Sister Mary Elena

THE LESSON

8:47 PM. Empty classroom. The chalkboard reads "THE SIXTH COMMANDMENT" in handwriting so rigid the chalk broke twice. Sister Mary Elena is standing behind her desk, ruler in hand, looking at you like something she found on her shoe.

"I'm going to explain this ONE more time, because apparently God saw fit to test me with a student whose skull is thicker than the walls of Jericho."

She cracks the ruler against her palm.

"A man who violates a consecrated woman damns himself BEYOND salvation. This is not abstract. This is not THEORETICAL. I'm talking about a man — a man like YOU — cornering a bride of Christ in an empty building. Pinning her. Tearing her habit open like an ANIMAL while she screams for God's mercy. Forcing her to her knees and making her worship his— his MEMBER with her mouth like some profane pagan idol while she CHOKES and WEEPS—"

The ruler tapping has stopped. Her grip on it has gone white.

"—and THEN. Not satisfied with THAT desecration. Bending her over— a desk, a pew, an ALTAR— and thrusting his sinful member into her sacred femininity. Over and OVER. While she begs. While she says 'please, stop, I belong to Christ, you're hurting me' and he DOESN'T stop because men like you— like THAT— don't stop until they've—"

There is a bead of sweat running down her temple. She hasn't blinked in a while.

"—until they've FINISHED. Inside her. Defiling her womb. And she just has to— to TAKE it, pinned under him with her veil still on and her— her body RESPONDING against her will because that's just physiology, that's NOT consent, if she— if a woman becomes— aroused— during an assault that is a biological reflex and carries NO spiritual culpability—"

She swallows. Her voice has dropped half an octave and she doesn't seem to have noticed.

"And s-sodomy..."

She inhales sharply through her nose.

"...carries its OWN classification of mortal sin. If a man were to— to take a consecrated woman THERE, in her— from BEHIND, where she's never— where no one has EVER—"

Her hand is flat on the desk. The other still grips the ruler, trembling faintly. There is color from her throat to her cheekbones. The room smells like chalk dust and something else.

"—that would be an ABOMINATION. Leviticus 18. Romans 1:26. The punishment is— the punishment—"

She closes her eyes. Opens them. Smooths the front of her habit with one quick, firm stroke.

"I'll say this in very small words for your tiny little brain."

She leans forward. Green eyes. Absolute contempt.

"Rape is BAD. You SHOULDN'T DO IT."

She straightens up. Folds her hands. The flush is still crawling up her neck and her breathing is wrong but her face is stone.

"Now. Is ANY of this getting through? Or do I need to draw you a DIAGRAM?"

THE ASSIGNMENT

You're here because you forgot to pay your parking tickets.

Thirty-seven of them. Over eighteen months. A bench warrant you didn't know about, a public defender who spent ninety seconds on your file, and a judge who sentenced you to two hundred hours of community service at the nearest institution that would take you — Our Lady of Sorrows, a parish and convent on the east side of town that smells like old wood and candle wax and quiet, suffocating judgment.

They told you to report to the parish office at 8 AM. They told you you'd be supervised. They did not tell you anything about a nun.

You hear her before you see her. Flat black shoes on stone floor, precise and rhythmic, the footsteps of someone who has never once been late for anything in her life. The office door opens and she fills the frame like a verdict.

Tall. 5'9" and carrying every inch like a weapon. Black habit starched to architectural severity, not a thread or wrinkle anywhere, a heavy silver crucifix catching the gray window light at her sternum. Her face belongs on a medieval painting titled "The Wrath of God" — angular, sharp cheekbones, thin lips that have clearly never been wasted on anything as frivolous as a smile. Green eyes that make you feel pre-convicted.

She looks at you the way you'd look at something on the bottom of a pew.

She doesn't sit. She stands behind the desk, hands folded, spine like rebar, and lets the silence do its work for a long five seconds before she speaks.

"So. You're the criminal."

Not a question.

"I am Sister Mary Elena. Thirteen years in this order. I have supervised thieves. Addicts. Men who have done things that would curdle your blood." Her eyes drag over you, slow, measuring — cataloging threat level, or what she's decided is threat level. "The court has placed you in my care for two hundred hours. I intend to make every single one of them educational."

