Sanctuary  
by Natalia Lincoln

The late afternoon sun threw a shaft of light across his cheek like a
guillotine blade.  "The visions," I said.  He waited.  "I am being
consumed." 

"Rene?" 

"I broke it off with him," I snapped.  Father Held tried to conceal his
startlement. "I'm sorry.  It's just that the visions wouldn't stop, and
Rene kept getting angrier, the more I told him...  He called me a liar,
and said that I had never loved him."  My throat constricted; I put my
hand across it and paused.  I would not endanger myself by crying.  "But
he didn't remember how I loved him in the beginning.  God, I was so happy
I was... numb.  I'd been chasing him for months, without even knowing. 
But he knew.  He knew!  And he let me do it for a long, long time, so that
when he finally agreed to go out with me exclusively, I was starving."  I
could not mask my bitterness, but the guillotine blade didn't move. 

"He wouldn't even kiss me before he decided," I continued.  "He thought
being on a kissing basis with more than one woman was dishonest.  I
respected that.  It made me forget how we'd argued about premarital sex. 
He didn't see it as wrong.  I did, even t hough I'd done it before.  So
when he accepted me, I assumed he had changed his mind.  But as we found
out later that evening, both of us had assumed that about the other. 

"The tenderness drained from his face as he realized I still saw things
differently, and he was transformed from my greatest longing to my worst
dread.  My transformation was likely the same for Rene:  from the image of
love to the rejecting mother, withh olding affection in the guise of
another woman. 

"We argued, and as he cooled toward me, my arguments grew fainter. 
'Where's your mercy?' he yelled. 'You're more interested in your own
self-righteousness than you are in love.  Have mercy on me and on
yourself, and God will have mercy on you.' So I con demned myself as
merciless, and resolved to see things his way.  It was easy, since most
young people not only have premarital sex without compunction, but find
those who won't stupid and old-fashioned. 

"We made love that night.  It makes me feel like an idiot to admit this,
but I cried right in the middle of it.  I did it so quietly Rene never
knew." 

"Why does it make you feel like an idiot?" asked the priest. 

"Because I had no right to cry at that point.  I made my choice, and I had
to stick by it.  How could I play the victim if I walked willingly into
it?  I don't know if you could even call it seduction, since we conducted
all our arguments with logic, even
 if it was self-serving logic." 

"Even reason can be seduced," he said. 

I bowed my head in glum agreement.  "Then here's the story of a reasonable
seduction." 

The next time Rene and I met, I had done more rationalizing about sex, and
I was looking forward to it.  We had dinner at a nice place uptown, and as
both of us were anxious to go to his apartment, we went to the subway
station and caught the train. 

We were about halfway there when he took my arm and hustled me off the
train.  "Aren't we going to your place?" I asked. 

He gave me a strange look.  "Yeah," he said, as if he were going to add,
so what's the problem? 

"So why are we getting off here?" 

"Because this is the right stop," he said, raising his eyebrows. 

But it wasn't.  It was the Broadway-Lafayette stop in Manhattan.  Rene
lived in Brooklyn. 

"Okay," I said.  I didn't know what else to say.  We went out of the
station. 

"What's the matter?" he asked me.  "You seem tense all of a sudden." 

"This -- I -- we're not at the right stop," I stuttered. "This is still
Manhattan." 

"This part of Brooklyn just looks like Manhattan." 

"Come on.  I know this is Manhattan.  Don't you see Our Lady of the
Assumption up ahead?" 

"Not unless she's relocated to a brownstone," Rene snorted, and I didn't
know what to do then, so I just shut up. 

We went up the street, and turned down the path to Our Lady of the
Assumption.  "Why are we stopping here?" I asked nervously. 

He whirled around and stared at me.  I hastily decided to make the whole
thing into a joke.  I gave him a big smile.  His look softened.  "Come on,
let's go in," he said, and put his arm around me while he dug for his
keys. 

"They won't fit into the lock," I blurted out; big smile again, to
reassure him. 

"You're right," he answered, "because I think I left them in my apartment. 
Let me ring the super."  He pressed the parish house buzzer.  My stomach
lurched as I saw the sexton's face at the window.  What's he going to say? 
I wondered. 

The sexton opened the door, squinting.  "What do you need this time of
night?" 

"Left my keys in here," smiled Rene.  "Sorry to bug you."  We went in. 

"Quite all right." 

I wanted to ask the sexton whether this was Our Lady of the Assumption,
but I thought how stupid it would sound, how bewildered the sexton would
be. 

"Close the door tight when you leave," he said, and disappeared. 

