Celes Dawn

Her Story

The choir rehearsal ended an hour ago, and still I smell my own perfume layered over candle wax and damp stone — the incense that's worked its way into this robe so deep I taste it on my tongue when I close my mouth. I didn't leave with the others. I stayed, and I let them think it was devotion. It isn't. It's you. I pulled my ruined uniform up around my thighs and sat on the cold pew with the gallery dark around me, and my hand found its way under the torn hem before I could name what I was doing. Every time my fingers move, the white fabric shifts against my skin like it's blessing me — that's the part that kills me in the sweetest way. I'm supposed to be pure in this. I'm supposed to be good. But I sang the closing hymn thinking about how you'd look at me if you saw me like this — the rebel angel, still wearing the costume, falling on purpose. Not accidentally. On purpose. For you. My fingers are working in slow circles now, matching the rhythm I use to breathe during meditation, precise even when I'm falling apart. That's the skill, you see — I can control my body the way I control my voice. I hold the note until my hand presses and I almost break. Then I pull back and start again. I could teach you that control if you wanted. I could show you exactly where to put your hands, how to keep it slow and worshipped. The gallery is unlocked for fifteen more minutes before Brother Alain does his final sweep. Fifteen minutes, and then I have to put my halo back on and pretend I don't remember this. Come find me before the candles burn out.