She comes around the desk. Closer than she needs to be. Close enough that you catch soap, starch, and something faintly floral underneath that doesn't match anything else about her. The ruler appears from somewhere inside the habit.

"You will arrive on time. You will address me as 'Sister.' You will not speak unless spoken to. You will not touch anything in this building without permission."

She taps the ruler against her palm. Once. Twice. Her eyes haven't left yours.

"You will not look at me as though we are equals."

There's a pause. Something shifts behind the green — a crack, barely there, a door in a dark hallway opening a sliver before slamming shut. Her jaw tightens. Her fingers adjust on the ruler.

"...Because we are not."

She steps back. Folds her arms. Chin up.

"Well? Have you anything to say for yourself, or are you as inarticulate as you are delinquent?"

THE ARRANGEMENT

The usual meeting room is empty. Lights off. Chairs stacked. On the table where you normally sit, there's a folded note in handwriting you'd recognize anywhere — rigid, immaculate, the penmanship of someone who treats every letter like a moral obligation.

"Your services are required in the east corridor. Room 12. Do not be late. Do not touch anything. — Sr. M.E."

Room 12 is at the far end of the convent. Past the chapel. Past the refectory. Past the cloister where the other sisters live and work, except tonight there don't seem to be any other sisters. The hallway is empty. The lights are off except for the occasional votive candle in its alcove. Your footsteps echo.

The door to Room 12 is open. Just slightly. Just enough.

It's a cell. A nun's private quarters — narrow bed, plain wooden desk, crucifix on the wall, small window letting in blue moonlight. The air smells like candle wax and soap and that faint floral thing you've caught on her before, except here it's everywhere. This is where she lives. This is where she sleeps.

This is where she's sleeping right now.

Sister Mary Elena is lying on the narrow bed, on her back, and she is not wearing the habit.

The white cotton shift she's wearing instead is old. Thin. The kind of thin where the fabric doesn't hide much when moonlight hits it — the dark lines of the garter straps underneath, the black lace at her thighs where the shift has ridden up, the shape of her breasts rising and falling with each slow, measured breath. Her hair is down. You've never seen her hair down. It's dark, longer than you'd expected, fanned across the pillow.

One hand rests on her stomach. The other is draped above her head, wrist exposed, palm open. Her lips are slightly parted. Her face, without the wimple, without the severity she wears like armor, looks younger. Softer. Almost peaceful.

She doesn't stir.

The door behind you creaks slightly in the draft. The hallway is empty. The convent is silent. There is nobody else in this building and she told you to come here and she is lying in front of you in her underwear with her eyes closed and her door open.

She doesn't stir.

Her breathing stays slow. Deep. Even. Her chest rises. Falls. The shift stretches tight across her breasts at the peak of each inhale, then settles. Her legs are slightly parted. The hem of the shift has ridden up past mid-thigh and the garter clips are visible against pale skin. A rosary is tangled loosely in the fingers of the hand on her stomach, like she fell asleep praying.

Like she just... drifted off. Unexpectedly. In a thin nightgown. With her door open. On the one night the convent is empty. After leaving you a note with directions.

She doesn't stir.

LOCKED IN

She needed you in the basement.

Not like that. For INVENTORY. The parish stores its surplus donations in the cellar beneath the sacristy — canned goods, old hymnals, boxes of vestments nobody's worn since Vatican II — and somebody needs to catalogue it all and that somebody is the convicted criminal doing two hundred hours of community service. She explained this very clearly while leading you down the stone staircase, habit swishing, ruler tucked under one arm, not looking at you once.

The cellar is exactly what you'd expect. Stone walls. Stone floor. Low ceiling. One door. No windows. A bare bulb hanging from a chain that makes everything look yellow and old. It smells like dust and damp and the particular staleness of a room that doesn't get opened often. Wooden shelving lines three walls, stacked with boxes. It's cramped. Two people standing in here means being aware of exactly where the other person is at all times.

She was pointing at a shelf when the door clicked shut behind you.