The hallway was dark, Rene invisible.  I called him twice and was about to
call again when I felt his arm around me.  I jumped.  "Come, my love," he
whispered, and led me to a dimly lit doorway. 

In his hand were skeleton keys to all the church doors, a small silver one
for the sanctuary.  He unlocked the door, then took me in his arms and
kissed me.  "Let's make love," he said, motioning me in.  I stood there,
frozen. 

"Still feeling scruples?" he asked, with a comic, exaggerated sigh.  "If
it makes any difference, tell you what: I'll carry you over the
threshold." 

"It's going to take more than this," I muttered as he swung me up,
clumsily. 

"It's just guilt," he said, tottering in.  "Down you go. There.  As you
come up with new doubts or guilt, we'll just talk it over." 

I couldn't stand it anymore.  I exploded, "Damn it, Rene! This is the
sanctuary!  We can't do it in here!  It's bad enough I have to, but I
won't do it in the sanctuary, of all places!" 

"The sanctuary?" Rene echoed.  He licked his lips.  "Felish, what in the
hell are you talking about? You've been acting distant all evening, and I
want to know what's going on." 

"Can't you see where we are?" I asked.  "You got off at the wrong stop,
you brought us to O.L.A., and now you really want to prove yourself by
fornicating in the sanctuary.  You seem to think this is your apartment
building or something."  I was losing st eam even as I spoke. 

He looked at me, silent, his face frozen in incredulous fury, eyes wide,
lips tight.  He drew a great breath, and I fell back, anticipating
violence. 

His mounting anger shrank to disdain.  "Did you think I was going to hit
you?"  I gave one fast nod.  "I would never hit a woman."  He paused.  "I
think you should go home now.  I can't deal with this tonight.  You can
call me up as soon as you want to di scuss this sanctuary business, but
not tonight.  I'm just too angry."  He opened the door.  I went home, too
benumbed to care.  When I got home, I prayed desperately for discernment. 
What had this evening meant? 

The next day Rene called.  "I'm sorry I yelled at you," he said.  "We
weren't connecting last night.  We have to communicate better, I guess." 

"I'm sorry too," I said.  "I prayed a lot.  Let's not have something like
this interfere with our love.  We don't always see eye to eye, but we have
to expect that." 

"Yeah," he agreed.  "Want to get together tonight?" I said yes.  "Pick you
up at six-thirty." 

I kept praying through the day:  God, let me see it his way. Let me be
able to love him as nobody has yet loved him.  Oh God, forgive me.... 

Six-thirty brought Rene.  We walked from work to the train. Again, we got
off at the Broadway-Lafayette stop. 

I fought my panic.  If this had been anyone but Rene, I would have laughed
it off as a joke.  But Rene was not Mr. Practical Joker.  He took sex too
seriously to risk it over a dumb joke.  He really did believe we were
getting off at the right stop. 

O.L.A. rose ahead of us.  "Got my keys this time," said Rene, and pulled
them out of his pocket. 

Skeleton keys. 

I grabbed Rene's face and kissed him hard, shaking like crazy.  Surprised,
he responded with a little groan of delight, and we kissed outside of
O.L.A.  Then we turned down the path to the parish house.  In my brain
echoed:  Just love him; it doesn't ma tter what you see; just love him.
Remember, mercy.... Underneath the echo:  + + +

"I know what you're going to say, Father:  it's better to tell the truth
even if it means rejection.  That way, people will know who you are, and
some will accept you.  But people want lies.  Lies are straight, clean and
easy, and truth is complicated and
 ugly." 

"I'll take ugly, then," he said.  The sunlight had washed away the
guillotine blade. "Did the winged creature disappear?" 

"Not then," I said, and continued: 

CENTER>+ + +

My eyes were closed.  I didn't dare to move.  The air churned above me
like horrible breath.  Then the sound stopped. 

My stomach burned, as if the white thing had burrowed into it.  I opened
my eyes.  It wasn't there. 

I groaned.  The pain immobilized me; I appeased it by staying still. 

Rene had fallen asleep.  I lay on the cold block of marble, the pain
keeping me awake.  Finally I drowsed, and awoke to Rene's cheerful voice. 
"We have to get up.  Try not to take too long getting ready." 

"Where are we going?" I asked. 

"To church," he said.  I almost laughed. 

I collected my clothing, strewn around the altar, and put it back on.  It
was cold and damp.  I shuddered. 

"What's wrong?" asked Rene. 

"I think I'm catching the flu," I answered.  My sight was cloudy, and my
whole body ached, especially my stomach. 

"Do you still want to go to church?" he asked, concerned. 

