a night’s spent with clenched fists,  sheets tangled in legs,  laboured gasps.  god delivers his harsh judgement in her slumber,  and in her wake----  madre meets the chapel with pressed palms.  not enough.   but what better way to remind of the profound good she does,  the new souls she saves day by day,  than a visit to the welcoming center.  it’s home to few more men,  whispers tell.  and its where her feet take her,  gliding in like something drifted from a haunted house.      god tells her to stop where she stands,  and around his cage her fingers wrap.       “   good morning,  my child.  how did you sleep?  “   small talk,  delivered to a prisoner like friend.

      brief disappointment flutters across delicate features:  crestfallen.  it is not the resounding ‘ yes ’ gloria craves, nor the prime-time reunion with her husband she had dreamed up in her head.  but her flame is fanned —  hope residing in the woman’s word, promised to gloria.  for me.  she nods, appreciatively.  she wants to press the subject further, but decides against it —  pushing the vigour back down her throat (for now).  she would be no use to teddy if she wound up dead, after all.       the promise buckled her.  gaze dropped again, although this time her expression breaks to a smile:  lips parting to exhale a faint laugh verging on delirium.  “ — nobody wants to be alone, ”  gloria whispers;  her smile evaporating as quickly as it had appeared.  when blue eyes return to madre, she’s somber again:  lids pool with tears that don’t spill onto her cheeks.  “ but …  i am. i am alone. ”  her voice is small, crushed under the weight of her words.  a trembling hand raises to fiddle with her cross —  the small gold charm long-since turned brassy.  she had god, of course, but gloria didn’t suppose he counted.  after all, he had an awful lot on his plate these days.

      god doesn’t speak to her in ways so simple as sound.   he presses in feeling.  he halts the winds at just the right time.  darkens sky with cloud  &.  thunder when she fails,  pours sunshine when duty is upheld.  condemned a coincidence to the non-believers,  nothing less than SIGNS to the heaven-ventures.      she donning peach cheeks pulls from her something just like it -----  feeling !    someone to hesitate for.  a woman so sure,  in stature  &.  in word,  does not falter.  but here she observes,  active eyes yearning for clues.  hungry for them.  famished gaze closes in one familiar hieroglyph above the rest. gloria wears it on her chest and why---- oh  why  didn’t god’s favoured child notice it sooner?     madre doesn’t work in rules of three.  one sign was enough,  two is plenty.     hand fishes in her pocket,  returning with a key to unlock cell.      where the door once barred her in,  madre’s hand hangs,  palm-up,  luring the mouse out of this trap  ( &. into the next one ).  having found a bond,  the leader of this world leads damsel through dungeon,  returning to a light where madre does not answer quizzical gazes.  she does none but lead the lamb the astray,  finding the night air far easier to swallow than a suffocated room’s.  that bench by the tired fire is free for the two of them, alone.       do you see now?   that madre takes what she wants,  holds it in her hand,  and does as she pleases?  as long as the sun’s in the direction,  she can hold it over god.            “  gloria,  will you tell me:  what is it you have heard about eden? “ 

      the pitter-patter of her poor heart must have been audible —  racing like a rabbit’s, foot caught in snare.  released back to the wild, or skinned alive?  surely the latter.  admittedly, the former didn’t sound greatly appealing, either.  gloria is not an outside cat.  she’s a creature that needs a lap.  needs a —  madre.  she swallowed relief.  a name  (well, of sorts)  obtained, seemingly without offence.  gloria nods in grateful acknowledgement, repeating in a hushed whisper:  “ … madre. ”        the question begs to be asked, gloria knows.  even here, she is alone.  the rest come in pairs, as do most other survivors outside qz walls —  pairs, if not more.  gloria was one half of a pair as well, of course, except her other half was gone.  missing from her.  blue gaze drops from the woman for the first time:  her expression clouding.  she hadn’t wandered, of course.  she had fled.  “  i … i don’t — ”  why …  was she alone?  somedays, gloria couldn’t remember.  all she sees is his face.  “ i’m …  looking for something.  someone. ”  yes, that sounds right.  and suddenly, the thought occurs to her:  frantic and red hot.  “ maybe you’ve seen him!  m-maybe …  maybe he’s here!  teddy —  theodre thorne,  my husband …  he’s my husband. ”  her eyes are wide again:  returned to madre now in stark desperation.  what if he were here?  … what if the nightmare was finally over?  oh, please god …  let it be over.