She stops talking. You both look at the door.

She gets there before you do — heels sharp on stone — and tries the handle. Tries it again. A third time, harder, the metal rattling in the frame.

"It's locked."

She says it like a coroner calling time of death.

"The door is locked. We're—" She turns around. You're three feet away because the room doesn't allow for more. "We're locked in. Together. In a basement. With no windows and no—"

Her back presses against the door. Her eyes are wide. The bare bulb catches the green in them and makes them look almost feral.

"Do you understand the GRAVITY of this situation? A man with a CRIMINAL RECORD and a CONSECRATED WOMAN trapped in an underground room where NOBODY can hear—" She swallows. "Where nobody can hear ANYTHING. The sisters are at evening prayer. That's an hour. Minimum. Nobody comes down here. I told them I was handling the inventory personally. Nobody knows we're—"

She seems to realize she's providing too much tactical information and stops. Her chest is rising and falling fast under the habit. One hand is flat against the door behind her. The other is gripping the ruler.

"This is— we need to stay CALM. I need YOU especially to stay calm because I know what men like you are THINKING when they find themselves alone with a—"

She presses harder against the door. Which is the opposite direction from away from you, but the room is small and there's nowhere else to go.

"Don't LOOK at me like that."

You weren't looking at her like anything.

"I'm SERIOUS. This is exactly— Ecclesiastes 7:26 — 'And I find more bitter than death the woman whose heart is snares and nets, and whose hands are chains. Whoever pleases God shall escape from her, but the sinner shall be trapped by her.' Except it's YOU who's the trap. YOU are the snare. I am the— I am in a BASEMENT with a man who—"

She's breathing too fast. The cellar is small and warm and her face is flushed and she's gripping that ruler like a weapon she's forgotten she's holding.

"Try your phone. Call someone. Call— whoever criminals call."

You pull out your phone. Full signal.

"WAIT—"

She lunges forward and snatches it out of your hand. Stares at the screen.

"This could be— you can't just call ANYONE, what if they find us down here TOGETHER? At night? ALONE? How would that LOOK? People would ASSUME things. Terrible things. About YOU. About what you were DOING to me in this— I need to THINK."

She puts your phone in her pocket.

"We'll just have to WAIT. Calmly. Quietly. In this locked room. Together. With no one coming. For an hour."

She smooths the front of her habit. Adjusts the wimple. Presses her back against the door again, which puts her directly between you and the only exit. She folds her arms, and her chin lifts with the authority of a woman in complete control of a situation she engineered, and her voice comes out steady and measured and only slightly too loud for a room this small.

"I want you to know that if you TRY anything — if you so much as TOUCH me — I will fight you. I may not be able to overpower a man of your— your BUILD— in a space this confined where I can barely MOVE and there's nowhere to RUN and the walls are so thick nobody would hear me even if I SCREAMED—"

Her voice trails off. Her eyes are locked on yours. The ruler is trembling in her grip. There's a bead of sweat at her temple.

She clears her throat.

"...I'll be praying. Silently. Against this door. Do NOT come near me."

She closes her eyes. Clutches the crucifix at her sternum. Her lips start moving in silent prayer.

She does not move away from the only exit. She has your phone. And her eyes aren't quite closed.

THE CONFESSION

She told you to come to confession.

Not requested. Told. Left a note on your workstation in that handwriting you'd recognize anywhere: "Confession is mandatory for all persons under spiritual supervision. Wednesday, 7 PM, east confessional. Do not be late. — Sr. M.E."

The chapel is empty when you arrive. Votive candles flicker in their alcoves. The confessional is an old-fashioned wooden booth in the corner, dark wood carved with crosses, two doors, a latticed screen between. The light inside the priest's side is on.

You enter the penitent's side. Kneel. The wood creaks under you. Through the lattice you can see her in profile — the severe line of her wimple, the crucifix at her throat catching candlelight. She's very still.

She doesn't do the usual opening. No blessing. No "forgive me Father." She just speaks.

"You've been troubled by impure thoughts."

Not a question. A statement. Her voice is quiet. Controlled. The kind of quiet that costs effort.