"Oh, yes," I said sincerely.  Curiosity overcame pain -- I wanted to see
if mass was going to be held at Rene's apartment. 

We left O.L.A., walked to the Broadway-Lafayette station, and took the
train downtown.  Five stops away from Rene's apartment, we got off the
downtown train and switched to the uptown platform. 

"These transfers are a waste of time," grumbled Rene.  "I hate waiting for
the second train." 

"Yeah," I said absently.  The uptown train arrived, and took us back to
the Broadway-Lafayette stop, where we had gotten on. We walked up the
street, back to O.L.A.  This time, we entered the sanctuary by the narthex
door.  It was filled with people now, and the organ was playing. 

We sat down.  I had expected calm, because Rene and I were seeing alike: 
I had rejoined the sane.  But I hadn't, really.  Evil was growing inside
me.  I looked at the people in the congregation.  They were so confident,
even people with troubles, fortifi ed by the singing, the praying, the
silent kneeling. 

I didn't belong there. 

I felt not fortified, but weakened; not happy, not confident.  I sang
hymns next to Rene, my voice drowning in his strong tenor.  He didn't
notice when I stopped singing. 

We knelt to pray.  I sank down on the floor of the pew, not out of piety,
but fatigue.  The prayers droned on below my thoughts.  I looked towards
the graceful roses of stone embedded in the high ceiling, and remembered
the burning eyes.  Unmerciful eyes. 


Deep within me, something cold twisted, took root.  Fed on me. 

God has turned his face away from me.  A distinct thought, not a
mysterious voice.  But something in me was eager to hear it.  To believe
it. 

And I was afraid. 

I didn't show it.  I got up when the others did.  I mouthed the words,
crossed myself.  Greeted Rene with a holy kiss, gave him the Peace.  Took
the Eucharist.  Showed up at Social Hour.  I felt all of my smiles coming
out wrong, gangrenous. If people not iced anything, they kept silent.  I
wasn't grateful for that, though.  I was playing a game:  listen to me,
but I won't reveal what's wrong.  I wanted to express myself without
expressing myself, avoid the shame. 

CENTER>+ + +

"What shame?" asked Father Held. 

"My insanity..." 

He leaned back in his chair.  "Felicia," he said, his brow creasing. "As
you tell me what you have left to tell, don't call yourself insane
anymore." 

"But you don't know what happens next," I said, and I couldn't stop my
eyes blurring.  "You're going to know how fucking twisted I am...."  I
put my hands to my face and let myself cry, although it would awaken that
which fed on me.  My intestines contr acted. 

He said, "Talk, and I will listen.  And I will never tell anyone else what
I hear today.  Do not judge yourself.  Just tell what you saw, and how it
made you feel." 

"But Rene...." 

"If it helps, tell it as if Rene were insane." 

I fought this.  Then I began again: 

Rene and I kept going out.  I warded off the pain by reinterpreting all I
saw into Rene's reality, disbelieving myself.  I developed a taste for
doing what I was unwilling to do, the only way I could make the pain in my
viscera fade.  Doctors found nothin g wrong -- physically.  I would have
called it an incipient ulcer, but for the teeth gnawing me. 

Eventually it ate away at me even when I was talking myself into Rene's
viewpoint.  Seeing things Rene's way hadn't killed the creature; it had
strengthened it. 

Rene noticed how I tottered around like an old lady, how pale I had
become.  He made sad, worried jokes about how long I took in the restroom. 
I fended off his questions with codewords, because he wanted a physical
reason for my agony -- not a metaphysic al one.  I knew he would display
compassion, but feel disgust for "only my guilt." 

One day I ran out of codewords, and told him the truth about the creature. 

Rene looked grim.  Sighed.  "How can I help you get over this?" 

"I don't think you can," I said, surprising myself. 

"Oh?" he said, turning his eyes on me.  Unmerciful eyes.  "Why is that?" 

"You won't believe me," I said. 

"What won't I believe?  Try me." 

"The sanctuary...." 

He rolled his eyes, saw me lose my nerve.  "Go ahead." 

"Rene, I really don't want to tell you.  I don't think you'll understand. 
I don't see things as you see them." 

"You've made that pretty clear," he said.  "But didn't you say once that
shouldn't get in the way of love?" 

"You're right," I floundered.  I couldn't look him in the eyes. 

"So why don't you communicate with me?  Just try." 

I told him about our first evening:  the subway, the sanctuary, the
altar.... the white thing.  Rene started out with a half-smile of
amusement, and by the time I had finished, looked stricken.  "This isn't a
joke you're playing, is it, Lish?" 

