"WHAT ARE WE DOING HERE? THIS DOESN'T LOOK LIKE THE SEA!"
My voice cracked, half panic, half anger.
They didn't answer.
Silence — the kind that feels like betrayal in real time.
I tried to keep calm, but it was slipping through my fingers faster than breath.
> "Love, we brought you here because we think you can start a new life… pure, full of peace—"
"PEACE??" I spat the word out like venom.
"AND YOU THINK I'LL FIND PEACE IN THIS SICK PLACE?"
She flinched, but kept going, that sticky sweet tone mothers use when they know they've already lost you.
I didn't let her finish.
> "I'M LEAVING…"
I turned, heart slamming in my chest, ready to run — I didn't even know where.
Anywhere but here, this damp hall that smelled like mold and death.
[Great. Maybe it's God's sweat dripping from the walls, I thought bitterly.]
But two nuns caught my wrists, firm grip, holy chains.
> "ARE YOU SERIOUS? LET ME GO! I DON'T WANT TO BE HERE!"
Tears blurred the doorway, the crucifix, my parents' silhouettes.
They watched me — almost pleased, almost fascinated, like people at a zoo staring at a caged thing that used to be theirs.
> "Let God hug you, dear. You won't regret it," my father's deep voice rumbled, final and flat.
> "HUG?!" my voice cracked, burning with salt and hate. "DON'T MAKE ME LAUGH. HE'S NEVER HUGGED ME OUTSIDE OF HERE — WHY WOULD HE START NOW?!"
They didn't answer. Didn't even look back. They just turned around — shoes clicking on stone, the iron gate yawning open, then slamming shut like a coffin lid.
> "YES! GO AWAY! YOU'RE DISGUSTING! I HATE YOU! I HOPE YOU BURN!"
My knees hit cold stone.
The echo swallowed my words. I sobbed until it felt like my ribs would shatter, until the tears ran out and left my throat raw.
A few days ago, I had a messy room, loud music, a window that was mine. Now? Just betrayal. Just stone walls.
> "Come," said a voice, soft as dusk. "It happens like this with everyone. You'll be fine."
"YOUR MOM WILL BE FINE," I snapped, my voice already threadbare, hoarse.
> "Shhh… come, get up. I'll give you the dress."
I let her pull me up.
No fight left — they'd already ripped it out of me.
---
She dragged me down a hallway that smelled of dampness and old prayers.
Nuns glanced at me with tired eyes: another one.
> "This is your room," she said gently. "Your tunic's on the bed. I'll come get you in a couple minutes for dinner."
She was too sweet for this place — tired eyes, but soft mouth. Beautiful, almost.
I dressed slowly, the tunic rough on my skin, stiff, color of dust they dared call purity. As I pulled it over my head, I looked around.
No mirror.
[Of course there isn't, I thought.
God forbid I see the sinner they've locked up.]
---
> "Are you ready?" the sister asked, same sweet tone.
[How can she sound so calm in the "house of God"?] I thought.
I forced a nod.