Finding Love | ✔️

two

/we accept the love we think we deserve.

~ Steven Chbosky /

♡

Out of all the nuns, she's the meanest one. Her brow is worked into an angry frown as she taps her foot, rhythmically, demanding an explanation.

"We were just heading ba--" Arghie begins.

"It's a good thing you left the attic door open, Arghavan, because I've found you both. Now go! And let me not catch you up here again."

Arghie shoots me an apologetic look, and I glance away. I know she didn't mean to give away my position, but I can't help but feel a little angry at her.

"What is this, April?" The nun's voice is cold and heartless. Her face looks pale and tired. A single grey strand of hair floats away from underneath her wimple. As she watches me, I knock the glass pieces down to face flat on the ground. I feel as if her eyes are boring straight through my soul.

I look away and don't say anything.

"I'm talking to you, girl. Don't test my patience."

I know what's coming next. If I won't reply, she'll take me to her office and beat me with that jagged metal ruler, in the name of discipline.

"It's nothing." I say.

"You are a liar!" she barks, walking forward and grabbing at the glass. I provide little resistance, watching with pain as she takes the box too, throws the pieces inside, and motions for me to follow her. I oblige. What else can I do?

I enter into her all-too-familiar office. It's dark. She never draws up her blinds. I always feel like it reflects her heart: cold and dark and unhappy. I remain standing as she takes a seat across from me.

"What is this?" She tries again. The nuns always do this. They ask you the same question over and over, until you answer it 'the right way'.

"It's nothing," I say again.

"April, you will tell me what this is." Or I will beat you senseless.

"My glass collection."

"Your glass collection?" She choruses. I nod.

"And what do you intend to do with this 'glass collection' of yours, Mrs. Gold?" She called me by my last name. I know she's getting angrier.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Yes."

"Hand." She says sharply, and I obey. I lay my hand out, my palm facing upwards. She picks up the 30 centimeter ruler next to her and raises her hand in the air. I let my eyes remain hard, and I look at her face, because I won't let her break me. She looks at me too, then at my hand, and then the whacking sound plays out three times. The stinging pain hits me, but it's not enough to make me cry. She pauses.

"What do you intend to do with your collection?" She asks again. She grips onto the ruler tightly.

"Nothing." I say again, leaving my hand for her to hit it again three times. The pain multiplies, rippling through my wrist.

"This is the last time I'm asking you: What. Is. This. Collection. For?"

"It makes me happy."

Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Five times.

Another five.

Ten.

"You are old enough to know that glass is dangerous. You know not to play with glass. And because you know that it's dangerous, and you are 'collecting' it, I am forced to assume you want to create something harmful."