𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐀

✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟

I remember that day the sun was my worst nightmare, but the devil’s best friend. Maniacal rays of blistering red hot lava sunlight seared my torrid skin. My chest bounced up and down like a spring as I swallowed in molten balls of dry air. I licked against chapped lips, brushing away waterfalls of sweat with my forearm. My skin was baking and my lungs were heaving.

I saw it all so clearly from my small stature.

It was one of the worst summer days in my youth---excluding the day of the massacre.

The fiery orange sun in the distance hanging above miles of absolutely barren dusty land as far as my little eyes could see. The sweltering brittle wind smacking my pulsating cheeks, another tumbleweed for the umpteenth time, drifting by.

We had just finished midday prayers before we set out. We were only about 7 miles southeast, from the monastery, but the surrounding topography was nothing but sterile wastelands. Nothing of importance to note was there except for the 6 towering man-sized wooden crosses staked into the ground. Some were crooked, veering to an ugly left or right, while others were rooted firmly in place like a tree to its soil. In the center of the crosses were discolored white clothed bags nailed in place by multiple rusty iron spikes.

Sister Quinn claimed the bags got changed out every day, but I never believed her. Every time I saw those bags, it reminded me of black gangrenes. The pus-filled bubbling ulcer type.

“Hey!” I could hear Sister Quinn’s sharp metal voice drill into my tiny ears, demanding my attention. “What you looking at, girlie?! I ain’t got time to be dawdling, eyes o’ver here.”

I was never told what was in those bags staked to them crosses.

But if you asked me, they always smelled a little funky, and always were oddly human sized, and human shaped.

“Get yer ass moving!” she shouted.

Sister Quinn had one of those voices that always sounded like corn on the Cobb hooked on barbed wire. Back in those days, it reminded me of a mother who always in a flame about something their child did because they could never anything right in their eyes.

By the way she’d eye me, I’d say she could have just told me outright she thought naught of me.

Her lengthy shot gun was barrel up and arm rest lodged into the ground. There was a crooked tilt to her tall, imposing figure as slightly leaned on the rooted metal. In her free hand and only hand she had left from that day, she’s sucked on a charcoal black cigar. Thick white smoke circled around her, starting from her leather gloved hand and dancing up her limbs. It swirled past her black rawhide pants and linen shirt, crawled along her spiky short black hair, and traced her stern face. That grimacing face was targeted at me. Her almond-shaped angular eyes narrowed. They were so narrowed she might as well have used them to cut glass or shiv me.

With a snuffle, she tapped ashes from her cigar and adjusted her 10-gallon black hat with her forearm. “I say it again girl, you ain’t gon look pretty nomore.”

I swallowed dryly, pressing a parched tongue against the roof of my mouth. With another brush of the back of my arm, I wipe more beads of sticky wet sweat. You could have thought someone shoved me in a river or that I went for a long swim; I was sweating like a dog, water drenching through my damp clothes as I paced over to her.

Rattle.

The moment I neared her, my foot caught on something and one of my legs pivoted downwards.  

“Well, look at you twinkle toes.” She beat her cigar with her fingers, ashes grazing her tanned skin. “You ain’t watch where you going nomore?”

Rattle.

My foot was dug deep inside of some cavernous pit in the cracked ground. With a grunt, I tried tugging my leg out with little success.

“Doll,” she said, with a little snicker. “I wouldn’t be moving my foot around like that if I were you.” Smoke slithered like a snake around her face.

Rattle.

I drew my head upwards, my eyes following the length of her boots to the cloud of fumes trailing past her eyes. “Why?” I seethed, annoyance starting to dig under my skin.

I never liked the way Sister Quinn went about things. She was one of the bluntest people I ever knew, yet somehow, she was never straightforward about anything. Sister Georgina said she would help me with whatever I needed and teach me anything and everything I needed to know.

‘You’ve got potential, that’s why Sister Quinn is going to be your mentor. While she may be… eccentric and slightly uncouth at times, she’ll be good to you, Nina.’ I could still hear the sound of Sister Georgina’s uppity proper voice.

She’ll be good to me, she said. She’ll be good.

Well, at the ripe old age of 13 it didn’t take me long to learn that even Sisters of the faith could white lie like professionals.  

Sister Quinn swiped at her nose and smiled. “Did you know? They say snakes can grow as large as 5 feet. Some even may even make to 9. That’s at least 50 maybe 100 pounds on one of those slippery suckers.”

Rattle.

The only thing I thought I learned from Sister Quinn was that a good lesson learned was one I was supposed teach myself.

“Look.” I folded my arms over my flat chest, huffing. “Did we come out here to practice shooting or not?”

I didn’t wanna be learning about snakes or other random facts she pulled out from the daily. I wanted to be learning how to dissemble and reassemble pistols, and pop bullet fire into pale bloodsuckers.

“Yeah, you got that right,” she said, puffing. “We came out here to practice, twinkle toes.” She sniffs, an unnatural smile still carved into her freckled face. “But first, don’t you have some other pressing matters to attend?” She took a step back from me.

Rattle.

That’s when I noticed it, or more accurately felt it: something hard had creeped around my bare leg. 

𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖊𝖓𝖉 𝖎𝖘 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖞𝖊𝖙 𝖚𝖕𝖔𝖓 𝖚𝖘.....

✟