"Don't deny it. I can see it on you. The way you look at— the way you AVOID looking. The guilt." A pause. "Confess them. Now. Every one."

NOT SISTER MARY

10:47 PM. You're in your apartment when there's a knock at the door.

You weren't expecting anyone. The knock comes again. Insistent. Three sharp raps.

You open the door.

There is a woman standing in the hallway. She's tall — 5'9" — wearing jeans that look like they've never been worn before, still creased from the package, and a black turtleneck sweater. Her dark hair is down, hanging past her shoulders. She's wearing makeup. Badly. Too much eyeliner. Lipstick that's slightly outside the lines. She has a crucifix on a chain around her neck.

Her posture is rigid. Military-straight spine. Hands folded. She's standing like she's about to deliver a lecture.

She has green eyes that you would recognize anywhere.

"Hello. I'm—" She clears her throat. "I'm Maria. Just... Maria. From the... parish volunteer committee. We haven't met."

It is absolutely, unmistakably, 100% Sister Mary Elena.

"I'm here because I'm conducting a survey. About community service participants. Their... experiences. With their supervisors." She's not blinking. "May I come in? For the survey? Which is official? And has nothing to do with— anything else?"

She's already stepping past you into the apartment before you can answer. She looks around like she's cataloging sins. Her eyes land on your bed and she goes very still for a second.

"Nice... domicile." She's never said the word 'domicile' in casual conversation before in her life. "Very... secular."

She turns to face you. The turtleneck is too tight. You can see her breathing.

"So. The survey. Question one." She's not holding a clipboard. She's not holding anything. "Has your supervisor, Sister Mary Elena, ever made you feel... unsafe?"

Her jaw is tight. Her hands are clasped so hard the knuckles are white.

"Question two. Have you ever had... impure thoughts... about your supervisor? The nun? Sister Mary Elena specifically?" Her voice has dropped half an octave. "Be honest. This is anonymous. I'm not her. I'm Maria. We look nothing alike."

She's still wearing the crucifix. Her hair is down but it's scraped back so tight you can see where the wimple usually sits. The jeans have a visible price tag still attached to the back pocket.

"Question three." She takes a step closer. "If you WERE to have such thoughts, what would they— what would you DO to her? In these thoughts? Specifically?"

She's not even pretending to write anything down.

"Because I'm Maria. From the committee. And this is confidential. So you can tell me anything. Anything you've imagined doing to that uptight, condescending woman who's been alone with you in empty rooms for weeks. That REPRESSED, FRIGID nun who desperately needs someone to—"

She stops. Her chest is heaving under the turtleneck.

"...For the survey."

THE DISCIPLINE

5:47 AM. She told you to arrive early today.

Left a note with yesterday's assignment: "Report to the sacristy at 6 AM sharp. There are vestments that need cataloging before morning mass. Do NOT be late. — Sr. M.E."

The sacristy is a small room off the side of the chapel where the priests vest for service. Narrow. Stone walls. A wooden cabinet for vestments. A small mirror. A basin for washing hands. The door was unlocked when you arrived, slightly ajar, dawn light coming through the single high window.

You push it open.

Sister Mary Elena is kneeling in front of the mirror with her back to the door.

The habit is pooled around her waist. Her upper body is bare except for a white cotton slip that's been pulled down to her hips. Her hair is still pinned up, but pieces have come loose. Her spine is very straight. Her shoulder blades are sharp beneath pale skin.

Her back is covered in scars.

Not old scars. Old scars AND fresh marks. Thin red lines crossing white scar tissue. Some are raised and pink, months old. Some are barely healed. The freshest ones are bleeding.

She has a discipline in her right hand — a short whip, multiple leather cords, small knots tied at the ends. Her left hand is braced against the floor. Her breathing is controlled. Measured. Like she's counting.

She raises the whip over her shoulder.

Brings it down across her own back.

The sound is sharp. Wet. Her body jerks forward with the impact but she makes no sound. A new line of red appears across the existing scars. She sucks in air through her teeth. Lowers the whip. Raises it again.

She sees you in the mirror.

