Excerpt
The morning after Sister Michael Mary was assaulted, she crept into the cool darkness of St. Bartholomew's church. Shuffling to the snoozer's pew — so named by Father Donnolly because it was jammed immediately behind one of the four flying buttress supports — she inched across until she could smell the damp stone walls. Her left hand crept down to her pocket and lightly fingered a narrow flask.
Early morning prayers, though attended by all, were the day's most private occasion. No one spoke or even sat in the same row. Sister Michael Mary's shame was still her own. That was essential. No child of the late Lowell Murray would easily admit such horror. After all, she had never admitted his secret games with her. Even if she had dared, whom could she tell? Her mother died with the birth of the ninth Murray and her brothers were either spitting images of their father or terrified of him. Instead, on her fourteenth birthday, Mary Murray had fled the cold, cramped shack for the Convent.
Dabbing a bloody handkerchief against the crusty pockets which scarred her thin face, she sat quietly, carefully following the morning sun's speckled trail of color as it splashed brilliantly through the rounded, stained-glass windows. The stillness of the Church bathed her in peace and she slowly began to relax.
Scrubbing herself without looking had been difficult. The sight of her pale skin pockmarked by the shiny purple blotches repulsed her. Gingerly stepping out of the shower — surely Sister Theresa would complain about the lack of hot water — she shuffled down the cool corridor. Slipping into her tiny bedroom, she caught her reflection in the faded, ornate mirror and threw up. Another tooth fell out. Michael Mary didn't try to find it. Instead, she cautiously poked her tongue in a circle. Last count, she was missing at least two. Now probably three. She couldn't open her mouth wide enough to tell.
Despite her long, early morning shower, Sister Michael Mary ached in more muscles than she believed existed. She glanced down at her broken fingernails and tried to meditate. It was no good. Each long breath engulfed her in the immediate past. Still she could smell her attackers, feel their weight rocking on her thighs and chest. Dark, unshaven faces she had vaguely seen before but now would never forget. She reached for the flask, hesitated, and then deliberately pulled back her hand. Shivering in the musty air, Sister Michael Mary knelt carefully and prayed hard into the stone buttress for guidance.