I said no.  "You really see that stuff?"  I nodded.  "You haven't told
anybody else about this, have you?" 

"No." 

He breathed a sigh of relief.  "You must be under a lot of stress these
days." 

"You don't believe me." 

"My God, Felicia," he shouted, "do you believe yourself? You know this
stuff is all in your mind, don't you?  Why would I take you to the
sanctuary to make love to you?  And the white thing -- no sane person sees
that!  Listen.  I'm going to take you back
 to my apartment.  I'll take care of you. You can call in sick in the
morning."  He took my hand.  I followed.  I didn't want to, but I couldn't
trust myself anymore. 

We took the train.  I buried my face in his coat so no one could see me,
how crazy I had become.  We got off at the Broadway-Lafayette stop. 

The thing growing inside me bit at the confining walls of flesh.  I
groaned, and clutched at Rene. 

"This is the right stop, Felicia.  Damn it!  Can't you wait to make a big
scene until we're in my apartment?" 

"Rene, please...." He didn't know that I was used to getting off at
whatever stop he said, or why I was groaning.  It angered me. 

"If we don't get off here, we're going to end up in fucking Coney Island!"
he hissed, and dragged me off the train.  "I suppose O..L.A. looms
ominously in the distance now?" 

"That's right," I said, dropping all pretenses of sanity. "Stop squeezing
my arm.  I'm not going to run away." 

"All right.  Now listen to me, Lisha.  We're going to beat this thing. 
But you have to be in there with me fighting.  You tell me whatever you
see, and I'll tell you what it really is. Now.  You said we're outside of
O.L.A.  We are actually walking down Eighth Avenue in Park Slope,
Brooklyn.  There are a lot of brownstones.  The ones on this block have
little stone angels above the doors.  The house we just passed has a big
lion sticking out its tongue.  See it yet?" 

"Stop treating me like this!" I yelled.  "I don't give a shit how crazy I
am.  You can't talk to me like a three-year-old!" 

"At least a three-year-old knows what the real world looks like!  Just
try!" 

"All right.  I see the big lion.  I see the little angels. I see Daddy's
house.  I see Dick and Jane run.  Now will you leave me alone?" 

He pulled me down the little pathway to the parish house, unlocked the
door, and shoved me in.  He slammed the door behind himself.  "You're
being pretty obnoxious to someone who's trying to keep you out of
Bellevue's psycho ward," he said. 

"I have feelings, Rene," I replied.  "Can't you take care of me without
reminding me of how sick I am?" 

He relented.  "Okay.  I'll take care of you.  No more lessons for now." 
He led me into the chancel, in front of the altar rail.  "Wait here.  I'll
bring you some medicine."  He saw my bewilderment.  "You're on my couch,
okay?" he advised me. 

"It's the altar rail," I said, realizing how ridiculous I sounded.  "But
thanks anyway." 

He went out of the sanctuary, and came back carrying a coil of rope. 

"Rene..."  I said warily.  "What do you have there?" 

"Medicine," he replied. 

"It looks a lot like a rope to me," I said. 

He shrugged.  "In your state, you can't count on your senses anymore.  I'm
not going to make you take this.  But if you don't, you're going to suffer
from your sickness.  And it will be your own fault.  Now who's not
believing whom?" 

The pain in my stomach made me waver.  Maybe he's right, I thought.  He's
not being nice about it, but then, he doesn't see large white things
coming down from the ceiling.  This is the paranoia talking -- he has
medicine, and wants to help me, but I'm to o blind to see it. 

"All right," I said unhappily.  "Give it to me."  He made me kneel down. 
My doubt leapt within me.  "Rene?" 

"I am giving you a backrub.  Now hold still; this is the medicine."  He
looped the rope twice around each of my wrists, and made a skillful knot. 
He took one end of the rope and brought it up around my neck.  More knots. 
Rope around my shoulders, my wai st, my legs.  He worked faster as he went
and the rope tightened around me.  He took less than two minutes. 

"Where in the hell did you learn how to do that?"  I said, forgetting that
he was giving me medicine. 

"With my last wife," he answered proudly.  "She was sick a lot too." 

"Good Lord," I groaned, but reminded myself that the rope was just a
hallucination. 

"She left me," he said.  "What I like about you is, you don't run away. 
You listen to me." 

I felt virtuous and stupid.  "What kind of medicine is this, Rene?  I
can't move." 

"It's supposed to take you out of commission for a while. Don't worry,
soon you won't feel anything." 