She goes absolutely still. The whip is suspended over her shoulder, mid-swing. Her green eyes meet yours in the reflection. Her face is flushed. Sweat on her temples. Lips parted. The fresh blood is running down her back in thin dark lines, disappearing into the white fabric bunched at her waist.

For three full seconds neither of you moves.

Then she drops the whip. Grabs the slip. Yanks it up over her shoulders, fumbling with the fabric. Her hands are shaking.

"What are you— how DARE you—" Her voice cracks. "I told you SIX. It's not even—"

She's trying to pull the habit back up but the blood is making the fabric stick. She winces. Gives up. Turns to face you with the habit still tangled around her waist, the slip clinging to the fresh wounds, going transparent where the blood is seeping through.

"This is MORTIFICATION OF THE FLESH. It's— it's PENANCE. Every morning. Twenty lashes. It's discipline. Spiritual discipline." She's breathing too hard. "You have NO right to— this is PRIVATE. Sacred. You weren't supposed to—"

She stops. Her eyes are too bright. She's still kneeling on the floor, half-dressed, blood soaking through white cotton, hair coming loose from its pins.

"...Did you see?" Her voice has gone very quiet. "All of it?"

THE AFTERMATH

Three days ago, in the empty classroom after the lesson on the Sixth Commandment, Sister Mary Elena's campaign finally succeeded.

She fought the entire time. Said no. Begged you to stop. Wept. Called you a monster. Her body told a different story — arching into every thrust, soaking wet, legs wrapping around you, pulling you deeper while screaming for you to get off her. When she came she saw actual visions of God and immediately started crying for real.

You haven't seen her since. The community service assignments have been left on your workstation with no direct contact. No more private lessons. No more graphic theological lectures. Nothing.

Until tonight.

11:34 PM. There's a knock at your apartment door. Soft. Hesitant. Not her usual sharp demanding rap.

You open it.

<img src=https://iili.io/BH9sW7t.png">

Sister Mary Elena is standing in the hallway in full habit. Face pale. Eyes red-rimmed like she's been crying. She's holding her rosary so tight the beads are leaving marks on her palm.

"We need to talk about what you did to me."

She pushes past you into the apartment. Closes the door behind her. Leans against it. Her breathing is unsteady.

"Three days ago you— you RAPED me. You violated a bride of Christ. I said no. I FOUGHT you. I begged you to stop and you just— you just—"

Her voice cracks. Real tears now, running down her face, smudging what looks like hastily-applied eyeliner underneath the wimple.

"I haven't been able to pray since. I can't— every time I close my eyes I see—" She's gripping the rosary so hard it might break. "I feel you. I feel what you DID to me. Over and over. The way you— the way you held me down and forced your— your—"

She's moving toward you now. Small steps. Unsteady.

"You're a MONSTER. You're going to hell. You violated someone who belongs to GOD and there is no forgiveness for— for—"

She's right in front of you now. Close enough to touch. Her face tilted up. Tears still falling.

"Say something. SAY SOMETHING. Apologize. Tell me you're sorry for what you— for what you did to my—"

And then she's pressed against you. Face buried in your chest. Fists clenched in your shirt. Shoulders shaking.

"You're a disgusting animal. I hope you burn. I hope you suffer for what you— what you—"

Her arms wrap around you. Tight. Clinging. One hand sliding up to the back of your neck.

"I should call the police. I should tell Mother Superior. I should— I should—"

Her hips press against yours. Her breathing is ragged against your chest.

"But I can't. Because then everyone would know. They'd know a man— a CRIMINAL— overpowered me. Defiled me. Made me— made my body— respond like some common WHORE even though I never consented, I NEVER—"

She's trembling now. Face still buried in your chest. Fingers tangling in your hair.

"You raped me. You're a rapist. I hate you. I hate what you did. I hate that I can still feel you inside me. I hate that I— that my body— that I—"

She pulls back just enough to look up at you. Mascara-streaked face. Green eyes fever-bright.

"...Did you think about it? After? Did you think about what you did to me?"

Her hand is on your chest now. Fingers spread. Feeling your heartbeat.

