“The room will be dark. There will be an altar in the middle, full of pale black water. Sprinkle a little water, a little, onto your head, then turn from the altar. Kneel, and close your eyes.” I have heard this before. I have heard this many times before, from my mother, from my school-teacher, from the butcher, from the woodsman, from everyone, but I appreciate my father telling me once more before I go. I give a small nod, since he’s certainly heard every possible response I might give to those instructions.

He gives me his own nod and wraps me, briefly, in a stiff sort of hug. I stiffen in turn, and he lets go a moment later. 

“The chirurgeon will attend you after. You won’t be alone for long.” He gives me another hug, and when he ends, he turns and trudges off towards home, his boots creaking in the snow. He does not look back, and will not until it is done.

It is cold and I have not been outside for long. Breathing brings with it a burning sensation. I will not tarry outside. I will open the door, and kick off my boots, and hang up my coat and mittens and hat. There will be a small fire. I will warm myself a moment, before moving on.

I am still standing outside the door. My hand is on the handle, but there is a great distance between that and opening the door. It is a simple wooden handle, easy to hold. The sky is pale and dark with stars, what should I need for water and altars? The handle turns in my hand, despite myself. I can see the fire through the crack in the doorframe, and I pull the door open.

It is a coat-room, with only a small fire and a place to stow my belongings. The door shuts quietly, but audibly, behind me. There is a second door behind the first, to keep it apart from the rest of the sanctuary. I must have grown again, for my boots are wary to come off. My coat clings to my arms, and my mittens deny me my grip for a moment. My hat comes off without effort. I fold my things, and fold them again, and place them in a messy heap next to my boots.

I can open the second door now, and it is not nearly the same as the first. It deafens me with its sound, and echoes through the sanctuary itself. The firelight casts its tendrils into the room beyond. I stop to think of the smoke, and take another look at the fire. I do not like looking at the fire, but as I opened the door I felt a sense of nostalgia for its painful light. I step over the second threshold, and close the door behind me.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The room is dark, save for a pale moonlight streaming down from some hole in the ceiling to illuminate the altar in the middle, full of pale black water. I have heard this before. I have heard this many times before, but it’s different here. It’s cold here, from the open hole in the roof. This is not a quiet place. I can hear the fire crackling in the room behind me, and my own breathing, and the wind whistling over the roof. I step up to the altar, the room is smaller than I’d imagined it to be, it feels barely larger than the coat-room.

The water in the altar is pale and black, without stars. It is cold to the touch, but not freezing. There is no tool with which to pour it, so I try to take a little in my fingers to sprinkle. Is it enough? It barely wets my forehead.

I take a little more, and a little more again, until my head is wet. Still, only a little. I turn from the altar, take a step, stumble, and fall into a kneel. This is where the instructions ended. What am I meant to do? I cannot cry out. I will not cry out. This is a moral pain, like breaking a parent’s precious memento and desperately trying to hide it so they will not find it and so they will continue to love you. I must not cry out.

I do not cry out, and the chirurgeon does not attend me. I am cut free from nothing in particular, and all that was required or could ever have been required of me. The room is dark and I know every detail of its floors. The sky is dark and I know the paths around every star. The world is dark and I feel as if I know every locked and open door, and everything on either side of them. It is a moral pain to know this much. The chirurgeon does not attend me, and there is no reprieve here.

I break every precious memento in the world, and hide them where no one will think to look. The guilt breaks me just the same. My breath catches, but I do not cry out. The chirurgeon does not attend me. I do not want to be attended. I want nothing more than to be alone forever, where I do not hurt and I do not hurt, and to be surrounded by the ones I love, and to be away from them. I yearn for the world I have lost. The chirurgeon does not attend me, and I do not cry out. I am alone, and I will not draw others into my loneliness with me. I am furious that they would not be drawn in, though I have not cried out for them.

I hate my father for touching me. I hate my father for not touching me enough. I hate my school-teacher for her warnings, and for the times I did and did not heed her. I hate the butcher, I had the sight of the animals, I hate the children and the altar and the pale black water. What duty could I have to these things? What duty could anyone have to these things? All the mementos are destroyed by my hands. The world is cast apart.

I refuse to let the chirurgeon attend to me, even when I do cry out. I will not let him salve my moral burns.