SPRINKLING LIQUIDS.

𝘿𝙤 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙘𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙚𝙮𝙚𝙨 had become my mantra for the next four days. In the name of everything I conjured myself to stay awake, afraid to forget Asmodeus's orders like I'd somehow done before.

Those awful four days. 96 hours. In those 96 hours I scraped on sleep no more than 5. I often caught myself dozing off, while helping Ann-Mary make communion bread in the kitchen, while sweeping the floors, or during divine offices where I only pretended to pray, or even in my own room when I 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 actually sleep like all the rest. But I could not allow myself such a luxury. Not until the four fucking days have been passed.

Minutes felts like hours, and hours like days; I counted them all with great distress. It was excruciating. But at least I remembered everything and — you best believe — did all that I was ordered to do.

I soaked the apple in red wine at Monday's daybreak. The fruit marinated in a silver tureen (I had taken the dish from the kitchen) in my room on the concrete installation, which seem to make more sense the more I used it. I poured salt into gaps of all doorsteps and left mine unsalted. I felt like a total psychopath doing it, but hey, I did it. And I fasted through constant acid reflux and dizziness, hating every second of it.

When sisters asked me why I wasn't eating and I'd blame it on my lack of appetite, it made me furious because in reality I wanted to scream — feed me! How ironic. In those hangry moments I especially understood the fiend's rage, and wondered if the entity was proving a point.

I constantly found myself talking to myself, pretending I spoke to Asmodeus: 𝘐 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘪𝘵. 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦, 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘬. 𝘐 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘪𝘵. 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦, 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘵. 𝘐 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘪𝘵. 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱. All my thoughts were occupied by the primary needs. Even my creaky, old bed suddenly seemed soft and comfortable. Even the bland monastic meals looked like some rare delicacies. I realized then that the outside weeds topped with cheap oil and salt weren't that bad after all. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨!

I remember how on the first day of my fast I went out of my cell past midnight and tiptoed towards the refectory, for at night the hunger would get so unbearable that I was ready to commit a crime to lick crumbs off a dirty table.

As I was making my way through the cloister, I saw Sister Elizabeth at the end of the hallway. I was surprised to see her, especially at this hour, especially considering she was bed-bound by flue.

I wanted to walk up to her but knew she wouldn't speak anyway. Grand silence and all. I assumed she needed food, drink, or to urinate. I watched her disappear behind the corner and, forgetting about my own need, I trailed back to my room.

On the following night, when I secretly went out again, I saw a familiar scene. Only now it was sister Sarah who wandered the premises. And again, the presence of a nun had made me turn back, although it was hard to say no to the leftovers stacked in the kitchen refrigerator.

And God only knew how hard it was to say no when Val actually shoved meaty contraband discreetly into my hands. On Wednesday evening, right after the grand silence had begun, Valeria quietly slithered into my room.

"Look what mama got you," she whispered joyfully, shoving a small box into my hands. The warmth of the package and the smell of fried-and-oily had me shaking and salivating like a dog.

"I appreciate it girl, but I'm not up for it at the moment," I told her, afraid I'd lose it.

"Whow, whow. Wait. You don't even know what it is! Ronan got it for us. Take a look!"

I knew exactly what was inside. Fried chicken. Not only was I salivating like a dog but developed a nose of one. Come on, three days with no food…

"Whatever it is, I'm good." I gave her back her contraband.

Val looked at me flummoxed. "Who are you? What did you do to my friend?"

That made me nervous. Did she suspect something fishy? I tried laughing it off. "Are you calling me a fat ass?"

"Well, now more like a mummy. You need to eat, sis. You look like shit."

"Thanks." I uttered dryly. "Maybe next time. But I'm just really not hungry right now."

"Eat something, fuck!" She wouldn't budge.

"I did!"

"When?"

"Today."

"You're fucking lying."

"I swear. I had the breakfast rolls."

"When? I didn't see you eat shit during breakfast. Or lunch. Or dinner."

"It's because I ate them during work."

"Why, you don't eat with us anymore?"

I had to think quick. "I—binged."

She regarded me a long moment. "You binged…Are you stressed or somethin'?"

I wanted to tell her everything then, but refrained.

"No, they just looked so good…straight out of the oven–and you know me and my cravings." Come on, buy it. Buy it!

