Instead, my footsteps take me there, and reaching out, I twist the handle, the door opening, my heart racing.
I creep inside, closing the door behind me, shutting out the light, life even.
I detect a strange scent in the air. It struck me the first time and I breathe deeply; glad I’m alone this time.
There is no light, just my senses to guide me, and as I edge toward the wooden bench, I perch on the edge of it.
Images of being naked on this bench fill my mind. Why naked if no sex is involved? It doesn’t make sense.
I stroke the polished wood, imagining Joseph lying here. What would he look like naked?
A ripple of interest passes through my body as I contemplate experiencing that.
I lie down, my back hard against the wood, darkness around me, almost oblivion.
I feel safe in here. It’s as if I’m in a dark hole, safe from the world above me. Is this what it’s like to be buried? Life is over and no problems to deal with. Blissful solitude in the afterlife. Alone at last.
I close my eyes, my senses heightened, but there is no sound at all except for my heavy breathing.
I’m nervous but at peace. Joseph’s words swirling around my mind as I consider my situation.
Marry him. Tomorrow. Then….
My entire body shivers as I imagine what happens next. His body above mine, entering me, possessing me.
My heart beats faster, my skin prickling, heat flooding my core, my breathing shallow.
Images of us kissing in this room flicker around me like an old cinematic movie on a projector screen. Desire, an ache inside for something I know nothing about. Revenge, a delicious possibility that he would gift me along with my freedom. A baby crying, the wedding march. Flowers, candles, pain.
My screams in childbirth merge with my child’s, and all the time he stands there, his dark gaze powering to my soul.
I sit up instantly, sweat gliding down my back as the images torture me. My pussy is throbbing, the sudden need in me awakening desire. I run my fingers through my hair and groan. This can’t be happening.
I quickly edge off the wooden seat as if it burns, moving toward the wall, allowing it to guide me to the door.
With a deep breath, I shake the demons off and turn the handle, grateful it opens so easily and light floods the room.
I lock the demons inside and waste no time in sprinting up the third staircase to my attic room, grateful for the reminder of home as my eyes fall onto the Bible.
As I perch on the edge of the bed, it mocks me.
You are using God to hide, as an excuse even.
You don’t want to be a nun, Tiffany Zaferelli. You never did.
You are a coward, you’re hiding from yourself, the animal inside you, and are fearful it will be unleashed.
My head is screaming the truth, and I struggle to breathe. I am a demon, not an angel, and I always have been.
Morgan saw it; she nurtured it even, fed it with evil and watched it devour me. I was her protégé, her project if you like, and that is what I ran from. Why I wanted to remain a prisoner of conscience.
That room. That man. This life knows who I am, and with a sob, I fling myself face down on the bed and bury my face into the pillow.
“Miss Zaferelli.”
A loud knock on the door causes me to jump as I recognize the kind tones of Mrs. Harrington.
“Come in.”