    she’s a rabbit freed.  snare no match for the seed of hope planted by clumsy green-thumb.  &.  like primrose devastated in winter,  she’s the flower in spring.  all wide-eyed and blooming.  complete sentences are suddenly possible,  a tongue furiously alive.   the woman spends a moment in watch,  a way she lives a majority of her life, now.  only when she’s sure it’s a seed she wants to water does she deliver.          “  darling,  i would give my life for my children,  but i simply cannot recite each of their names.  “  she doesn’t know.   it’s hardly the flatline of hope.  madre allows gloria to breathe the dismay,  before throwing crumbs into the lake.  feeding.  “ for you,  i’ll make sure it’s looked into.  okay?  you have my word. “    equipped with gentle smile, hands still on the rod,  reeling in.  “ you won’t have to be alone.  not ever again,  gloria throne.  not unless you want to be.  “

       the songbird does not rattle her cage.  instead, she sits and soothes —  or rather rocks, and attempts as much.  her tears stop after a while, giving way to exhaustion as adrenaline subsides and her reality sets in.  gloria knows this:  she is a prisoner.  there is nothing voluntary about it.  but it’s not freedom that has been stolen from her — make no mistake.  gloria was never free.        the woman appears like an apparition:  as if conjured from a mirror, name whispered three times in the dark.  the name would need to be known first though, in order to summon.  no, the woman arrives of her own volition —  twice as terrifying.  her sudden arrival snaps gloria from her song mid-verse:  blue eyes driven momentarily wide in fright.  reddened and chapped lips fall agape  (and remain there)  while she attempts to regain something resembling composure.          “ m-my …  my name? ”  she repeats, for the sake of her own clarity.  these are some of the first words she’s exchanged with another living human being in months —  her own name is a mightier ask than one might expect.  “ gloria.  gloria thorne. ”  and there she is:  her name, never without his.  her head pokes out from behind her knees, revealing the rest of her face:  battered and caked with dirt.  the wilds had not been kind to her, that much is evident.  “ … c-can i …  am i allowed to ask your name? ”         gloria immediately regrets the question.  but doesn’t it beg to be asked?  of the fear, the exhaustion, and the hunger —  it’s her curiosity that’ll get her killed the fastest.  who is the woman?  and more importantly …  what terrible fate did she have in mind for gloria?

    the dust settles between them faster than the syllables do.  a woman in strangled agony: speech like scattered rain.   but just as rain returns to sea,  this gloria,  gloria thorne finds direction between the ligaments of words.  at this time madre has been found amused,  a crescent look on plump lips---  and an attempt to flatten them rendered terrible.        “ my name is madre.    mother is quite alright, too. “       she on the smarter side of the room makes silent appraisal, made apparent with tilted gaze.  it’s the closest she looks to a beast in the wild;  the exposed throat like a hound’s when something doesn’t quite add up.  in this case,  someone.  gloria is garnished in brown and scabby knees.  beneath it is a lady in her prime,  blonde knots that could be golden,  smooth fallen through fingers.  so why was she alone?  and also with you.   a woman of faith,  alone.    sound familiar?      “ gloria,  what caused you to wander off on your own?  “  only the ones who long for the abyss are the ones who do.

       no tears in heaven —  yet still:  gloria wept.  sobs reduced to quiet sniffs, but muddled with grief all the same.  she was not about to meet her demise with a stiff upper lip, that much was certain.  but the island is not the fire, nor brimstone she expects.  in fact:  the further forward she is pushed, the more gloria sees.  sees not savagery, nor rot —  but civilisation.  as civil as she had seen in years, at the very least.  it felt almost like …  a home.  not gloria’s, but certainly someone’s.  her fear subsides to confusion, then momentarily resembles something similar to awe.  what in god’s name had she been swept up into?        there’s no volcano to be thrown in, but there is a cell:  less immediate, but no more inviting.  gloria has fallen quiet, now —  even her whimpers silenced at the sight of metal bars.  her thoughts echoed the audible cries of her companions:  please, no!  how cosmic, she should end up here:  inside a cell;  where she had belonged all along.  but before the gavel strikes and the door slams shut, gloria is given one final look at the sun:  offered in the dark brown gaze of a woman —  in the very dead of night.  her words provoke an ache, unexpected as it is sharp.  “ … a-and also with you. ”  her response is automatic, even now.  perhaps especially now, in her state of stress.  strangely, gloria finds herself embarrassed.  she fears she was not meant to speak —  especially not to her.  but gloria isn’t afforded time to dwell:  thrown and locked away with the rest.        her cell offers as little solace as one might expect.  it’s clean, at least — where gloria is certainly not;  out, damned spot!  and while perhaps she should be saving her voice for screaming, the blonde instead chooses to claim the only comfort she can:  she sings.  quietly, barely even a whisper —  but singing all the same.  alternating between lullabies and old songs of praise, she attempts to soothe herself as she waits.  and oh, does she wait.  for what exactly?  gloria doesn’t know, but it feels like a lifetime.