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you sure you're not bullshitting me?"

I exhaled. "I'm not, I promise."

Valeria seemed to give in at last, finally turning her penetrating gaze away. "Hm. Did you get a heater or somethin'?"

"No, why?"

"Really? The temperature is lovely. I wish my room was this warm. What'd you do to make it like this?"

𝘖𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭.

"Nothing," I shrugged. "It's been like this for a while."

"Damn…Lucky you. I'm freezing my ass all night long. I seriously need a heater."

"I thought your boy was getting you one?"

"He better. His family's coming tomorrow for the mass, so I'll grab him by the ballz. Anyway boo—enjoy the warmth, you lucky bitch. Peace."

She slithered out, taking the box with her. She took the food but the smell stayed and lingered. All. Night. Long. It made me nauseous, then it made me dream of fried chicken and how I gorged down pounds and pounds of it. Then in cold sweat, disgusted and afraid, I'd jerk myself to consciousness and feel nauseous again.

†††

Thursday. Never had a Thursday felt more appealing. So far I had had neither a crumb of food nor a drop of water, yet my head was the clearest, focus the sharpest, heart was beating steadily, and my body felt more energetic. Oh, and my hunger actually went away. Go figure!

I didn't eat breakfast, of course, but for the first time I didn't suffer not having it, for I actually didn't crave it. And of course I followed the instructions, that is, did not pray but only opened my mouth without intention.

At noon sister Rosalyn along with the archbishop, William Dene, arrived at the monastery. Their appearance turned the nuns into hyperactive bunnies. How good it is to see you, sister Rosalyn, they'd say. It is an honor to meet you, Your Grace.

The women did everything to please the man in the lavish pallium, ogling him like he were one of Jesus' twelve disciples. They followed him around and showed him the premises, offered him the finest of the monastery's guest chambers and a hearty meal to go along. Prattled on about how so very honored and thankful they were to have him visit their lands.

And I stayed behind, watched it all from the distance, observing the man with awe.

His presence was so strong that I felt like a minority, an inferior unworthy of breathing the same air as him. No wonder. I was a fraud and he was real.

He carried an aura of an important figure, a high figure, a man with a master key, a person of great power. When he gave me a quick look, I only winced and smiled like an imbecile, eyes lost and round as coins. 𝘏𝘦'𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘈𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘶𝘴, I thought.

When the primate had retired to the abbess's office, probably to discuss the latest disastrous events, the nuns turned their attention to Rosalyn Jackson. How have you been? Did the campaign go as planned? Will you do another one soon? How long will you stay? How long will His Grace stay? 𝘏𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴? One nun shoved a newspaper in sister Rosalyn's face. She answered all of their questions. Then she found me.

"It is so nice to see you," I told her. It was the truth.

"Likewise, dear. How do you do?"

"Managing just fine," I replied, fingers twitching, feet tapping. I was nervous.

"I heard of what had happened here," she said, her voice tranquil as it always had been, not even the atomic war would disturb it. "I am so sorry you had to go through this."

"It's…It was God's will." 𝘔𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘰𝘯. I felt disgusted with myself, and so, so guilty that I was afraid to look the nun in the face.

"Well, God willing, this was the last time the monastery suffered such calamities—"

"God willing." I bobbed my head vigorously.

Silence.

"Genevieve."

Reluctantly I looked up and into sister Rosalyn's searching green eyes. I knew she could feel something wasn't right about the way my body twitched, or was forming assumptions as those keen greens of hers ran over my emaciated appearance. I swallowed.

"Is everything all right with you, darling? You know you can tell me anything."

I smiled as sincerely as my acting skills allowed me to. "Nothing to worry about, sister. I promise."

†††

Mass took place at 7 o'clock in the evening, exactly eight hours after the archbishop's arrival. By the way, he declined the repose and food and went straight to sprinkling water through the entire building using his shiny set of aspergillum and aspersorium while chanting prayers I had never heard of before.

The reason for the immediate blessing was the holiday — the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, which the church was to celebrate with over two hundred people. No way would His Grace allow for some evil spirit — if there was one — to roam about the place on such a sacred occasion.

So the rite of exorcism was performed dutifully by the serious-looking William Dene, and by 3:30 p.m. he claimed the monastery to be cleared of all wickedness.

