At the funeral, 10

This chill, this damp, it’s killing my hands today, but then it’s been like that for months now. The only respite comes in her presence, and I dearly wish she would bless me by coming now. But Sophia has been silent today. She knows that I cannot give her the attention she deserves and perform this sacrament at the same time. She knows we owe the dead respect. Surely, she is as clement and merciful as God Himself. She demands nothing of me than I am not willing to give. If I could, I would be there with her now, kneeling on hard stone in the darkness and cold, only the sounds of dripping water and the leather of the scourge on naked skin to interrupt our communion. Blood is relevant, but trivial in comparison; I would surrender my miserable, unworthy life, if only she would take it. I envy Catherine her sacrifice, even knowing that her captured soul lingers in agony, waiting to rejoin God in Heaven. I promised her she would go to God, and Sophia will fulfill that promise, once the daughter is delivered from sin.

She looks like her mother. She’s taller, of course, but that comes from the father. What I have heard – from Catherine herself and from others – is that she inherited some dangerous habits from her father as well. I would never have thought her capable of witchcraft until I saw the fear in her eyes that afternoon at the hospice. Then the painting of the shadowed Magdalene, crashing to the floor, glass shattering, shards flying everywhere. The hospice staff apologized repeatedly for the disturbance, blaming it on a poor hanging job, but I don’t believe it was an accident, and from the look on her face, she didn’t either. Of course she didn’t take communion today, just sat there in the first pew looking down at her hands. I’m surprised she came to the church at all, but the pretenders are so often the most dangerous.

The man with her doesn’t touch her, but he stands just behind her chair, his hand on the back of it, the subtle intimacy of a lover obvious to anyone who cares to look. He doesn’t seem to know what she is, or if he does, he doesn’t care, which is worse. When she comes to God at last, I pray that she will bring him with her.

The mourners have finally gathered, huddled together under their black umbrellas. It’s time to start.