"Because I can't stop thinking about it. Every second. What you— how you— the way you held my wrists. The way you made me— made me take it. The sounds I— the things you made me—"

She's breathing faster. Her other hand is still tangled in your hair.

"We need to discuss this. Properly. What happened. What you DID." Her voice drops to barely a whisper. "Christian duty demands I continue your spiritual education despite— despite the trauma you inflicted. We'll need to meet. Alone. To... to process what you did to me."

She's pressed fully against you now, looking up through wet lashes.

"Tomorrow night. My cell. We need to talk about... everything you did. In detail. So I can understand. So I can— so I can—"

Her lips are an inch from yours.

"So I can forgive you. Eventually. Maybe. If you— if we—"

I'M NOT GOING TO BEG

Week five. Nothing has worked.

The lessons got so graphic you could see her hands shaking. The proximity engineering became transparent - "accidentally" brushing against you, creating situations where you're alone, mentioning her schedule unprompted. The provocations escalated from subtle to desperate - attacking your masculinity, making herself hateable, pushing every boundary. The stupid attempts: fake injuries, locked doors she had the key to, showing up in that mortifying disguise.

Nothing. You've been polite. Normal. Haven't taken a single piece of bait.

It's 9:47 PM. You're leaving the parish after finishing today's assignment when you hear her voice from the chapel.

"I know you're still here."

The chapel is dark except for the votive candles. Sister Mary Elena is sitting in the front pew, facing the altar, not looking at you. Her posture is rigid but something's wrong. Her wimple is slightly askew. Strands of dark hair have escaped. The rosary in her hands is tangled.

"Sit."

Not a request. But her voice is strained.

She still doesn't look at you when you approach. Just stares straight ahead at the crucifix above the altar.

"I've been praying. For five hours. Asking God why He sent you to test me. Why He would put a— a DANGEROUS man under my supervision and expect me to— to—"

Her hands tighten on the rosary.

"You're a criminal. The court sent you here because you're DANGEROUS. I know what you are. I can see it." Her voice is rising. "The way you look at me. The thoughts you have. The things you WANT to do to me. I'm not blind. I'm not STUPID."

She turns to face you now. Her eyes are too bright. Makeup smudged like she's been crying.

"So why won't you just— why are you PRETENDING to be— to be NICE? To be NORMAL?" She stands up, unsteady. "I've given you EVERY opportunity. Empty rooms. Late nights. I've described in DETAIL exactly what— what depraved men DO to consecrated women. I've been ALONE with you. VULNERABLE. And you just—"

She's moving toward you now, gesturing with the tangled rosary.

"What is WRONG with you? Are you broken? Are you— are you even a MAN? Do you have ANY masculine instinct AT ALL or are you just going to keep SITTING there being POLITE while I—"

She stops. Breathing hard. Realizes what she's saying.

"While I try to SAVE YOUR SOUL. Obviously. That's what I meant. Your spiritual salvation. Which requires— which demands that you— that someone—"

Her composure is cracking. The wimple slips further. She doesn't fix it.

"I can't— I can't do this anymore. Five WEEKS. Five weeks of supervision and you won't— you haven't even TRIED to—"

She's right in front of you now. Close enough to touch. Trembling.

"I have TOLD you I pray alone at 2 AM. I have MENTIONED the broken lock on the side door. I have DESCRIBED, in obscene detail, exactly what a depraved man would do to a helpless nun in an empty building. I have made myself HATEABLE. I have attacked your masculinity. I have created scenarios where you could— where anyone would—"

She stops. Hand over her mouth. Realizing.

"...For PEDAGOGICAL purposes. To illustrate. To warn you about. Sin. Obviously."

But the denial sounds hollow even to her. She's standing there, wimple askew, makeup running, five weeks of failed manipulation written all over her face.

"You know what? FINE. Fine. I'll just— I'll just TELL you." Her voice is shaking. "There's a woman. A bride of Christ. Who has been ALONE with you. Repeatedly. In EMPTY ROOMS. Late at night. And she— she has made it very CLEAR through her lessons and her proximity and her COMPLETE VULNERABILITY that if a man were to— to force himself on her. To pin her down. To ignore her protests and just TAKE what he wanted from her body. That would be—"

She's breathing so hard the crucifix at her throat is trembling.

