There may be no greater perversion than the equation of suffering with redemption.
But don't let that stop you from trying.
* * *
"Sister? A Church Sister?" Iris asked, lifting her head up
The Sister put a finger to her lips, shuffling closer with an anxious look over her shoulders.
"Yes Youngest," she mumbled when she was close enough to feel safe.
"Another one of their tricks," Iris said, glumly.
"If only, daughter," she said. "I'm afraid I'm also trapped here."
Iris squinted at the tan face floating in the grey and yellow robes. She was a little nearsighted, and the hospital cell was not well lit. But even so, she could see worry etched on the woman's face — hardly unusual in the order. More alarming, her robes were wrong. To a casual observer, the Sisters' outfits would look, well, a bit beyond monastic. they were improbably worn and wrinkled for something a modern order in the prosperous church would wear.
In reality, every fold, every crease, and even what might pass for discolorations to the inexperienced eye was intentional, prepared through the elaborate (although arguably misnamed) Ritual of Mending, where the Sisters would add and remove stitches, dye and bleach, rip and mend their garments to match those of the Original Eldest and First, and her disciples.
Subtle differences in the way the robes lay across their bodies that an outsider might not even notice would let Sister compare ranks at a glance, from the Eldest and First to novitiates. Iris had been educated by the Sisters of the Empyreal Transit, and although she didn't know the exact details of dress, she could nevertheless tell that this woman's robe was not properly prepared. It looked not so much worn as old. The weave of the fabric and the way it sat on the woman's frame were different somehow.
And even more strange, it seemed to shimmer ever so slightly here and there, as if with subtly placed gold and silver threads which were never used in and order outfit she'd ever seen.
Besides, the woman had just called her "Youngest," a greeting that was only used for initiates — not members of the general public, and certainly not fellow prisoners.
"Prove it," Iris mumbled. "Prove you're a sister."
The sister glanced back again, her face flashing a look of shame.
"I would not risk it."
Iris' eyes opened wide, as she reflexively pulled at the restraints, trying to lean forward.
"Closer, please."
The sister rolled up a chair beside the hospital bed.
"And your name, Sister?"
"We've met, Iris. But it's better you don't remember," the Sister said.
"Miss Lorcati?" Iris asked, struggling to keep her voice down. It was traditional for both believers and nonbelievers to use the secular term of address in secular matters.
"Please don't. I'm not your teacher anymore, Youngest. Nor am I still part of...." she trailed off.
"Just call me Rain," she finished.
"Rain, if you're not part of the order anymore, why do you call me Youngest?"
"I never said I left the order."
Iris' eyes narrowed. "Going off script?"
Rain sighed. "Force of habit. The order is what we do, Iris, not what we are. And the order does not do this," she said, gesturing around her.
"I thought it might provide some comfort, maybe? I can't help you and it breaks my heart, so I thought I might at least try to take your spirit away from this disorder. To somewhere that, I don't know, makes sense."
she stood up and turned towards the door, mumbling, "I'm sorry, I should go."
"Wait! Stay a little longer," Iris said.
Rain gave her a sad smile, and settled back into a chair.
Iris looked up at the woman. although older, she was still gorgeous. Tall, with a thin build and symmetrical, well-defined features. When Miss Lorcati was her teacher, the rumors were that she had been a model before taking on the Empyreal robes.
If anything, the intervening years had only heightened her beauty, adding a touch of softness and depth to her austere face and trim body. But the woman looked all natural, or at least untouched by their captors. The extreme tastes of the perverse "doctors" would be hard to hide, even under a robe.
"If you're not with them, then how are you here with me, Rain? And how is your body not... not disfigured?"
"They're afraid of me, I think. Afraid to touch me, but afraid to let me go. Our current First and Eldest has lived an exceptionally holy life. I believe it's the work of the Seamstress. She will not let her Sisters be perverted."
"How fortunate for you," Iris said, bitterly.
"So far, but it's not certain. The other possibility is they're... saving me for something."
Rain reached out to stroke Iris' forehead, with a look of pity that made the woman flinch. She pulled back her fingers, clasping her hands in front of her.
"Who are they, really?" Iris asked.
"I'm still figuring that out," Rain said. "What do you remember?"
"I was part of a study. I have a rare type of sensory processing disorder. My senses seem to shut down once they reach a certain level of intensity. I used to injure myself all the time as a child."
"I was supposed to get a shot, wait around to watch for side effects and, uh, 'test and report my responses to touch stimuli.' The doctor said I'd be home by 2:00."
The nun looked nervous, scooting closer and lowering her voice.
As if she thought the men must be waiting for information
, thought Iris.
As if she had not puzzled out just how much they must know.
And the distrust she'd felt for the naive nun quietly drained away.