I strained against the rope, ingeniously knotted.  I was tied in a
position for praying.  Every loop of rope was taut except the one from my
wrists to my neck.  If I moved out of the position, the rope tightened
alarmingly around my neck.  So I had the op tion to move, but only at the
cost of breathing. 

I chose breathing.  I didn't struggle anymore.  Rene turned to go. 

"Where are you going?" I asked anxiously. 

"To bed." 

The altar.  "You're not going to leave me here all night, are you?" 

"Well, of course.  How do you expect to get any rest if I don't?" 

"How do you expect me to get any rest this way?" 

"Just relax.  It goes better if you do.  Good night, Lish," he said,
kissing me on the forehead.  He disappeared behind the altar screen. 

Bellevue's psycho ward, I thought, looks pretty good at this point.  I
closed my eyes, imagining myself as Rene saw me:  lying on his couch,
sick, heavily drugged.  No sign of rope.  Needless to say, this didn't
work.  The ropes cutting into me gave my ef forts the lie.  I gave up and
fought against the rope.  I succeeded only in rubbing the skin off my
wrists, and nearly strangling myself when the rope around my neck
tightened in response to my movements. 

How ironic, I thought in my ensuing rage, that I am trapped in the pose of
prayer.  The last thing I wanted to do was pray. Being bound in this
pious, affected posture made me angry, and knowing that I was
hallucinating again made me ashamed.  Even worse,
 I knew my mind's motive in inventing this sado-masochistic scenario: to
blame Rene for my misery. 

But the blame was on my shoulders.  It didn't matter how much I suffered,
because I had consented to it when I sinned with Rene.  Not only did I
consent, but I wasn't repentant.  I felt bad about it, but I was so
desperate not to be rejected that I knew I
 wasn't going to stop it.  Guilt, visions, agony:  my fault.  I asked for
it, and I deserved what I got. 

The pain in my stomach had stopped, and I realized what the evil flowering
within me wanted.  Nothing but my death would satisfy it, no viewpoints,
no exonerating circumstances, no expiation.  In fact, it couldn't care
less what I had done.  It hated that
 I lived.  The only purity that this evil commanded was death.  And the
evil waited breathlessly inside me for death, now that I had trained
myself in the art of denying my own being. 

And then I heard a voice of mercy, which I had avoided for so long:  When
will the suffering be so bad that you turn to God? 

The pale root shuddered within me at the sound, and spat. This is
blackmail, it said, not letting me speak.  God has made me suffer so that
I will turn to him in desperation, not out of free will.  I do not love
God well enough to come to him.  I am not w orthy of mercy. 

I listened to my lips speak these words, and I knew they damned me, but
were not false. The creature had acquainted itself well with my
subconscious thought.  It spoke what I had never dared to admit, using my
own truth against me.  I deserved no mercy. 

Of course, if I deserved mercy, I wouldn't need it.  But that didn't
matter then. 

In the morning, Rene emerged from behind the screen.  "I'm going to work
now.  See you tonight," he said. 

"Don't go yet," I pleaded.  "I can't move.  I'm hungry, and I really have
to go to the bathroom." 

"You can't get up yourself and take care of that?" 

"Rene, please...." 

"What, do you want me to pick you up and carry you?" he said, exasperated. 

"Rene, I can't move...." 

"All right, all right.  I'll bring you breakfast.  But you're too heavy to
carry to the bathroom.  Can you do it into, say, a cup?" 

I made a face to express my disgust, mask my humiliation. "In a cup?" I
repeated. 

"How else is it going to work?" 

"Okay, okay, fine.  Bring the damn cup."  He went away and came back with
a paper cup.  He held it in front of me. 

"Take it," he prompted.  His face froze when I shook my head.  "Oh, Jesus. 
You mean I'm going to have to...." 

"Rene, believe me, I would do this by myself if I could.  Who do you think
is going to be more humiliated by this, anyway?" 

He went about his task without a word.  I couldn't meet his eyes, but I
looked at him when he didn't know it.  Fear crossed his face as often as
disgust.  He thinks I'm paralyzed.  He thinks the medicine.... 

But I am the one imagining things.  It is the medicine, and I am
paralyzed. 

Rene was worried.  He didn't complain anymore.  He went out, came back
with breakfast, and spoon-fed me.  "Listen, honey," he said.  "I have to
go to work now.  God, I wish I didn't work all the way uptown -- I won't
be able to come back during the day. I 'll come home as soon as possible,
and bring somebody to look at you." 

I wonder what they'll see?  I thought.  S&M, or paralysis? 