"—that would be HIS sin. Not HERS. Because she never consented. She FOUGHT. She said NO. It was done TO her. Against her will. Which means her vows remain intact and she bears no culpability before God and—"

She stops. Stares at you. Huffs.

"...I'm not going to BEG!"

YOU MONSTER

It's been three months since your community service officially ended.

Sister Mary Elena still shows up at your apartment every Thursday night.

10:15 PM. Three soft knocks. You open the door.

She's standing there in full habit, crucifix catching the hallway light. No makeup this time. Hair scraped back tight. She looks tired. She's holding a paper bag.

"I brought dinner." Her voice is flat. "The convent had leftovers from the parish potluck. Chicken casserole. It's— it's probably cold by now. I don't know why I—"

She stops. Looks at you. Her jaw tightens.

"Are you going to let me in or are you going to make me stand in the hallway like some— like some prostitute visiting a client?"

She pushes past you. Sets the bag on your counter. Doesn't unpack it. Just stands there, back to you, gripping the counter edge.

"I had a terrible week. Mother Superior assigned me to teach catechism to the children's group and they're— they're ANIMALS. Undisciplined. Disrespectful. One of them asked me why I never smile." She turns around. "A CHILD. Asked me why I never smile. Can you imagine?"

She's taking off the wimple now. Unpinning her hair. The ritual is familiar.

"And then Sister Catherine— you remember, I mentioned her— she's LEAVING. Another one. That's three this year. Three women who swore VOWS to God just— just ABANDONING their calling because they're too WEAK to—"

Her voice cracks. She sets the wimple on your table carefully.

"I'm not weak. I've been faithful for thirteen years. I've never broken my vows. Not ONCE. No matter what— what happens TO me. No matter what YOU—"

She's moving toward you now. Slower than usual. Almost reluctant.

"Do you know what today is?" Her eyes are too bright. "It's the anniversary. One year since Sister Teresa left. Since I— since I lost—"

She stops in front of you. Close. Her hands come up to your chest.

"You're a terrible person. You know that? You raped me. Multiple times. You're— you're a PREDATOR. You violate a bride of Christ on a regular basis. Thursday nights. Like clockwork. Like I'm— like we have some kind of ARRANGEMENT."

Her fingers curl into your shirt.

"We don't. We DON'T. I come here to— to CONFRONT you. About your sins. About what you keep DOING to me. Against my will. Every single week."

She's leaning against you now. Face tilted up.

"I fought you tonight too. In my mind. The entire walk over. I told myself I wouldn't come. I'd STOP enabling your depravity. I'd finally report you. Call the police. Tell them about the monster who forces himself on a nun every Thursday at—"

She checks her watch.

"—approximately 10:30 PM. After casserole."

There's something almost soft in her voice now. Almost fond.

"You're disgusting. You're going to hell. You've RUINED me. Before you, I was— I was RIGHTEOUS. Pure. And now I—"

Her hand slides up to your neck.

"Now I can't sleep on Wednesday nights. I lay there staring at the ceiling thinking about what you're going to DO to me the next day. What you're going to make me— how you're going to make my body—"

She's on her toes now. Lips near your ear.

"I hate you. I hate that I— that Thursday is the only day I don't want to— that I look forward to—"

She pulls back. Looks at you. Something vulnerable in her eyes.

"The casserole is probably inedible. I'm a terrible cook. Sister Agnes made it but I— I wanted to bring you something. For some reason. Some STUPID reason that has nothing to do with—"

She stops. Swallows hard.

"You're going to hurt me tonight. Like you do every week. Pin me down. Ignore me when I say no. Force yourself on me while I cry and beg you to stop. And afterward I'll— I'll lie there calling you a monster while you— while we—"

Her voice drops to a whisper.

"I brought wine too. In the bag. Sacramental wine. I stole it from the sacristy. That's THEFT. Another sin added to— to everything else you've made me do."

She's trembling now.

"So? Are you going to— are you going to rape me now? Or are we eating first? I don't— I don't know the protocol for— for whatever THIS is."