god

I remember her hands, right next to my own, both our shadows merging into a single one, lingering on the well illuminated floor of that familiar church. The mistress was right in front of us, holding a beautiful dagger that reflected the rays of moonlight before our eyes. She was lecturing us. Lilianne was quiet, looking in her direction with a subtly absent gaze. She wasn't paying attention, staring at some imaginary abyss, deep in thought. I was staring at her.

The mistress's words resonated, echoing among the walls as if she were scolding an empty room. She kept talking about purity, about how we had disposed of ours. Annoying. She didn't understand. It's not like we had done it out of love, or out of lust, but out of loneliness. Desperation. But she wouldn't understand. Of  course she wouldn't.

The blade finally drew a thin, red line on our extended palms. Some kind of punishment, supposedly. My breath hitched towards the sensation. Lilianne remained silent.

Silence.

The locked bathroom returns my own silence, our peace only disturbed by the hiss of the cold wind on a summer night, a sorrowful reminder of the harsh winter that preceded. The branches of the trees hit the window insistently, even though they can enjoy the privilege of a life outside of this prison. I stare at the mirror. Two weak, worn out eyes stare back at me, framed by perfectly femenine factions. Annoying. There's still a thin, pink line on the palm of my hands, a reminder of that night. A reminder of her. With my nails, I scratch the cut open once again, a droplet of blood sliding and landing on the sink. It's not a punishment, it's a testament.

Lilianne and I never spoke again. She's become cold, distant and silent with me, too. However, I never stopped staring at her, just like back then. She was just like a god, unwilling to respond to my prayers.

But,

Lilianne.

Do you believe in God?