Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Five years ago

We walked out the door and went around the church toward the back door. Sister Abby then proceeds to pull out a big key filled hoop. It took her a full minute to find the right key for the door. That minute was enough for my mind to stop racing with funny thoughts and take in my situation.

I was not dead. I am not going to die. Whatever is happening to me is not their doing. They did not poison me to soil myself by peeing blood in front of everyone. No. Whatever happening to me is something else entirely.

With a creak the big iron door was pulled by Sister Abby. Once again grabbing my arm I was pulled by her into the storage room. It was very cold. Usually I don't feel it but today it felt unusually cold. The room was filled with wine barrels. We walked to the back end of the room where the empty barrels were piled up against the wall.

Letting go of my hand Sister Abby gestured at me with her hands to move the barrels away from the wall. I walked forward on shaky legs and tried my level best to move those barrels. Even though they were empty they still weigh a lot to my twelve years old self.

After moving almost four to five barrels from the left to the right side of the wall, I stopped. I was sweating profusely, and my body ache had doubled. Sister Abby walked forward and did some gestures in the air. The air came to life.

A shimmering portal framed by intricate, glowing runes that were moving in an uncalculated path came into view. As we stepped closer, a gentle hum filled the air, almost like whispering. It's the voice of the runes on the magical doorway that dance with ethereal light. The edges of the door ripple like liquid silver, and then the door opened by itself.

In the obscure shadows, appeared a dark staircase going down into the dungeon. It looked almost like an abyss, absorbing the feeble light around its edges. No hint of what lies beyond is visible, an impenetrable darkness. A subtle chill emanates from it. But this had no effect on my emotions. It was the door to my room. My home.

I took the lead this time, descending the dark staircase. Each step down into the dark dungeon echoes with a creak. The air became cool and damp, carrying the scent of musty earth. Flickering torches barely illuminate the narrow stone staircase, casting eerie shadows that dance along the cold, damp walls. A distant echo of our steps could be heard.

The descent leads us through a labyrinth of interconnected cellars, their low ceilings and cobweb-covered corners hinting at ages past. I navigated the dimly lit passages in a familiar manner, passing the rows of dusty wine barrels and shelves were lined with forgotten artifacts. The artifacts were nothing short of garbage to the church but they were my treasure. I have been playing with the artifacts like they were my toys ever since I could walk. The dungeon was my playground.

The air was thick with the scent of aged wood and musty storage, while the occasional gust of cold wind sent shivers down my spine. But that did not bother me. After a good four to five minutes of us walking through the dungeon, we finally arrived in front of my room.

I opened the door and walked in. My room is dimly lit, shadows linger over worn-out toys scattered across the cold floor that I forgot to pick up. Tattered curtains barely looked like the drapes I had imagined over my bed, casting a subdued glow on cracked walls adorned with faded drawings. A solitary, threadbare teddy bear sits on the creaky bed, showing the neglect I had to face in regards to sanitary and any other necessities a child needs. The air carries a sense of isolation, as if the room itself echoes the unspoken yearnings of a child, desperately seeking warmth and care in a world that seems indifferent.

But I had overgrown that phase. Now I prefer the room as it is with no one disturbing me. In a quiet dismissive manner, Sister Abby walked into the room and started to rummage around the room, looking for something. Then she proceeded to use simple gestures to explain the menstrual cycle to me. Sister Abby doesn't talk, she has taken the vow of silence.

Her expression was indifferent, as if detached from the personal nature of the topic. As if she was not a female herself. She also proceeded to hand me a very old tattered book with frayed edges, it was a book on women's biology. She opened it to show me the explanation of the menstrual cycle, which was quite disturbing. But all that's besides the point. I would suffer from this bleeding every month from now on till I reach old age.

Then she proceeded to take the clothes from my neatly stacked pile of clothes and proceeded to rip the perfectly fine dress. She made a makeshift menstrual belt for me. And then shoved me into the small attached bathroom. Her meaning was very clear.

By the time I was done changing and washing the soiled ceremonial robe, Sister Abby was long gone. I was all alone in my room.