Scelus - Writing (Turned pt 1)

Sabine clutched the thick blankets close to her chest as she walked. This was her first night sitting alone with a patient and her nerves were rattled. The train of her habit dragged on the rough stones of the corridor, pulling just enough on her shoulders to make her feel as though she were suffocating. The further she walked down the hall towards the infirmary, the more clearly she could hear her Sisters’ hushed voices. 

“He is so pale, so cold,” she heard one voice say, “These chills should come with a fever, and yet his skin is icy.” Sabine slowly approached the hanging fabric dividing each patient, following the voices. 

“Pardon me,” said Sabine as she parted the curtains, entering the small space. The two women in the room turned to face her, happy surprise on their faces. 

“Ah, Sister Chastain! Wonderful to see you,” said the smaller woman, her full cheeks scrunching her eyes as she smiled. She stepped towards Sabine, arms outstretched in a greeting. The other woman regarded Sabine with a soft smile and gave her head a small tilt. 

“Good evening, Sister Matthis, Sister Jacobs. I’ve come to sit with Monsieur Smith ‘till morning.” Sabine’s large eyes drooped as she glanced at the pale man who shook ferociously under the blankets. Though she smiled, the other women could see her apprehension clearly. Sister Matthis, hands still open, led Sabine to the side of the modest bed and gestured down to the man. 

“We have done everything we could for him,” she whispered, careful to not wake the patient she worked so hard to put to sleep, “All we can do now is make him as comfortable as possible until the Lord is ready to call him home.” Sabine nodded, slowly draping the thick blanket over the sleeping man. She smoothed it as well as she could and brushed the back of her hand across the man’s damp forehead. She jerked her hand back with a small gasp, startled by how cold the skin truly was. Sister Jacobs, stopped at the partition, turned and spoke,

“We do not believe he will make it through the night. He is much too cold and much too pale. And his veins must be parched because we could not get a single drop of blood from him.” Her dark eyes showed clear concern and, to Sabine’s surprise, confusion.

“Were his chest not heaving, I would think him already dead.” Again, Sabine nodded, once more reaching for the man’s forehead. It felt as if she were pressing her fingers against glass on a snowy morning, and though she had never once touched dead skin, this is how she imagined it would feel. Cold and hard; lifeless. Sabine was scared, but held herself upright. She may not have chosen to live her life here amongst these holy women, but this is where her fate led, and she wanted to face her duties with as much grace as she could. 

The women around her all found their strength in God, and though she tried, Sabine struggled to do the same. Instead, Sabine found strength in these women. Their unending kindness, their devotion to a God they love, their stone-faced determination to save as many lives as they could. Sabine watched her Sisters march resolutely towards battlefields to face horrors she could not even imagine, and yet they return just as kind and devout as when they left. They are soft, though their hands are rough from their labor, and they are calm even in the face of blood and gore. Death is often a friend to her Sisters; an absolution from their patients’ pain and a door to the loving arms of God. 

So, Sabine straightened her spine, softened the nervous crease between her brows, and smiled at her Sisters. Sister Matthis joined Sister Jacobs at the curtains, giving one last look back to the young woman.

“God be with ye,” Sister Matthis said as she ducked through the parted curtains.

“Bonne Nuit, Sisters,” Sabine called back. She looked down again at Mr. Smith. His skin was glowing in the light of the candle, but it was not the healthy glow she has seen on the cheeks of new mothers. It is the glow of snow; so bright that it is nearly blinding. It will not be long, she thought. She slowly kneeled next to the bed and clasped her hands, sending out quiet prayers. She prayed for his comfort, for his soul, for him to be forgiven for his sins. She did so dutifully, as she had been taught by the Abotess. She would repeat these prayers until the sun rose and another nun was sent to relieve her, or until he was truly gone. 

After nearly a dozen cycles of her prayers, Sabine was jolted by soft murmuring coming from the man. She rose, thinking that he may be saying his final words. 