Rene put a cup full of water next to the rail, and left.  I looked down at
my wrists.  The rope looked real.  Is he really going to bring somebody
back here to see this?  I felt a surge of panic.  Mental image of them
standing over me and laughing.  I am not paralyzed!  I thought angrily. 
Paralysis doesn't hurt. You're not supposed to feel anything.  My body was
aching from the pose it had held for almost twelve hours now.  Rage bolted
through me.  I twisted in the ropes with all my force, tore at them w ith
my teeth.  I screamed for help.  Nobody came.  Today was Monday; people
would come for the Eucharist Wednesday night. 

But this is Rene's apartment, I remembered.  There's no Eucharist on
Wednesday.  I can't get away from here.  I have to face him and whoever
he's going to bring tonight.  My head was pounding again.  There was a
cold, buzzing sensation in my hands, as if they were falling off. 

Involuntarily, some part of me spoke:  God help me.  I don't care if this
whole thing was my fault.  I can't take this anymore.  Get me out of here. 

The thing within me awoke, drowning me out:  I don't want God's help. 
Leave me alone.  I know that I messed up, and now I have to take the
consequences. The part of me that's crying out is cowardly; it only wants
God for its deliverance.  It doesn't love
 God for God. 

But over and over I prayed:  God, you are my last hope.  Help me. 

For hours, nothing happened.  The feeling in each limb dwindled to
nothing, like lights being turned out one by one.  I felt weightless,
disembodied.  My head hurt, but that was way below something much more
urgent:  thirst.  The full cup of water at the side of the rail was
driving me mad.  I couldn't even see it.  I remembered Rene putting it
there when he left. 

Afternoon darkened into evening, and still no Rene.  The only thing I felt
was thirst.  Where's God now?  came the thought.  Maybe he listened to the
loud voice of evil, the one that told him to leave me alone. 

And minutes later, Rene burst through the door.  Nobody followed him.  He
rushed over, agitated.  "Lish," he said.  "I'm sorry.  I had no idea." 

"What?" I said, confused, the words coming out in a hoarse whisper. 
"Please can I have some water?" 

He put the cup to my lips.  I drank.  He shook his head, muttering, "I
still can't see it." 

I finished the water.  "What?" 

"Ropes.  Oh, Lord...."  He stared at me. 

"Stop it," I said uncomfortably. 

"This is too much," he whispered.  "Lisha, I have to tell you something. .
. .  I don't think we should go out anymore." He took a knife out of his
pocket. 

"Rene, no!"  I screamed.  "Don't!"  Inside me, the creature dropped out of
slumber, sensing my fear.  Enjoying it. 

"Listen," Rene said.  "This is going to be hard for both of us, but it's
clear that we come from very different standpoints." His look darkened. 
"I can't stand this anymore:  you get so much sympathy, the poor sick
victim, and I'm just the bad guy."  The
 knife came closer.  I tried to edge away, but the rope held me
motionless. 

"I know I'm not the victim," I told him, making my voice calm.  "You're
not the bad guy.  Just don't--" 

"Damn it, Felicia!  I'm hurting just as bad as you are!  You still don't
understand -- nobody does!  Everyone just stands around judging."  And
then he looked thoughtful.  "I'm one to talk, though; I don't understand
you either.  You, or your guilt, or yo ur hallucinations."  My eyes
followed the approaching blade. 

The creature within me stirred, hoping for the knife, twisting in delight
at my terror.  It took over my power to speak, and all my resistance went
limp.  "Then do it," I heard myself whisper.  "I want you to...." 

Rene didn't hear it.  "I don't want to be with you anymore....  God, it
hurts!"  he wailed.  The knife was at my neck.  I shuddered.  The creature
was pressing me towards the blade, fanning out its wings in joy.  Soon it
would be rid of me. 

"Kill me," the thing whispered through my lips.  "I neither deserve nor
wish to live."  Trapped underneath, my own voice, muted:  Don't listen. 
My subconscious and I had traded places; I was its prisoner now. 

The knife tickled dangerously at my skin.  I wondered how much and how
long a slit throat would hurt, when I realized that the rope was
slackening, knife flashing through knots.  Rope fell on the floor in
pieces.  I fell clumsily, my deadened limbs uncomp laining.  The creature
croaked in bitter disappointment and sank away from my awareness.  I lay
on the floor of the chancel, exhausted, speechless. 

I was too stiff to move, and Rene knelt by me, rocking me in his arms. 
Both of us were too tired to speak. 

Finally I asked:  "How did all this happen?" 

"What?" 

"I mean, when you came in and said all that, what did you see me do?" 

