can be an open starter if you love me - if you hate me, keep walking historical thread : somewhere in the 13th - 16th c.
A sliver of morning broke through the narrow stone nook of Cornelia’s cell. Then a sudden prick of light caught her eyes, pulling her abruptly from sleep. Propping herself up on her elbows, she surveyed her familiar, austere world: a stark cot, a solitary wooden chair, and her rosary coiled beneath an icon of Christ.
It was a place designed to hollow a soul out.
Her day commenced with the rigid, silent confirmation of the monastery’s routine. Pouring water into the basin beside her chair, she splashed her face, her fingers tracing the perimeter of her hairline as she dried herself. It felt a miracle her locks had finally grown back: even now, a phantom shuddered accompanied the memory of when they have been violently shorn. The hair was the sole symbol left to her youth and beauty, though without a mirror in her quarters, its remained a mystery to her.
She reached for the day’s habit, the coarse, woven wool heavy and abrasive in her grip. As she unfurled the modest gown, a quiet sigh escaped her. She smooth the wrinkles from the fabric before pulling it over her head, watching the gray wool extinguish the soft, youthful contours of her body. Piece by piece, she assembled her armor of piety, tying the apron last. But as she went to tuck a stray stand behind her ear, her hand met the bare air. Her wimple was missing.
Panic quickened her pulse. To appear at her duties bareheaded meant inviting the unsparing wrath of Sister Beatrijs. Cornelia’s hand, faint with old scars, ached at the memory. She had only just healed from her last discipline. Dropping to her knees, she swept her hand beneath the frame of the cot until her fingers brushed the linen. Thanks be to heaven. She swiftly pinned her long hair into a tight knot, concealing it beneath the heavy headpiece. She smoothed the linen along her jawline until it cradled her chin. There. The illusion of perfection was restored.
Slipping into her shoes, she retrieved her rosary and dropped it into the deep pocket of her gown. It was a pragmatic weight…should she stumble upon some poor soul dying by the roadside, she could offer the last rites. She was no professed nun, but she could at least try.
With her thoughts drifting, she made her way out to the sun-drenched yard to tend the poultry. Over the months, she had privately christened them: Despair, Depression, Blasphemy, and her favorite, a grand rooster she named Karl.
Scanning the grounds, she noted the slant of the shadows across the courtyard. It was the hour of quiet prayer; the sisters could currently be sequestered in the dim nave of the chapel. Seizing the rare solitude, Cornelia scooped Karl into her arms. The bird settled into her embrace with practiced ease, and Cornelia slipped down the grassy slope toward the stream.
Reaching the bank, she set the roster down, scratching him gently beneath his beak before setting onto the grass. She unlaced her shoes and immersed her bare feet into the cold current. With trembling, reckless fingers, Cornelia reached up to her chin and loosened the pins of her wimple. She pulled the heavy linen away, exposing her throat and collarbones to the open air for the first time in weeks. As she untied the binding knot, her hair tumbled loose and fell past her shoulder.
Drawing her knees to her chest, she rested her chin upon them, watching the water rush effortlessly away -- longing, with every beat of her heart to follow it.
