Sister Mary Margaret was Eliza Winterton once upon a time, and had decided to be her again today. She was even wearing the sixties floral maxi she’d last worn for her graduation.
Her habit was in the fireplace. She had built a pretty stick pyramid and placed it on top. She’d get off the sofa and light it shortly, but this was a solemn ritual, there was no hurry.
When she first put the habit on, she remembered she felt safe for the first time in her life. She believed it was a magic cloak. She soon discovered that the habit didn’t make her invisible to predators, it made her an accessory.
Never again.
She was drenched in sweat from the heat already, and yet staggered over to the hearth and lit the fire. She watched as the paper and kindling took off, and smiled as it began to lick at her old uniform.
She lit a cigarette, inhaled, and held it loosely. She saluted the Housewives of New York and skulled her pink drink in one, immediately pouring another and doing the same. She had been celebrating for two hours, and would continue to do so until she was unconscious.
She tossed a set of beads into the fire and was certain they hissed. She didn’t need them. She knew heaven was off the table. 142
She settled into the couch. ‘Hi,’ she said to the girls on the telly. ‘My name might be Izzy, but I sure ain’t dizzy.’
She had seen the priest off two hours ago, then locked the gate and thrown the key in with the general waste. No dark vehicles would crunch her gravel again. There was no reason, now the cellar was empty. Now the children were gone.
The habit was dust, the fire weakening, her eyes closing. At last, unconsciousness was coming. She hugged her empty glass to her chest. Her cigarette fell into the overflowing ashtray on the floor beneath her. Such a quiet thing, the coming of unconsciousness.
Were her eyes open? She thought they were closed but everything was bright red. She tested it out – open, shut, open – shut, and decided she must be asleep. She often saw hell in her sleep, after all. And when the noise came, Sister Mary Margaret didn’t question it. She often heard hell in her sleep too, and it was often as loud as this.