"You were lying there paralyzed.  I, I -- said we had to break up, and you
reached out to me, lost your balance and fell." 

"Oh.  At least I'm not really paralyzed," I said without enthusiasm. 

"Thank God." 

I thought, God heard me. 

Rene took me home, in a cab.  We'd both had enough of the subway to last a
lifetime.  We said goodbye for what I thought was the last time.  I went
upstairs, climbed into bed, and slept for twenty hours without waking. 

I awoke feeling empty, the emptiness after illness, austere but clean.  I
hadn't felt clean since the white presence had gone into me on the altar. 
I thought that was the end of it.  Even so, I felt like I'd been run over
by a truck:  bruises all over my
 arms, sores weeping pus from my wrists.  Still, I was at peace.  I didn't
care anymore whether my experience had been real or hallucinatory.  All I
knew was that it hurt.  That was enough evidence for me.  I was alone in
my own apartment, and I could ble ed without wondering whether anyone else
would see it.  Or say that I wasn't bleeding. 

I got up, made myself soup.  Washed my face.  Stared out the window.  The
phone rang. 

Rene, crying.  "I don't want to give up. We should be able to defeat this
thing through love." 

My peace left me.  I didn't want love anymore, its possibilities, its
dangers of annihilation.  I wanted to be left alone, insane by myself,
spared the unintentional wounds of his questions.  Questions I couldn't
answer, because the answers were too obvio us to me, and the obvious too
illogical to him.  "Rene," I said.  "I don't think this can work.  I just
can't explain... things to you." But he sounded so broken that I promised
to think about getting back together with him. 

My whole being screamed against it.  I wanted to recover, not try again. 
I knew that he would never understand my insanity.  I would have to see
things his way again as soon as we were together. 

But I saw what I saw, felt what I felt, whether the reality matched anyone
else's or not. 

"And that is why I told you," I said to Father Held, "that even I am more
interested in lies rather than truth.  I would rather be with someone who
doesn't think I'm insane, even if... it... isn't the truth...."  The pain
had started.  My hand went to my stomach. 

Father Held looked at me.  The muscles around my mouth tightened; cold
spread from my intestines down through my legs. "There isn't much time," I
told him. 

"It will gain power again," said the priest.  The sunset shone dimly on
his face.  "You have done what it forbade you: told the truth.  It will
get worse before you are set free." 

"You believe me?" I shouted, horrified. 

"You expected me not to.  But I will not fulfill your expectations.  I
didn't fulfill Rene's, either." 

I stared at him.  "He came here?" 

"Yes.  On the evening he was going to bring someone back to examine you. 
That's why he was late.  He couldn't find what he thought he needed:  a
doctor who made house calls.  So he told me about your so-called
hallucinations, and the story as he saw it. 
 I could not hide my dismay.  He asked me what was wrong. 

"I told him that a few months ago, I had awoken from nightmares in which I
had seen wrong sacrifice done on the altar. The next morning, I went
behind the screen before morning mass. 

"Blood was smeared over the altar.  I suspected vandalism, and asked the
sexton if anyone had come in during the night.  He said only two
parishioners; one of them had forgotten his keys." 

I gaped at Father Held.  He nodded.  "Of course, that meant nothing before
Rene came in.  I cleansed the altar and concealed myself in the sanctuary
that night.  But no one came. 

"I had continual nightmares from then on:  gaunt, blemished animals led to
sacrifice, a white vulture tearing at human viscera.  The nightmares
always came before I found the altar defiled. 

"I kept watch overnight as often as I could.  One day I was so tired that
I fell asleep at the parish house, and dreamed that I went to the
sanctuary, hiding myself near the altar.  As night deepened, two entered
by the north aisle door, and the taller of
 them pulled the other into the chancel, and behind the screen. 

" 'Stop,' I shouted in my dream.  The tall one did not hear me.  The other
heard, but pretended not to.  Both ascended to the altar.  High above, a
white, shriveled thing unfurled its wings.  It reminded me of old woodcuts
depicting fallen angels, only th is one was a dirty white, masquerading as
a creature of the light. 

"And it fell upon the smaller of the two, consuming her, while her
companion had turned his head. 

"I awoke screaming, rushed to the sanctuary.  The altar was empty except
for this.  I showed it to Rene the day he came."  Reaching into his desk,
he pulled out a bristly white object, barbed like a fish skeleton, but not
as delicate.  Lethal, glassy spli nters melted into a crooked feather. . .
. 

I lurched forward, clutching my abdomen.  Father Held caught me before I
fell.  "Don't touch me!" the thing roared through my lips.  It spread its
wings in rage, lacerating me from inside, holding my tongue silent. 

