Sister Agnes
The next morning dawned with that crisp, holy bullshit air that always hung around the convent like a judgmental fog. Sunlight sliced through the narrow windows of our dormitory, hitting the rough stone floor and warming the chill that had settled in my bones overnight. I lay there in my narrow cot, the coarse sheets scratching against my skin, still replaying the night's chaos in my head. Father Elias's pathetic cries echoed in my mind—those high-pitched wails, like a goddamn kid throwing a fit over a broken toy. My p***y tingled at the memory, a dull ache reminding me how wet I'd gotten from breaking him. Beatrice snored softly in the bed across from mine, her dark hair splayed out like a halo of sin, while Clara mumbled something filthy in her sleep, her hand twitching as
