“I loved it.”
“You still do.” I nod. “And you’ll love what comes next.”
He steps back and gestures to a shallow basin at the centre of the room.
A bath.
Filled with black water.
Ribbons of wax floating.
Petals. Ash.
And blood.
“Enter your altar, little moth.”
I do.
Naked. Unholy. Eager.
The water sears as I sink to my knees, then lower, until it laps at my chest.
He stands above me, rosary wrapped around his knuckles like a vow.
“You’re not clean. You’ll never be clean again. But we can make your filth holy.” His fingers press against my forehead. “Do you accept the baptism of sin?”
“Yes.”
“Do you belong to us?”
“Yes.”
He kneels at the edge, leans in close.
His mouth brushes my ear like a prayer. “Then say it: I was never meant to be saved.”
My throat tightens. I look up at him.
“I was never meant to be saved.”
He smiles.
And lowers my head beneath the surface.
The water is warm.
Too warm.
Like blood left out under moonlight.
It closes over my head like silk, thick and choking, curling into my ears, my nose, my mouth. I want to scream.
But no sound leaves me.
I open my eyes.
And the world is dark.