The nuns rejoiced, what was not to say about me. I only grew more concerned imagining the shuddering laughter and my levitating body. Could an energy so strong even be repelled by sprinkling liquids? 𝘐𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳.

𝙒𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙖 𝙜𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙖𝙣 𝙤𝙥𝙚𝙣 𝙙𝙤𝙤𝙧, I repeated as I worked on sorting hosts into bowls for later blessings. 𝘞𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘦. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳. 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩? I wondered. 𝘕𝘰. 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵.

I really wanted to. Besides, at some point, after the four days of no demonic visits, no glowing eyes and no earsplitting laughter, I had begun to question if the demon was even real. I know, I know. I was reaching for logical straws.

Exhaustion. Hallucinations. Madness. But when the preparations for the mass were finished and I, for the first time in those four days, went to wash myself (I hardly took off my habit for how cold I felt) before the Holy Communion, I concluded — it was fucking real.

Thankfully I was the only one in the room, so no one could see the horrific strangulation marks all around the base of my neck. No wonder it felt tender. With mounting alarm I stared at myself in the mirror, trembling fingers tracing purple bruises. There was just no way I could have done this myself, to myself. My eyes watered.

Not without difficulty I had managed to disregard my injuries, for now, in a haste cleaned my body, wrapped it in warm clothing, put on my habit, and went about my day, that is, watched for a golden chalice and an open door, whatever that meant…until I saw it all fall into place.

When the mass had reached the Liturgy of the Eucharist, sisters Kathy, Lorraine and Carmel passed the baskets onto the congregation to collect monetary offerings. Those then had to be brought to the altar together with a cruet of spring water, a goblet with grape wine and a bowl with unconsecrated wafers, which I had sorted earlier.

Sister Dominique was in charge of the liquids, and I stepped out to prepare the breads. As I made my way out of the chapel to the convent and to the refectory, the time slowed down, not in a literal way but in a sense were I knew exactly what would happen next, what consequences would the following actions produce, how objects would collide before they even neared to one another.

Walking inside through the cloister, I noticed a young man stroll by, he turned his head right and left; He seemed lost. He halted precisely at the foot of an open door, looked down at his untied shoelaces, frowned and kneeled to fix them. And I saw Dominique walking out of that same doorway carrying a tray on which balanced a golden chalice. That is where the time slowed, and I just watched it like a scene from a movie, which I'd seen a thousand times.

With her attention only on the glistening cup, Dominique had failed to see what was beneath her, and the kneeling fellow was too focused on his clean church shoes to see what was above. He rose abruptly and bumped into the nun.

The wine spilled on to his white shirt and quickly soaked the fabric with a deep red stain, revealing the tight muscles beneath.

I kept watching.

The color of Dominique's face matched the color which had saturated the man's tunic. I'm so sorry! She pleaded, I did not see you! The guy next to her only shook his head no. It is not your fault. I was in your way. It's all good. He tried to be amiable, but poor Dominique wouldn't look at him, not without blushing. After all, she was only 27 years old, the temptation was still raw and she clearly struggled to hold it back. I felt for her.

"Do you by chance have a place where I can wash this?"

"Yes. We do," I interfered before Dominique would suffer a stroke. "I will take care of this, sister. You can go and refill the cup. And would you mind taking the bowls as well? The offertory is about to begin."

The nun was so glad to see me, her eyes turned glossy. "Yes, sister. Will—will do. Thank you." And turning to the lad next to her without actually looking into his powder-blue eyes, she mumbled, "F-forgive me. I'm so sorry."

"It's no big deal, really." When he offered her a friendly smile, she sprinted off, face sheepishly red.

"This way, please." I gestured to the hall which stretched all the way down towards the dormitory.

"Great, appreciate it."

𝘕𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳, I thought.

My legs carried me without my participation, as if there was someone they followed. It was intuitive I'd say, and I just went along with it because I truly didn't know what the hell I was doing.

We walked all the way to my cell, and I let him enter. What happened next I do not quite remember. I know that he thanked me, not one bit surprised, and went inside like he was expecting to end up in my room. And I locked the door behind him. Then on heavier legs I retired back to the chapel to finish the mass. And rubbing my sore neck all the while all I could think of was, 𝘱𝘰𝘰𝘳 𝘙𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘯.