Chapter 5 -Sister Marie-Francoise

In the sheltering silence of a dry and austere cubically shaped room, sits a young woman -although no one would refer to her using either one of these descriptive words, and that, despite of her age, twenty two years old, despite of her unquestionable gender, female, for she is bound by three vows, taken long ago, more by necessity than by choice, to be seen, as well as called a nun; a nun who goes by Sister Marie-Francoise.

Unseen, she faces her journal and writes secret thoughts she could not share with anyone but the melting candle that lights up her desk, for her feelings are sinful and her mind is twisted, or so does she believe, at least some times, especially at night, when darkness forces its way into the convent she resides in, flooding every corridor, stairway, and room, patiently waiting for the wax to be consumed, for the flame to die out, so as to wrap itself, like a cold black cloak, over that wretchedly wicked body that is leading her astray.

Yet, as she writes, she cannot help but wonder if it is really her body that is the cause of her deviation from righteousness, or if it is her mind that is wickedly ill. Overwhelmed, and rather frustrated, by her inability to find solace in the peacefulness the house of God provides, she closes her brown leather bound journal and opens it back at its first page. Carefully, she slides four fingers between the binding and the hard inner surface of the book cover, and nervously pulls out, a doubly folded piece of paper. She holds it in her hand, and feels a surge of anxiety, as it begins filling up her chest, pressing against her lungs, her diaphragm, and subsequently her stomach.

The nun looks over her shoulder, at a door she fears to be wide opened, even when she knows that it is locked. She takes a deep breath and looks back at what lies on her left palm. There too much tension in her shoulders, and desire in her belly. She opens the paper, like one would a book, and spreads it on her palm. Riddled with stifling guilt, she focuses on its uneven edge, recalling -the way she always did when touching that paper, how it had been torn from the book that once contained it.

Slowly, and as if out of habit, she begins skimming through black ink lines printed on the yellowing paper, swallowing nervously, hanging between giving in and fighting back, guilt too thin a barrier to be of any use, leaving her with nothing of substance to conceal the nakedness of her desires, surrenders temporarily to her innermost need. She looks away, as if ashamed of herself, hurt by her inability to be strong, to be that model chaste virgin whose life is solely devoted to bringing God into the world, through selfless acts of humility, self-sacrifice, works of charity, suffering in the name of Jesus, being a penance for those who in their weakness have forgotten the lord, embracing agony and humiliation to save lives and deliver as many lost souls from purgatory as she can. She trembles feeling incapable of denying a temptation that has grown larger than everything else, opens the torn paper and spreads it flat against the hard surface of her desk, by brushing it firmly with both hands, until finally giving up on making the two perpendicular creased lines that stubbornly divide the page into four equal boxes disappear.

She reads a poem torn from a book she was not supposed to carry, let alone open. She reads passionately, letting every word ring and fill her head with colorful images and intoxicating feelings. She reads, lustful prose, her heart throbbing to the rhythm of unleashed emotions and blossoming carnal sensations. She reads, scolding verses, sweetly lacerating words, dreaming of unrestrained escapes, a lost soul in the silent spaces separating one word from the other.

She closes her eyes and embraces darkness, the taste of shame still lingering in her mouth, poisonously sweet on the tip of her tongue, treacherously moist against her lips. She tries to hide, filling her mind with unspoken psalms, seeking strength in divine recitation, denouncing the unbearable heat that is undeniably rising within, and desperately invoking the leather lash and the gold leafed Bible. She wraps her thoughts with Hail Maries, as if they were a chain strong enough to keep her anchored and bound to the purity of the Lord. She rolls into a ball, of heat and desire, wriggled by fire, and cries, ‘Forgive me, Father,’ three times. But, her body, that fleshy entity that suffers, wounds, tempts and then decays as the years go by and by, that animal pinned down with weakness, devoid of compassion, evil in nature, unyielding and ablaze, consumes every defense she raises and turns her words into ashes.

Breathing heavily, she sees herself, standing completely naked, in the center of a room built of opaque glass. She looks at one of her reflections on the wall, and, despite the deeply seeded guilt she’s learned to wear as a thorny crown, surrenders to this arousal that is overtaking her, bringing her face to face with a perverted sensuality she would have preferred keeping silenced.

She catches herself gazing longingly at the way her long and wavy brown hair freely falls along her neckline to softly rest over her clavicles and shoulders. Torn, between shame and shamelessness, standing at the gates of perdition, bound to make a choice, she falls out of grace, one more time, and allows her hands to respond to the supplications of her hungering flesh. Tormented by the darkness of her fantasies, (which like black snake that slithers out of the penumbra of her worst fears to sweetly coil itself around her thought,) she rubs her legs together, twists on her bed, struggling to find a way out of her own skin, with her back pressed against the wall.

Cornered with nowhere to go but to hell, she curses the woman she’s been blaming for all her weaknesses -the mother, whom she believes, as she had once been told, must have been a whore- while desperately praying for salvation and redemption. She cries, as neither one is granted, and falls into Satan’s abyss, pulled in by the wickedness of her sins. She begs for mercy. But mercy shall not be granted tonight. She whispers, ‘No,’ but has already gone too far to stop. She wants to scream, but knows her plight shall go ignored. Tired, unable to fight anymore, and defeated, she asks why, and hears no answer. She drifts into the silence of surrender, where peacefully exhausted, she sees a gentle smile on a pleasant face, and eyes, as deep as the night, full of questions and mysteries.

Awake at four, in the quiet darkness of night, she dries her face off, inside her living quarter’s bathroom, before getting out and carefully shutting the shared bathroom door behind her. Moving noiselessly, through the second floor’s hallway, past doors behind which the dancing light of candles can be seen trying to find a way out, she brushes the wall with her right fingertips, wondering what really lies behind each door. She pictures the devoted nuns who have retired to their quarters, on the other side of the bricks and the wood panels she cannot see past, and wonders if she really knows them, or if she only knows façades that each and every one of them erects, the way she does, thus concealing what is their true and faltering nature.

Slowing down in front of each door, she hopes to hear a whisper of doubt, a sigh of malaise, a sound she could relate to, a comforting confirmation that she, after all, is not alone, not as lost, and, as lonely, as she thinks she is. But, as her plight remains unanswered, she lowers her head and hurries back to her room, mostly disappointed in herself for having allowed herself to become so alienated from those she lives amongst, those who raised her, and guided her, as an orphan, after her mother, an unmarried young woman, cheated by a man she might have unfortunately fallen in love with, and unwisely trusted, found herself abandoned and alone, and who then, succumbing to the ravages of the harsh consequences of a not too exemplary lifestyle, followed by a complicated pregnancy, ended up suffering a slow and painful death during labor, surrounded by caring but helpless nuns.

Sister Marie-Francoise wipes her tears off, straightens her bed, gets dressed, reverently putting her wedding gown on, kissing and praying litanies for each and every piece of the habit in which she once made her permanent vows, and in which she will be buried. She hides her sorrow under a pleasantly inspired mask of a face, ready to act out emotions and feelings she doesn’t find within herself, throughout another day of exemplary living, total obedience and devotion to the church, the pope, the Father and God.

Burdened by doubt an guilt, she walks out to meet her sisters, with whom she will bow before the ornate box, recite the Creed, pray the Our Father and the Hail Mary, be charitable to those in need, lean against a pew stall, sing beautiful psalms, join the others for a last prayer, enter silence, line up in front of Mother Superior, bow her head to be sprinkled with holy water, retire, try to sleep, go out for another offering of prayers at two in the morning, retire, try to sleep, meet again to meditate on divine scripture… Just another day spent, in a word of blessed communion wafers, of gold tabernacles, of suspended Virgin Maries, silence, meditation, bibles, celibacy, common refectory, pews, holy water, and single file lines, among those who had judged and chastised her after she shared the nature of her struggle, believing that she would find understanding, not suspecting that she would only receive alienating verbal condemnations and looks.