ข๐จ๐ฅ๐๐ง๐ญ ๐ซ๐๐ฉ๐.
๐๐๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ ๐จ๐ ๐๐๐๐ญ๐ก โ ๐๐ฑ๐ฌ๐๐ง๐ ๐ฎ๐ข๐ง๐๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ง ๐๐ฒ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ฌ๐๐ฏ๐๐ซ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐ข๐ง๐ฃ๐ฎ๐ซ๐ฒ ๐ญ๐จ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ง๐๐๐ค."
Below were attached the appalling images of the girl's abused body. Disturbed, I picked up the second newspaper.
"๐๐ก๐จ๐ญ ๐ข๐ง ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ก๐๐๐. ๐๐ก๐ ๐๐จ๐๐ฒ ๐จ๐ ๐ ๐ญ๐ก๐ข๐ซ๐ญ๐ฒ-๐ฌ๐ข๐ฑ-๐ฒ๐๐๐ซ ๐จ๐ฅ๐ ๐ฌ๐๐ก๐จ๐จ๐ฅ ๐ญ๐๐๐๐ก๐๐ซ ๐๐ซ๐ฎ๐ง๐จ ๐๐จ๐๐ข๐ง๐๐๐ซ๐ฎ ๐ฐ๐๐ฌ ๐๐ข๐ฌ๐๐จ๐ฏ๐๐ซ๐๐ ๐จ๐ง ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ค๐๐ฒ ๐๐ญ๐ซ๐๐๐ญ ๐ข๐ง ๐๐จ๐ง๐ญ๐ซ๐๐๐ฅ ๐๐ฒ ๐ฅ๐จ๐๐๐ฅ ๐ฉ๐จ๐ฅ๐ข๐๐๐ฆ๐๐ง. ๐๐ฌ ๐ฌ๐ญ๐๐ญ๐๐ ๐ข๐ง ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ซ๐๐ฉ๐จ๐ซ๐ญ, '๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ฅ๐ ๐ฐ๐๐ฌ ๐๐ซ๐ฎ๐ญ๐๐ฅ๐ฅ๐ฒ ๐ซ๐๐ฉ๐๐, ๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ซ๐๐๐ซ๐๐ ๐๐ฒ ๐ ๐ ๐ฎ๐ง๐ฌ๐ก๐จ๐ญ ๐๐ง๐ ๐ฅ๐๐๐ญ ๐ง๐๐๐ซ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ ๐๐ซ๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐ซ๐๐ ๐๐๐ก๐ข๐ง๐ ๐ ๐๐ฎ๐ข๐ฅ๐๐ข๐ง๐ .' ๐๐ก๐ ๐๐ฎ๐ญ๐ก๐จ๐ซ๐ข๐ญ๐ข๐๐ฌ ๐ฉ๐จ๐ข๐ง๐ญ ๐ญ๐จ ๐๐จ๐ง๐ญ๐ซ๐๐๐ฅ ๐๐ซ๐๐๐๐ญ๐จ๐ซ."
And of course the photographs of the poor guy were attached below. I was sick to my stomach when I grabbed the last newspaper.
"๐๐ฎ๐ซ๐ง๐๐ ๐ญ๐จ ๐๐จ๐๐ฅ. ๐ ๐๐-๐ฒ๐๐๐ซ-๐จ๐ฅ๐ ๐ฐ๐จ๐ฆ๐๐ง ๐๐จ๐ฎ๐ง๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐ข๐ง ๐ก๐๐ซ ๐๐ฉ๐๐ซ๐ญ๐ฆ๐๐ง๐ญ. ๐๐ข๐ง๐๐ ๐๐ฎ๐ฆ๐จ๐ง๐ญ, ๐ ๐ง๐ฎ๐ซ๐ฌ๐ ๐๐ญ ๐๐ญ. ๐๐๐ซ๐ฒ'๐ฌ ๐๐จ๐ฌ๐ฉ๐ข๐ญ๐๐ฅ, ๐ฐ๐๐ฌ ๐๐ข๐ฌ๐๐จ๐ฏ๐๐ซ๐๐ ๐ข๐ง ๐ก๐๐ซ ๐ก๐จ๐ฆ๐ ๐๐ฒ ๐ ๐ซ๐๐ฅ๐๐ญ๐ข๐ฏ๐, ๐๐ฎ๐ซ๐ง๐๐ ๐ญ๐จ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐๐จ๐ง๐. ๐๐จ๐ฐ๐๐ฏ๐๐ซ, ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐๐ฎ๐ญ๐จ๐ฌ๐ฉ๐ฒ ๐๐ฑ๐๐ฆ๐ข๐ง๐๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ง ๐ก๐๐ฌ ๐๐๐ญ๐๐ซ๐ฆ๐ข๐ง๐๐ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ฌ๐ญ๐ซ๐๐ง๐ ๐ฎ๐ฅ๐๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ง ๐ญ๐จ ๐๐ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐๐๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ ๐จ๐ ๐๐๐๐ญ๐ก, ๐๐ฌ ๐ฐ๐๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐๐ฌ ๐๐ข๐ฌ๐ญ๐ข๐ง๐๐ญ ๐ฌ๐ข๐ ๐ง๐ฌ ๐จ๐ ๐ซ๐๐ฉ๐ ๐๐ง๐ ๐ญ๐ซ๐๐ฎ๐ฆ๐๐ฌ ๐ญ๐จ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐๐ซ๐จ๐ง๐ญ๐๐ฅ ๐ฅ๐จ๐๐ ๐๐ง๐ ๐ฅ๐จ๐ฐ๐๐ซ ๐๐๐๐จ๐ฆ๐๐ง. ๐๐ก๐ ๐๐ฏ๐ข๐๐๐ง๐๐ ๐ฉ๐จ๐ข๐ง๐ญ๐ฌ ๐ญ๐จ ๐๐จ๐ง๐ญ๐ซ๐๐๐ฅ ๐๐ซ๐๐๐๐ญ๐จ๐ซ."
The crime scene close ups were so shocking that the food I had eaten earlier, together with a nasty lump of bile, rose right up my throat. I had to fold my arms and rest my head there for a while for the nausea to pass.
It would be easier had I not seen the photographs of those unfortunate souls, but they were there, so explicit and terrifying that there could only be one reaction. Sickness.
It persisted during Compline. I could hardly go a minute without a stomach cramp, imagining cut throats, burned limbs, black bruises and bleeding wounds. And to think that all those heinous killings were happening so close from me made me extremely uneasy.
Now I remembered that I had actually seen the news before. When I went to that internet cafe and saw a guy with a "murder-on-the-loose" newspaper, or when a nun shoved a newspaper at sister Rosalyn when the latter had arrived to the monastery with the archbishop. And when Valeria feared for Ronan going to Montreal right before he diedโฆ
What made it even spookier is that I was just there in Montreal, attending a funeral. What if I saw the killer? What if he was one of those people at the funeral? For all I knew, all of them were rotten sinners.