Someone screams in the dark. I hope it's Lourdes.
I put cockroaches in his pillow and sewed the cover so that it is difficult for them to get out, so that they walk under his head or on his face (I hope they get into his ears and nest in his eardrums and he feels how the babies hurt his brain) . I left minimal gaps for them to escape little by little, with effort, as they do when I catch (lock them) in my hands. Some bite. They have flexible skeletons, they flatten themselves to fit through very small holes, they live without a head for several days, they can stay underwater for a long time, they are fascinating. I like to experiment with them. I cut off their antennas. The paws. I stick needles in them. I crush them with a glass cup to carefully observe that primitive and brutal structure.
I boil them.
I burn them.
I kill them.
***
I write with this small, sharp pen that I jealously keep in the hem of my white nightgown, with the ink that I hide on the floor, under the wooden boards. In these leaves that I hide between my skin and a sash that I made to hold them, when it is necessary to carry them with me, close to my heart, under the gray tunic, this tunic that was previously worn by the men who lived here. We believe they were priests, monks, religious. Austere men who chose to live like they did in the Middle Ages. Men who are dead, and some say you can see them out of the corner of your eye in the dark. It is rumored that when they arrived from the scorched earth, from the collapsed world, neither He nor Sister Superior found cell phones or computers.
***
A group of chosen ones entered the Chapel of the Ascension. There were three Minor Saints who were led to the altar. They rested their hands on the shoulders of the servants who guided them. They were beautiful as only someone touched by God can be. The air was filled with a sweet and fresh aroma. The smell of mysticism.
The sun illuminated the stained glass windows and the Chapel of the Ascension was filled with small translucent jewels that formed an ephemeral mosaic.
A cloud covered the sky and the transparent colors dissolved, but we noticed, with absolute clarity, how one of the Minor Saints had a trickle of blood running down her cheek and staining her white tunic. We all knew who it was that had stitched their eyes so badly before the ceremony. Mariel. The useless and helpless Mariel, who wiped her palms on her gray tunic and had shiny eyes, while she looked at us with a sorrowful face. I wonder what Mariel's previous name must have been.
Sister Superior was in the dark, next to the altar. We saw one of her black ankle boots make imperceptible hits on the light wood of the floor. War boots, like the pants she wears, black, military, soldier. We couldn't tell if she had the whip next to her other foot, from which she remained in the dark. We knew that He was also on the altar, behind the wooden screen, that framework of three sheets that prevents us from seeing Him. (The only ones who have the privilege of looking at it are the chosen ones and The Illuminated Ones). She talked. He told us that to become Enlightened we have to divest ourselves of our origin, of the erroneous God, of the false son, of the negative mother, of trivial ideas, of the nocturnal dirt that creeps imperceptibly and slowly through our blood.
I looked at the veins on my wrists and touched a blue line with one finger.
Purify.
He called us unworthy, as he does every time, as he does when we meet in the Chapel of the Ascension every three or nine days (we never know exactly when they are going to summon us). He pronounced the word "unworthy" again and there was a reverberation on the stone walls as if his voice had the power to mobilize the inert.
The Minor Saints sang the Primary Hymn, the original, one of the most important, the hymn with which they confirm the touch of divinity. We do not understand what they say, it is a language that only the chosen ones know. He explained to us once again that the hymn talks about how our God, through Las Iluminadas, protects us from contamination, proclaiming that "without faith, there is no protection."
After a dramatic silence, the Minor Saints continued singing. I saw thousands of white petals come out of their mouths, filling the air, lily petals that flashed until they disappeared. Their voices are capable of singing universal notes, of vibrating with the light of the stars (that is why their eyes are sewn shut, so that they are not distracted by the mundane, so that they can capture the reverberations that our God emits). The Sacred Crystals hung from their necks as a symbol and certainty of their sanctity. The quartzes of purity, transparent. They wore bright white robes, without a stain. We listened to them in silence, ecstatic and relieved because the a cappella music abstracted us from the noise of the crickets, that sound similar to fury that lulls you to sleep.
