The Devil's Touch | Kylo Ren

ELEVEN

With hands of prayers, a constellation of burns are raw and on show upon the thin flesh of the young Sister's left wrist. Knees bent and spine hunched, her intertwined fingers are cold but the injury is still as hot as it felt when her patriarch held the tip of a flicking flame to her.

It had been three days since that day – and although the reminder of her punishment for only giving Kylo Ren a lighter, is starting to scab over and elude from its oily shine of affliction, it still hurts. Everywhere in poor Eve, hurts. The Sister had tried with the best of efforts to avoid both Kylo Ren, and Father Hux with all her might – and with the time of not facing her soul's adversaries growing over days, there is only a ticking time-bomb of anxiety, springing in her stomach.

Patient 727 was supposedly thrown into solitary confinement after what had happened three days ago, which made it much easier to avoid him, as she chose to only slide his tray beneath the slot of his door and scuttle off before his voice drew her any closer – but it was much harder to flee around corners, whenever she caught eye of the fiery hair and stern glare of Father Hux.

None of her brittle spirits were as good as healing as was the skin of her vessel and the subdued sting between her legs. She had no bandages to cover the burn of her wrist, but she did have her uniform of black – which seemed to hide every other thing about her, but not the way her eyes were slightly glazed and her mouth was not moving in the subtle whispering of the other Sister's invocations, as they kneel before the cross of the small chapel.

The sanctuary was much smaller than the one she had grown up in, back at the monastery – but the touch of the Lord was still ever-present in the large stained glass windows and gothic carvings of sad angels, which spiral across the ceiling with their outspread wings of pure white, innocence. Pillars line the back walls, and the aisles of seating are empty in their dozens.

With a numb body and a solemn face, Eve looked up from her hands and around the small church. Snow had avenged the warmth of White-Ivy, and danced in the light of the day in a choreographed ballet conducted by the cold winds – throwing the flakes of adorned individuality, against the kaleidoscopic intricacies upon the arched windows.

There was only two other girls beside her, kneeling at the opening of the alters, where the carpet is the same colour as the stain of blood in which she can still remember upon the flesh of her thighs.

She stared at Jesus on the cross. The other day was still freshly scarred in the trappings of her mind, and there was no escaping the ill-feeling she got every-time she recalled how much violence had been bestowed in only a matter of hours, from both the darkness, and the light.

No longer did Eve feel safe, she felt on edge and timid of others finding out that she no longer trusted the head of the sanctuary and also the spirit in the sky. The Sister wasn't certain if it was White-Ivy which was bleeding its madness into every soul, or in-fact, some in the light are truely struggling with the darkness... just like she is.

Questions swirled her mind, instead of prayers: Was the punishment upon her wrist, really worth the agony for it was bestowed by the Holy Spirit? Or was Father Hux just as deranged as his patients, and adored the way she writhed with torture scorching through her veins?

She had tried begging the Lord for forgiveness and enlightenment, but as always... she never got an answer. The Sister didn't know if it was because her Lord had turned His back to her after what she had done with Kylo Ren, or because He never listened to her hushed conformities in the first place.

The room was cold, almost giving into the chill of the snow. Her drapes coiled around her kneeling frame, and were tucked around her ankles almost in a way to confine her.