✞ Matthew 6:15 ✞
✞ "But if you do not forgive others their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses." ✞
✞ Sister Jude, or rather, Judy Martin, the former head nun of one of the most infamous mental hospitals in the small city of...
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Author's Note: I'd like to apologize for the previous chapter how blandly boring and ordinary was, nevertheless from now on the story is commencing to arouse interest, in my humble opinion or at least I guess. I hope you like and enjoy! :))
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The ambitious Monsignor was pacing checking the lethally hushed silence corridors of the old, dilapidating mental hospital. Suddenly, ruckus, emanating as a despairing bewail from the former Nazi war criminal's laboratory tingled into his ears like the vexing sound of slowly and steadily scraping nails downward the wood.
His pale-pinkish, soft as-satin lips crinkled in a pensive, bashful purse. The bewailed croak sounded familiar to him. It was his rare bird.
Abundance of questions whirled and twirled in his vortex of thoughts. Little did he know why Arthur Arden had malicious intentions of agonizing the once holy nun. What he fathomed so far was that Dr. Arden and Jude were foes, antagonizing one another, in fact, Jude has always found the doctor of science bone-chillingly fishy. He didn't need to knock on the doctor of science's office door.
His masculine, light footsteps whistled, solely clicking the cemented flooring in the abysmal hall until his mammoth, veiny hand managed to lower to the door handle, turning it in subtle silence, without attracting further attention.
The notoriously creaky door hushed the creaking sound, tingling his ears by setting a foot in his co-worker's austere, unwelcoming office by shutting the door, while his cherub, baby pinkish lips popped up suddenly. His coffee-brown embers with the most vibrant coffee pigment have already lost their glossiness. They were rather blanched with the most contagious, palish coffee brown, leaning to cedar brown.
"Dr. Arden!" When his chocolate brown orbs managed to scan the former Nazi war criminal's office, consequently his lips curled in a croak, addressing formally. He ambled up to the laboratory's den by earning promptly ternary pairs of inquisitive eyes.
Two piercing, bone-chilly glares, darted at the British compatriot, who had interfered in the middle of the daredevil game in which Arthur Arden and Mary Eunice were playing and composing the real concept of torture.
