5

                                        

                                              

Tia was replacing Stephanie.
Days went and a week after Stephanie was replaced. Sister Cathrine had brought Tia, blond hair brushing her neck and a sealed smile on her uneasy face. 
 I would watch Stephanie's bed whenever Tia was away. Watching helped. Stephanie was always there, carrying with her daily routine—Cortina, socks, dress, and veil—as pristine, I didn't wish for a difference. 
All the girls had forgotten. Every picture they had of Stephanie was taken by the pope, never to be given. 
Mine, as lucid.
I hated Tia. Her inhumane smile, a mask that never slipped, one that embodied the seer's hollow faith. Their shared love for this place, for their God that lacked hope and conviction. 
Her voice was the loudest during devotions, pushing away the silence with unnatural force. She sprinted to the courthouse like a starved wolf, and that smile never faltered when she met the seer. When she met Father Benedict. 
I always saw when I was headed to the seer's office. Sister Margaret. 
 Father Benedict always met her at the door, he didn't smile but his eyes glistened. He always looked up to seeing her. Watching her. 
Tia had to go. 
I had begged Rachael to have her but she wouldn't. Not unless we formed a bond, not unless her death would pierce my soul. 
Tia had stayed in the fourth quarter for two years, she had told the girls. She claimed it was sufficient; the fourth quarter. Didn't add why. Whatever sufficient meant. 
Tia's footsteps resounded before she strode in and plopped down on her bed with a towel wrapped around her chest. 
I raised my legs to the bed and laid on my back, my eyes dancing from the ceiling to the wall in search of a needed distraction. 
 "Hey!" Tia called in her bird-like voice. 
Siesta was gone but the need to sleep befell, like on many other days. A deep slumber would dull her voice as she went on with her usual discussions with the girls. 
"Hey," she called again, the word stretching in hesitation, breaking the stillness.
I remained unnerved, my eyes examining the black molds on the walls, half-cleaned with fresh stains.  
The rain came often now, its warning seeping through the roof and staining the walls with damp shadows. When the storm would come, we'd be moved to an old hostel, and only then would we appreciate what we once had. 
"Evelyn," Tia called. 
My hands rested on my torso and I faced the wall, trailing the stains. 
"No," I said, my tone as cold as the silence of the room. "I won't be joining you for dinner, not until you do what I've asked."
The silence that enveloped the room when it was just Stephanie and me returned, Tia's heavy breaths clashing against it. 
This was her third time asking. I'd told Racheal she would deflate after her second attempt. Whatever reason her persistence remained, she was sure to regret. 
"I'm not sure if we've crossed once but if I offended you, I'm sorry. Often, I say things sometimes inhumane-"
"What isn't inhumane about you?" I asked. 
Tia didn't say a word but I could feel her eyes burning through my back. 
Tia's bed creaked as she plopped down shortly after, her Cortina thumping softly on the rough plastered floor. 
It was time she left for dinner. 
Sister Margaret couldn't watch me and failing to do so, she would withdraw the jotter into her woven pouch and then I was dismissed. 
No dinner, extra work. 
Tia hurriedly dressed, prancing back and forth for hanged dresses. She was still, her breath in place, maybe fearing what would come with breathing. 
I left after she did, to the garden, watching the blooming cycria, dull silver from the earth shielding blue pollens. It was one of a dozen that wasn't decaying to touch. The only harm would come from eating it, those blue hues rotting one internally, like a poison that hadn't needed to be digested to take root. 
Something was coming—deliberate, quiet, yet loud enough to unsettle. Someone. 
He came and stood behind, watching the flower. His presence felt familiar, brief but undeniable. 
My eyes danced in its beauty that contrasted with this chaos as I stood and turned to him. The same low-hanging eyes, hands dipped in pockets of faded trousers, threads noticeably off. 
Knate. 
He made it out of the reverend booth and through penance but he looked and felt the same. 
Knate still had his pictures. 
I turned and plucked a bud, my fingers lingering on the delicate stem as I headed to the courthouse. 
The sun had stretched past the convent, sinking past the woods, leaving faint red-orange clouds in its wake—a parting gift that rarely came. 
Knate followed, his steps steady, pressing into the soil. 
Many eyes watched, boys, girls, sisters, fathers, the birds likewise until his pace slowed until it wasn't. 
If it was fear, he was taken there, to the other side. Everyone's other side was different but all a cryptic abyss. 
I would soon be taken there, never to return if Sister Margaret failed to watch me.

This chapter is very short compared to the previous ones and I can't promise that the next one will be long. But we need a break from the long chapters. 
Thanks for reading 
Pixie.