Three Times She Looked, and One Time She Jumped

The sun was setting, sending pink and blue streaks into the sky.

"Hey! Don't do it!"

A girl with braided hair turned back to me, her braids swinging back and forth.

And it was just us on the rooftop of the convent as the sun set behind us.

---

"What troubles you?", I asked her, sitting down beside her.

"Oh, you've probably heard it before. Nothing special." The girl shrugged, eyeing my wimple and habit.

"It seems to be something big if you're willing to jump."

The girl sighed. "There's this boy I knew. We were betrothed. He came back from Europe, and I haven't seen him in years. I loved him so much, and thought he might be The One. But he's gone." Her bottom lip trembled.

"Well for some reason, you got here before me." I turned to her and clasped her hand in mine, "Are you upset because you can't have what you wanted? It could have gone even worse. Offer yourself to the saints and our Lord."

"I feel better now. Thank you for listening." The girl with braided hair then disappeared and I left the roof.

---

"Don't do it!"

This girl's lashes were wet with tears. Her whole body, shrouded in black, trembled.

"There's nothing left for me! There's no reason I should stay," she wailed.

"What troubles you?", I winced when I felt the wetness of my skirt touch my bent legs.

"Everyone ignores me, and everyone steals. I shouldn't have gone here. Everyone who has ever loved me is gone," she used her torn sleeve to wipe her face.

I knew what she was referring to. An inspector came here earlier to see if the rumors of a specter in the storm were true. She had bolted down the stairs, not caring that she didn't look presentable, and threw herself at the inspector's feet.

"Inspector! Have pity on me, I beg of you, and save me from the outrages of hypocrisy!", she had cried.

The inspector fixed a wide-eyed stare for help at the abbess and the guards that came with him. In an instant, the guards leapt forward and grabbed her harshly by the arms. They dragged her away as she kicked and flailed and screamed, and the abbess watched, emotionless.

"Who is she?", the inspector asked.

"She is but a madwoman, Señor.", the abbess replied.

"Get your hands off of me!", the short girl had screamed. She then turned her head to the abbess.

"Why aren't you saying anything? You're a victim too!", the abbess ignored her.

"Señor! Please have mercy! We are all victims of hypocrisy! I beg of you! Help us, help us!" The guards dropped her unceremoniously at the foot of the stairs, and returned to their post behind the inspector.

The inspector, for his part, cringed at the girl, and together with the guards, made his way to the door.

"No, no, no...", The girl crawled haphazardly on the floor, calling out for the inspector like she was reciting a mantra—

The door slammed shut, leaving the girl in the darkness of her prison, where she is condemned  for the crime of being lusted after.

Everyone—including the abbess—left the girl in the center of the room. Her sobs and cries of despair were heard throughout the convent. Still, no one came to her aid.

I looked at her big, expressive eyes. Then without warning, I wrapped my arms around her. She stiffened and held her breath, but eventually relaxed into the embrace. Together, we sat in silence. After a few minutes, she pulled away.

"I am hungry," the girl said, hugging her arms around herself. A lone tear made its way down her face. Then she disappeared.

---

There was someone everyday on the roof. I listened to their troubles and consoled them to the best of my ability. But there wasn't anyone who would do this for me. There was no way for me to express my pain...

---

Until one day, I saw someone on the roof. A fellow sufferer. Her wimple and habit were nowhere to be seen, and in its place was a yellow cardigan.

"I just want to stop the scars that grow every time I go to confession. So, I came up here instead. Again."

What's this? I couldn't think of anything to say. I wracked my brain for an answer, a consolation, a piece of advice, anything. Nothing. Desperate, I just whispered, "Don't do it. Please."

Silence.

Why can't I stop this girl? I've stopped countless others, why is this one any different?

The girl just looked at me pity and regret. She was the epitome of misery with her deep and black eye bags and hollow cheeks. I wanted to scream, to shout, anything to stop her from looking at me like that. It was too much.

The girl in the cardigan sighed, "I guess today's just not my day." She looked at me with resignation on her sickly face and disappeared.

---

I just came back from watching a play. It returned things I want to be liberated from in the same way my country wants to be liberated from the foreign rule. The moon's reign of silence fell upon the sleeping world.

I untied the ribbons holding my hair. I marveled at the consistent ups and downs that the braids made. I removed my cardigan, exposing the barely drying slashes on my stick-thin arms. I watched my toes remain on the tip of the very last brick.

I remembered what my father confessed to me before I went to this cloister. My mother was pregnant. But the child that was in her womb—conceived by force—was not her husband's. My mother—not wanting to tarnish his budding reputation—told no one. Her labor was long and excruciatingly painful. But she survived.

However, the shame of having fallen victim to something unspeakable in our social circles haunted her. So the petite Donya kissed me one last time and jumped off the balcony, a pale ghost falling to her doom in the moonlight. She had told the maids to say she died in childbirth, and her husband was none the wiser.

I then remembered what the abbess told me after my episode with the inspector. "Stop fighting," she told me, "it's no use. They will never listen to us women. It's better to stop now and just accept your fate."

I cried long and hard that night, my chapped lips receiving little moisture from my tears. But despite my agony, I knew she was right. If someone covered their ears hard enough, they will never hear you, no matter how loud you shout. What was the point of fighting if people won't listen?

I made the sign of the cross and whispered a final prayer. I bent down and closed my big, expressive eyes one last time.

And just like her shattered mother before her, this shattered woman—short as can be—jumped off the rooftop of The Convent of the Poor St. Clares, and plummeted to the darkness below.