“They must not be wasted on thin air,” the Abbess once told her, ”you must honor them with your ears.” His voice was quiet and cut with small gasps. Sabine leaned her head close to the man’s lips, hoping to catch what she could. 

“-gry,” she heard. Confused, she leaned closer and urged him to repeat.

“Monsieur, once more, please.” His eyes were closed tight, veins bulging on his forehead. Sabine could feel his breath against her cheek, and it was just as cold as the rest of him. 

“So,” he rasped out slowly.

“Very,” his hand rose from the bed and Sabine reached to hold it, believing that he was searching for comfort.

“Hungry.” Sabine’s brows stitched together in confusion. He ripped his hand from her grasp and latched onto her white breastplate. Sabine gasped and jerked away from the man but was held in place by his firm grip. He pulled with a strength no dying man should have, and the fabric of her breastplate yielded to his hand. It ripped with a terrible sound, and Sabine was stunned by the cold air on her exposed neck. 

More startling, however, were the man’s teeth. As he sprung up from the bed, ripped fabric still in hand, he opened his mouth wide like a snake. Behind his cracked and bleeding lips were animal-like teeth; two needle-sharp points where his eyeteeth should be. His eyes were blown wide, pupils so large Sabine could not tell what color they were. He lurched towards her, teeth latching onto her neck. 

“Non,” was all she could get out before the pain stole her very breath. The momentum of the man’s attack brought them both to the ground, leaving Sabine trapped between his freezing body and the cold floor. 

Though she was surrounded by cold, her body burned. Fire raged from her neck and spread throughout her body as if it were setting her blood alight. She tried to thrash but her wrists were bound by the man’s crushing grip and her legs were tangled in the thick folds of her dress. She felt the man gulp against her neck and ice shot through her. A numbness traveled through her body, whether it be from fear or from some poison seeping from the man’s teeth she could not tell. Frozen, Sabine fixed her wide eyes on the ceiling, feeling the man drink her life away one deep gulp at a time. It hurt, and yet it did not. Sabine was terrified, and yet she was calm. She felt parts of herself desperate to push him away, and other terrible parts desperate to cling to him. 

His grip on her wrists loosened and she pulled them free. She screamed in her mind, battling the apathy that allowed the man to continue to kill her. With her free hands she reached for the long strand of rosary beads tucked under her cincture. Using the strand, she pulled the large ebony cross into her hands and pressed it firmly into his stomach. When he gave no reaction, Sabine tried again, moving the cross to the exposed skin of his arms. When the dark wooden cross touched his cold skin he jerked away from her with a hiss.

His whole body flew backwards and slammed into the bed. Sabine scrambled back in an effort to get as far from the creature in front of her as possible, holding the cross up in one shaky hand as she moved. She could feel hot blood racing down her chest from the jagged wound. Her head was light and her eyes could not focus but she kept her hand towards the dark form scurrying from the bed. He faced her as he backed through the hanging curtains and Sabine was too exhausted to give chase to the creature that attacked her. 

Finally alone, her shoulders slumped and her chest heaved. She held the rosary tight in one hand and used the other to prod at the two holes on her neck. They were tender and throbbing, blood still oozing from them. Her hand followed the blood down her neck, her chest, her stomach. It soaked the entire front of her, all the way down to the tops of her thighs. She felt sick. She felt hot. Her stomach rolled over itself but she had nothing in her to expel. 

Her ears perked at the sound of footsteps. Panic told her it was the creature returning to finish her off, but the soft hands that cradled her face told her differently. She was being spoken to, but she could not make out any words that were being said. Sabine tried to blink away the fog from her eyes but everytime she closed them they got harder to reopen. The hands on her cheeks patted down her body and pushed up the hem of her thick dress. She was exhausted, and the small hands and tight voice were pushing her further into the blackness around her. She slipped and slipped until she could finally fall away.