Pray // h.s.

✝one✝

✝one✝

Timidly, I amble up the wide-set blocks of stone steps that ascend up to the entrance of the old brick building. I feel my pulse spur frantically with adrenaline as I reach the thick door. I am clearly out of my ease right now and I'm pretty sure I stick out oddly like a sore thumb with my fully buttoned white blouse and shapeless black skirt that modestly falls down past my knees.

I had never visited a prison before and I sure never intended too. My parents would always tell me to avoid such dreary places that spewed with primitive, volatile people and obviously, I obliged.

I guess fortune was a key ingredient in the mix as to why I was here.

I was supposed to be helping serve at the homeless shelter but Sister Katherine (a disdainful, plump woman who ignored by presence completely) got hit by a passing tram. This subsequently resulted in me fulfilling the temporary role of visiting the prison every other day.

Mother Mae described the job as hard work, "a task that must be done with Jesus permanently tattooed into mind." But in the humblest opinion of my own, I feel that I should not force faith on those who don't wish to explore it.

Exhaling a shallow breath, I press the buzzer and speak like a lunatic into the inanimate call box. "Hello?" I call questionably into the machine, making sure the contraption was properly working and that I wasn't just talking to a wall, "I'm from the convent and I'm here to...um...talk about the Lord?" My words somehow formulate to that of a question, as I truly do not fully know exactly what I am meant to be doing.

Mother Mae was rather blunt and to the point with my duty for these next few weeks. "Talk to them and spread the word," she repeated as if on an endless reel from one of them new-age cinema wheel things.

I awkwardly wait at the entrance, contemplating if I should press the irritating buzzer again or if I should model the trait of patience for a change.

Patience is definitely a blatant lacking of mine.

Not a moment later the door clicks open, complemented with a screeching metal against metal sound. I cringe at the scratchy noise and enter the intimidating building, still marginally nauseous at the thought of being ripped out of my comfort zone.

I walk to the desk directly in front of the entrance and tap on the glass lightly. Blinds shield my prying view as to what is hiding behind the thin material and I notice a lonely cigarette tray placed on the ledge below the window. It is full of dusty grey ashes with the remains of a few camel cigarettes peaking out from under the mounted soot. I observe how one cigarette in particular still has amber embers visible; releasing minuscule puffs of smoke, signalling it was in use not long before I arrived.

Suddenly, the blinds flick open in an abrupt manner causing me to jolt back fearfully from the glass. I tend to be nervy about things and stressing is something that is entwined deep into my DNA.

Behind the window sits an aged woman, thin grey hair piled sloppily on top of her head like a birds nest. A dreadful shade of pink lipstick is smeared carelessly over her lips, some even on her two yellowed front teeth. Thick-rimmed navy glasses somewhat shield her eyes from my curious view but I can't imagine her eyes to be warm or welcoming considering the complete and utter look of attitude slapped onto her rounded face.

I didn't even notice I was full force glaring at her until she cleared her crackly throat that sounded more like an animal grunting in frustration or annoyance.

"You're from the convent?" She enquired, her voice thick and slightly echoed via the glass. She tilted her head down at an angle, small beady eyes pining over the dark rim of her spectacles. She gave me a look of disapproval shaking her head slowly at my prudent appearance.