((Originally posted by Raels.))
All men should choke on their own blood and die.
Painfully, slowly, and precisely.
Their unspeakable acts may have tore the honesty and mirth from my spirit so very long ago, but my hatred lingers. It boils softly, evenly, for all time.
Thieves, scoundrels, braggarts, vagabonds. All too easy. They obviously deserve nothing less than to scream out in prolonged agony as I drag my nails across their naked flesh. Pulling away stringy strands flushed with red. Pulling away their lust, their ambition, their undeserved life.
But come now, some might have a shimmer of goodness tickling down their spine. Some might be too stupid to be evil. Some might even deserve to die quickly and painlessly.
What of noblemen. Charity-givers. What of priests? Holy men, alter boys, men of faith. It is their duty to endorse good, to do away with wickedness.
Maybe we have similar goals. Maybe we could do away with wickedness together?
I come across a chapel.
I wish to be a nun. I wish to see for myself these good men.
Welcome to the Church, Mother Raels. Welcome to the fold. There’s Brother Tibold, there’s Father Williams. They’re good men. They pray for the sins of man, of elves, of dwarves, of everyone. He is merely Thom, the clergyman, and he bids you welcome to their faith, Mother Raels.
I live with these men of honor, of goodness, for three years.
They sicken me to the core. Brother Tibold is a drunkard, who takes a repulsive pleasure in chastising women. He beats them to save their soul. He worships their cries of pain, revels in it.
Beat me, Brother Tibold, for I have sinned. Whip my back thrice, for I have stolen from the church coffers. It was to give a woman of destitute nature a chance to flee her violent husband. Lock me into my chambers and do not feed me, for what I did was wrong, wrong, wrong.
Four days pass in solitude, but each moment is bliss for me. I imagine first what I’d do to your eyes, Brother Tibold. Pinpricks, each deeper than the last. Next I would gnash my teeth into your fingers and rip off the vile, yellow nails that protrude so unabashedly. I would work my way down your body, Brother Tibold, piercing, nibbling, slicing, kissing, and would revel in your wicked moans of displeasure, worship your cries of pain. Your crimes against wholesome women warrant nothing less.
They sicken me to the core, these men, these men of false blessings and mock severity. Father Williams has a dirty little secret. He enjoys the voyeurism he invokes daily upon the boys of the alter. When they dress, he is there to tie the ceremonial gowns upon their little backsides. When they bathe, he kindly offers soap with which to scour the insolvency off their souls and flesh. He kisses each upon the forehead as he prays for their good health on the morrow, and for their spirits to sing and fly free at night, unfettered, untethered, full of childish hope.
I claim evidence of murder against Father Williams. Brother Tibold is found mutilated. Carved upon. Eviscerated. Father Williams is beside himself with grief, but I call out against his lies and counterfeit distress. For his heavenly ring, handed down to him from the same faith that so honored his earned loyalty, is found clutched in Brother Tibold’s death grip.
I beseech the order to allow me to embark on such an ungrateful task, to string this beast of a man to the rack. I pray for the strength to do my chore, and ask forgiveness for Father Williams’ transgressions upon this earth. It is a slow breaking. Each joint creaks in protest before succumbing to the forces tearing them apart. Even to his last wail, Father Williams proclaims his innocence. The liar deserved so very much more than I was able to wreak upon him.
Poor Thom is beside himself. I offer him comfort from the distresses of the week. He melts in my warm arms, and lets loose a tide of tears. He cries at the wickedness of the world, at how he feels so helpless upholding his sworn duty to defy mankind’s evil temperament.
I offer him comforts of other kinds. I offer to brush his hair, to kiss away his tears. I offer to hold his hand, to wring away all worries.
He rebukes me. I don’t understand.
I am beautiful. My body is clean, fresh, it smells of roses.
I am kind to him.
I love him.
He is so, so very good, in every aspect of the word imaginable. He is patient, he is humble but wise. He eats little, boasts none. He is gentle. He may not be quick, but he takes the time to think things through. He ministers the destitute of all complexions.
I love him.
And yet, he refuses me. He says it is not his nature. He says that through all this, through everything, now more than ever must he straighten his mantle and weigh his faith proudly upon his shoulders. He must never give into his earthly desires. He will never ravage my flesh, never succumb to the delicious pleasure of two bodies pressed against each other in carnal acts of want, devotion, passion, tenderness, eagerness, need, of love.
His death was the most savory of all.
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