    she leaves as she came;  gently,  with about as much permission as a gust of wind.  and since its mentioned,  there is a breeze that tickles the hair come loose after day’s demand,  there is a chill that provokes some bare feet towards dwindling flame.   madre sits rest here.  bark bench makes hardly the throne she’s used to,  but isn’t that entirely the point?  the odd few linger around the streetlights as weaning moths and there’s nothing to fear.  a stranger in the dark is no stranger at all;  hearts beat to the same hymn and the women are safe.  the children are safe.   &.  she feels it,  palm catching her weight when she leans back,  honey gaze float to the cinder clouds.     and also with you.   like abrasion.  invasive as a silhouette down empty alley. &.  it’s not something she asks for,  but it’s something that sticks.  and also with you.  barbie stickers on rental walls.  you catch it with a nail and pluck.  and also with you.  then off rips the decal,  paint ‘n all.       why does it matter?  why does it tug when madre longs only to release?  a child’s game with a rope she doesn’t want to play.  and also with you,  said woman with the wail.  it’s gobbled as coincidence,  that she knows precisely the next verse.  but the tastes that lingers...  the haunt that persists like a sticker’s wound to a wall...   well,  it tastes like a sign,  doesn’t it?  madre knows the flavour well enough;  she’s made a religion in its name.        so maybe the woman ought to be reconsidered,  the way new arrivals aren’t.      or maybe she’ll give her five.     she arrives as gently as she left.  nobody asks why,  nobody dare.  eyes attentive to the ground as madre sneaks through sighing doors,  down to eden’s gutter.     there stands a woman,  who’s in no better shape an hour later.  succumbed to the bed,  short bursts of song leaving her.  seems madre has interrupted a delicate moment--- it doesn’t stop her from nearing the metal bars.  she stands still,  unnoticed in her opposition’s misery,  until the dark murmurs,     “  what’s your name, child?  “

       the woman is a beacon:  a statue shrouded in white fabric and light.  she’s a stark contrast to gloria, in all her fallen grace.  trembling and bruised —  her curls lost to tangles and twigs, and her clothing in tatters.  the wilds had not been kind to gloria thorne, that much was evident at first glance.  she wishes she were steelier.  wishes she could muzzle her fear, or at the very least, her sobs.  but when she  - at last -  is greeted so directly by the woman’s gaze, gloria can’t help but whimper.  terrified but transfixed, she remains there —  unable to look away. as if staring at the sun during an eclipse:  mesmerised, burning.       she can only be one.  the one.  the one gloria had only ever heard spoken of in hushed tones and bitter whispers.  the mad woman, the zealot!  the island.  gloria’s fear flares anew: a doused flame, upon the realisation.  nobody comes back from the island.  the woman’s voice rings like a bell —  clear and perfectly tuned.  her words send a shiver down gloria’s spine, for their accuracy.  oh, she is hurting.  she cannot remember a time when she was not.  but the shiver doesn’t stop at her spine, no:  gloria’s entire body rattles.  a mingling of fear, and adrenaline, and the biting cold.  but the trembling relents the moment the woman raises her hand to gloria’s cheek.  she thaws under the heat of her touch:  her pained expression retreating to awe, then confusion, then returning to fear as the woman turns her back on her.  gloria feels like she’s spinning.       wordless, she goes:  through the gate and on and on.  there’s no opportunity for disobedience, nor would gloria have taken it —  if there were.  she was no heroine, not in this lifetime.  instead, her poor wet feet carried her forward:  directly to her demise —  that she knew for certain.  her vision (newly returned to her)  blurs, still adjusting to the evening dim, but the torchlight does grant gloria one blessing:  the silhouette, drenched in white, is made visible through the darkness.

