monk

We neared the hut and heard it. Stifled screams. Grunts. As though his mouth was stuffed. Rhythmic, guttural, animalistic, anguished. Fear twisted my gut. 

 

We waited out of sight. A vast trunk. The shade of an ancient tree. A hulking figure opened the door and closed it behind him. A sleight of hand. Didn’t look around. Walked hurriedly away. Didn’t want to be seen. Head near-bald and skin pale – pallid. Dressed entirely in grey. Didn’t see his face.

 

Three of us. Friends. Sisters. The door wasn’t locked. It was quiet outside, but inside … the silence cacophonous. His fresh brutality loud in the room. One window curtained. Door shut. Enough light to see. Like his clothes, everything grey. Except the streaks: red blood whipped the walls. 

 

Perspiration down my back. The air heavy. A sauna. His sweat. A raw stench. Evidence of self-flagellation strewn across the floor. A toppled prayer stool. A damp and bloodied sock. A gag. A corner full of candles. Not wax. Paper pulp or old cloth. Something coiled around itself. Grey. 

 

The other two searched the room. I paced about, frenzied. Desperate to leave. Desperate his evil, the guilt and torture he’d exorcised – his blood, his sweat, his tears, wet and hungry in the room – would not seep into our pores. Didn’t want to breathe the same air. Didn’t want his memories nesting, worming into my veins. Didn’t want to see. Didn’t want to know.

 

But memories are like that. Thoughts transmit. Energy lives. Glimpses of deplorable acts flickered through my mind. Reanimated. 

Too much. I woke.