✞ 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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"M-Monsignor," The sole syllables and vowels, which awkwardly limped backward and forward onto the juvenile woman of the cloth's tongue was the former aspiring Monsignor's ecclesiastical title. They stilled her registered in grasp the former devotional woman of the cloth's petite palish hand and shifting their attentions to the possessed doctor shortly after slamming behind him the door of the hospital room.
"It is not Monsignor anymore, Sister!" In the meantime, the British compatriot ventured to approach and participate in both women's company emphatically his honeyed voice accenting his caution, offering a primly sympathetic smile, tattooed on his porcelain youthful complexion.
"T-Timothy," Suddenly, the older lady's Boston lilt embarrassingly punctured her grunt, daring her smoky quartz jewels to the tall figure, which maintained almost a few inches of proximity with the female duo.
An eerie flat line, a medley of emotionlessness, aloofness and dryness roughly grained her beautiful facial attributes, incessantly manipulating her eyelids to blink in a tandem choir. The heart rate perkily rabid soared the thuds into her brittle rib cage and a medley of mild disappointment, sheer heartbreak and woeful felicity waltzed the heart pulsations.
On the one hand...
Mild disappointment, due to the sinister consequences of his infernal prayers, pitching Kit's small household two weeks ago like an infernal ballad, abstractly chanted. She hadn't expected the love of her life would be capable of and, most of all, bestowing her with such unspeakable retribution.
A sheer heartbreak, due to the circumstance that the former devotional man of the cloth would hurt and scarcely relent to Demogorgon's balefully blunt commands. They exquisitely disguised themselves as profoundly diabolic inner voices, ghosting his vortex of thoughts.
On the other hand, woeful felicity for her efficient attempt to bestow the former ambitious Monsignor with a second chance, which was unavoidably inexorable, according to her, unlike the sandstorm of disagreements that she would earn. It was two weeks since the last time they encountered one another and, most of all, confronting the vile essence that was recently spellbinding his frail skeleton.