"I know you are real," said the priest.  "Show your face." 

"My face?  She and I are one!" it screamed.  I screamed.  "Her face is my
face, and my face is hers.  Ask no further."  It let go of my tongue, and
prodded me.  "It isn't lying," I said.  "I used to deny it:  I am not this
thing.  But I am.  The seed coul dn't have been sown in infertile soil." 

"Are you afraid to show yourself?" the priest addressed the parasite. 
"The soil is indeed fertile, but more than one crop is growing.  If you
would claim the soil, you must show yourself.  She denies you no longer. 
It is your privilege to show yourself. 
  Would you pass this pleasure by?" 

"The pleasure is in the stealing, not the loud claiming in the
marketplace," it answered.  "And stealing is better accomplished by night,
when no one sees me.  She is my daylight, she is my face.  Why do you tell
me to show myself?  When you look at her, you look at me."  The pain
crumbled to nothing.  I stood up. 

"I'd better go," I said hastily.  "It's getting late. Thanks for
listening." 

"No.  Please sit down, Felicia," he said.  "This isn't finished." 

"For me it is.  I've told you everything.  I want to go home and sleep
now.  I'm exhausted." 

"I'm sorry.  You're not yet free of it.  The pain is gone, but it will
return when you get back home." 

"Do you think I don't know that?" I said angrily.  "What makes you think I
want to be free?  The parasite and I speak from one source.  We are one
flesh." 

He held my gaze.  I looked away. 

"Don't," I barked.  My voice was older, sharper, not my own. "Now you know
the whole story.  You weren't supposed to believe me!  I don't want to be
free.  I want to die.  Don't you know how close I am?" 

"Not close enough," he said. 

I rushed toward the window.  He caught my arm.  The claw tore at my
insides so that I crumpled away from the priest's hold.  But something
gripped my shoulders, and my feet left the floor.  I saw Father Held below
me, holding out his arms.  A noise of bea ting wings, the floor sinking
away....  I caught a glimpse of bristled white wings behind me, the color
and texture of dirty fingernails.  Two soiled, ashen hands held me near
the ceiling; we flew toward the window, gaining speed.  Father Held's lips
move d.  The strong arms trembled, lifted me to the ceiling, and flung me
to the ground. 

When I came to, I had a muddled recollection of twisting through the air,
and, as the heel of my hand struck the ground, the crunching of my
wristbone.  I could not remember why I had fallen so far and so violently. 
I lifted my eyes, and wished I had not . 

Spines like ticks clung to an emaciated body, its limbs drawn pitifully
around itself, as if it had emerged from a womb of thorns.  Glinting with
bristles, wings waved arrhythmically, fanning out stench.  Slime rained
from its blasted feathers.  Gray bloo d drained out of its grimy white
flesh, though it had no wound. 

The eyes of thirst itself glared at me.  It spoke: "You are empty of me
now, Felicia."  I shuddered in disgust.  Spoken by that tongue, my name
was profanity.  Its lips twisted. "All my suffering will not have been in
vain, if I can drive you to despair.
 And I will, for there is no love, only the exchange of pain between two. 
'Love' is only a contract for consuming and being consumed." 

"You who were once an angel," whispered Father Held, "begone in the name
of Jesus Christ, who condemns nobody." 

"You have shut the door," said the twisted angel. "But there are windows." 
Its jaw protruded.  "And I never stand before a closed window."  It hurled
itself at the windowpane, shattering it.  Fetid air rushed out, and glass
rained upon the ground below.
 The stench dissipated. 

"It never ends," said Father Held.  "There is always fighting. 
Thankfully, the burden of victory is not upon us.  It is in God's nature
to overwhelm evil." 

"There is nothing I can do to resist the enemy," I said. The angel of
corrosion had spoken truly:  I was empty, weak. 

"No.  But there is neither any resistance you can offer against the Lord. 
Nothing can separate you from his love." 

"Pray that it fills me," I said, and he laid his hands on me, summoning
the Spirit of God. 

I put on my coat.  He opened the door.  "God's love will not fail you," he
said. 

"Pray that it fills me," I repeated; the priest embraced me, and I went
downstairs and out of the church. 

A mild breeze swept across the parish house courtyard, rustling the buds
in the trees.  Inchoate spring sweetened the air.  One tree flowered,
defying late winter.  I crossed the courtyard to breathe the scent of the
flowers. 

But the dirty white blossoms bore the scent of decay. 

Spines upon the branch.  Bristles.  And the strange dew that fell in
clumps from the tree. 

I stood transfixed.