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Blurb
"You are a woman, Serena. You are full of sin."
"I'll cast out the demons from you," he says as the horse tail hits my back again and again.
"You were brought up in sin. I am saving you."
I rise from the cold floor where my naked body lay. He dips his hand in a bowl of blood and draws a cross on my head.
"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit." "May God cleanse you of all your sins for you are a woman".
Since I can remember, I have been taught to be obedient. To love him. To submit. To believe pain is proof of purity. I have waited all my life for this day—the day I will be cleansed of my sins and made pure. I endure as he cuts my hair, strand by strand.
"Pain is what you live for, Serena. Pain makes you pure."
The more pain, the better. The more suffering, the closer I am to heaven.
——
Serena
The church always smells of wax and old prayer. Even at dawn, the cathedral still feels heavy and dark, as if it's holding its breath. Every morning I wake at 4:30 a.m. to clean the cathedral, and today is no different. I scrub the stone floor on my knees. My fingers go numb from the cold water, and my back aches.
Father D'mtri says the church must always be clean. God does not dwell in dirt. Neither do the demons.
I press the cloth harder into the floor, whispering prayers as I work. I pray for forgiveness—for my thoughts, for my body, for being born a woman. Father says women are bodies of temptation, carved from sin and despicable weakness. That our suffering is proof of God's love. I believe him. I have believed him my whole life.
"Serena."
His voice is sharp and commanding. My heart jumps, even though I knew he would call for me. He always does. I rise quickly, smoothing my dress, lowering my eyes the way he taught me. Looking directly at him is disrespectful. Looking too long is worse.
"Yes, Father," I say.
He stands near the altar, hands behind his back, his face screaming displeasure.
"You were careless yesterday," he says. "You let pride slip into your movements."
"I'm sorry," I whisper immediately.
"Come to the rectory tonight," he finally says. "We will pray."
My stomach twists, but I nod. "Yes, Father."
I return to my work as his footsteps fade, my hands trembling now. Prayer nights mean cleansing. Cleansing means pain. Pain means salvation. That is what he taught me.
Later, when the bells ring for evening service, I kneel in my usual place near the back. The congregation fills the room—families, couples, strangers who smile at me kindly. They do not know me. They do not know what it costs to be good as I am.
Zenobia comes in beside me just before the service begins. She smells like soap and sunlight, everything I doubt I am. And her smile is brightening as always.
"You're quiet today," she whispers.
"I'm always quiet," I murmur back.
She nudges me gently. "One day you'll laugh louder than the bells."
I almost smile, but then I remember myself. Remember what I am.
The bells stop ringing. Night settles over the church like a warning.
And I find myself in Father D'mtri's room.
"You tempted me again today, you sinful woman," he says.
"I am sorry, Father."
His hands close in my hair, forcing my head back. I do not fight; fighting only makes it worse.
"A woman's body is the doorway for demons," he says. "You must be punished for what you are."
I hide my cry as he unbuckles his belt and forces me to suck on his dick. He chokes me and slaps me forcing me to take him. After what seems like a very long time, he removes his dick from my mouth and says, "Bring your tongue out."
I quickly do that with no hesitation.
He murmurs prayers as he cums in my mouth. I stare at the wooden cross as he buckles his belt.
"Kneel," he orders. "Pray that God forgives you for what you just made me do."
"Yes, Father."
I kneel and pray.
The rectory door explodes inward. Men in black pour into the room, they raise their guns, their movements sharp and practiced. There's no time to scream or beg. The housekeeper is the first to be shot, then another servant, then blood splashes everywhere.
Father D'mtri steps backward, color draining from his face.
"In the name of God—" he begins.
A gun cracks against his shoulder. He falls hard, choking on his words.
I stay on my knees.
One man steps forward last. He moves slower than the rest, like he knows the ending already. His eyes wander from the bodies on the floor to Father D'mtri scrambling away, then finally—to me. Naked. Bruised. Still kneeling in prayer.
"What's this?" he asks calmly.
Father D'mtri crawls toward him.
"She's nothing," he pants. "A sinner. A servant. I was cleansing her."
The man's gaze sharpens. He looks at the marks on my skin. The blood on my thighs. The way I don't lift my eyes.
"How old?" he asks.
"Nineteen," I answer. No hesitation. No shame. Just obedience.
Something in his expression changes—not softening, but focusing.
"You were supposed to die with the rest," he says.
"If that is your will," I reply.
Behind him, Father D'mtri sobs.
"She's corrupt," he cries. "She made me sin."
The gunshot silences him forever.
Father D'mtri collapses , his prayers spilling uselessly onto the floor. The man who owned my body and soul lies dead at my feet. I do not move.
The tall man, who seems like the leader of the group, crouches in front of me.
"Who taught you this obedience?"
"The church," I say. "Pain makes me pure."
A slow, dangerous smile touches his mouth.
"Take her," he tells his men. "She's mine."
Hands pull me to my feet. I am led past blood, past broken faith, past the body of the man who called himself my savior.
Outside, the cathedral stands silent. Whatever God lived there tonight is dead.
And something far darker has chosen me instead.