They continued singing the Primary Hymn until all three of them bled at the same time. Mariel gasped and tore out a lock of hair. We all looked at her, we stopped at her almost bald head. When she arrived she had all her hair and was clean of contamination, that is why they did not assign her to be a servant. We didn't understand why she insisted on disfiguring herself. Some of us smiled with pleasure because Mariel would receive an exemplary punishment. Others hid her face in their hands simulating a prayer to hide her delight.
The Minor Saints continued singing at the altar, but we lost concentration thinking about which of us would be chosen to clean the blood from the floor, who was going to have to spend the entire night healing and sewing the eyes of the Minor Saints back together, and who was going to punish Mariel. A long time ago I had thought of an exemplary punishment. I put my hands together and begged for my turn to implement it.
One of the Minor Saints fainted and the servants dragged her by the arms and took her to the chambers of the chosen ones. Sister Superior stood in the middle of the altar and motioned for us to leave. He was still behind the gate, or so we thought, because we can never see when he leaves. We don't know what he is like. Some say it is so beautiful it hurts to look at it; others, that he has eyes like descending spirals, the eyes of a disturbed person. But they are all assumptions because the unworthy ones never saw it.
We get up in silence, containing the anger, hiding the rage, because you can't always hear the Minor Saints sing. They are fragile and some cannot tolerate the weight of the sacred words they sing (those words that ensure that we do not lose the connection with our God), they cannot resist seeing the sacred flash in the darkness.
I had to clean the floor and I missed the decision about what exemplary punishment will be implemented with Mariel. It is rumored that she will have to undress and Lourdes is going to stick a needle in some part of her body. It's a good lesson. Simple and elegant. I would have liked it to have occurred to me, but Lourdes thinks of the best punishments. They always prefer their own.
Cleansing the blood of the chosen ones was my offering and sacrifice demanded by Sister Superior.
The Chapel of the Ascension was in darkness, although I had lit some candles so I could see the red stains on the floor. The flames moved and the light they projected created shapes on the stones, drawings that danced in the darkness.
The blood of the Minor Saints (like that of all the chosen ones) is purer, which is why the servants cannot clean it. I touched it slowly, trying to feel the lightness, the stripping away of improper, subterranean thoughts, the residue of a land of origin that was being diluted and the joy of being part of our Sacred Brotherhood. I put my blood-stained finger to my tongue and tasted winged insects and night howls. I learned that one of the Minor Saints is going to die. I was happy because when a chosen one dies, the most beautiful funerals are organized. This time I have to get them to choose me.
While I was cleaning, one of the Full Auras came in as if floating and sat on a bench. She didn't see me on the floor, kneeling. Even though I knew he couldn't hear me, I stayed still, static because I had never seen one of these chosen ones. I recognized her by the marks on her hands and feet, by the transparent quartz that hung on her chest (the quartz of the chosen ones) and by her white, translucent tunic. Her long hair covered her useless ears, her pierced eardrums. Noises cannot distract them. There are few, they told me. She moved her hands touching something in the air.
The Full Auras can decipher the divine signs, the hidden signs that He communicates to us in the Chapel of the Ascension. That's why they have the marks, because understanding God's messages leaves marks on their bodies (wounds on fragile skin, sores that never heal) so they don't forget his presence. It seemed that he radiated a light capable of summoning angels. I squinted my eyes and could see, in the darkness, the aura that crowned her. It was a perfect glow, it had spears of fire around its head that vibrated with their own will. I closed my eyes, dazzled, and felt that she lived in an immaculate time where pain does not exist.
He began to declaim. Her voice had the resonance of breaking glass. I couldn't understand the maddening, fractured language. Sister Superior quickly entered the Chapel of the Ascension, with steps like blows, and took her by the arm. The chosen ones (the mutilated ones) live behind the Chapel of the Ascension, in rooms to which we do not have access. The only ones who can enter are He, the Superior Sister and the servants who attend to them. Someone left the door open, and the Full Aura ran away, but Senior Sister was gentle because you can't wake up a Full Aura that declaims. The thread that connects them with our reality can break and leave them trapped in the Intangible Dimension, that place that is behind the air. It only happened with two chosen ones who we never saw again.
Some servant is going to be punished for leaving the door open. Sister Superior is going to make her scream.