    eden has been put to bed once again.  curtains drawn,  babies in cribs;  these last few tread through a quiet dark together as one.  only in unity do they possess power.  she sees it now,  a woman clumsy with her pride.  but it is true that combined effort birthed this: a soft glow touches cobble so they may not twist ankles,  rows of cottage homes with their brown white brick,  never succumbing to the same decay of their sister beyond the gates named Sin.        the silent tour party approach the closest   ( and tallest )  building in range.  it stands a hearty three levels high,  each with its own purpose.  like its an entire island either choreographed or constructed around pressure mats,  the door pulls open as she nears.  madre spares a smile toward the man,  nodding her warm appreciation,  before finishing  up beside metal door that groans when opened.    the cells are hardly the place of bloom eden so promises she is.  it’s their dim in a world of light.  their joseph.  who is black sheep in eden’s holy white,  but one to always deliver its goods when the deed is done.  how many souls would be lost without these cells,  madre dare not say.  what she does say is that in the end,  means are little when it’s His road they path.     the reputation is worn on their faces.  twisted,  like in grief,  and the men who weren’t crying before are bursting out now.  she takes it in,  their  “ please,  no, “  their, “ don’t do this, “  and swallows it down.  a hum of,  “ i know,  i know, darling, “  stroking blackened shirts,  and allowing them to be taken through the halls all the same.     each person delivered receives the same caress,  the same shallow understanding that ultimately amounts to nothing.  madre remains at the door until the very last in line.  they’ve met eyes before,  but it’s the first words meant for the woman and she alone.       “ may the lord be with you. “   as though she cannot stop it,  as though it is out of her control,  as though it’s not madre’s own hand-crafted instruction,  the girl is whisked away with gruff hands.  she holds her eyes ‘til the nameless is sightless,  too.

      she rides a pale horse:  named death, rickety and reeking of motor oil.  their journey had been long, or perhaps it had just felt that way.  the seconds dragged by arrogantly, taking their sweet time as gloria rocked along with the rest.  she knows three things:  the first, is that she cannot see.  blindfolded with damp red cloth, which had remained as such  (damp)  thanks to her tears.  the second, is that she is in a boat.  a small one, she guesses, by the feeling of it beneath her:  tackling the waves.  the third, is that she is not alone.  gloria can feel the shifting weight of those beside her, captors and fellow captives alike.  she’s brushing shoulders with other human beings for the first time in months, but it’s not the comfort she imagined. no, in fact, there’s very little of this evening gloria could’ve imagined at all.        the ocean grows louder as they approach the shore.  there is little comfort to be sought in the prospect of solid ground —  all gloria can imagine awaits her there is death.  she makes her final deal with god, begging him to be swift.  a mercy she does not deserve.  rough hands meet trembling skin: hoisting her to stand.  she almost collapses under her own weight, a long-held sob finally freeing itself from her throat.  when feet hit the sand, she’s ankle deep in water:  ice cold and foaming at her calves.  gloria wishes she could see.  wishes her hands were free of their binds and she wishes her shoes weren’t wet.  most of all, she wishes theodore were there, too.  instead, she is marched:  forward and forward again.  when they finally pull to a stop, gloria is granted a single wish —  although she would rather she hadn’t been.  blindfold torn away and her sight returned to her, gloria is greeted with this:  an island, a gate, and …  a woman. 

@herholy​  +  closed starter.

  as for the sea,  does she comfort or does she bruise?  deadly in nature,  with salt that stings and body that lungs swallow ‘till they burst.  but here is a sight as well:  breaking waves,  bringing her children home.  boat rocking like a cradle,  and somebody’s crying,  too.  what else is a madre to do?   sand still warm from today’s sun sink toes, who carry her to an opening gate.      she finds the exposed wound immediately. a woman with scrunched face and  wobbly chin makes no effort to conceal the bruise of being.  her cheeks, abnormally peach amidst the rest of her pale face,  are quilted in tears.    madre takes that moment,  then wastes no other.  arms lift around her people,  taking each of her soldiers into individual hug,  praising their service in hush, but proud,  tone.  as for those freezing on her shore...     “ my children,  i know you must be hurting right now.  the world out there is a dark,  dark consequence,  “  eyes that soften,  taking in the four newcomers.  fresh with emotion she passes each,  stopping beside the only one who meets hues for longer than an inch.    “  but---   and i am so pleased to tell you---  that god has chosen you.  the time for pain is over.  “  madre is delicate when she moves to reach stand in front of her,  as though afraid to startle doe in brush.  fingertips detail the quivering woman’s cheek,  gently brushing away something fallen with no consent   ( she already assumes power ).   “ it’s time to come into the light. “   nothing more to say,  she breaks away from the close proximity they shared,   tending to lead the silent group’s passage through the closing gate into- literally- lightened path.  one half walk with baited breath,  the other use theirs to sigh relief.