Ghost Band - a Series of Short stories.

Underfoot

You stand outside the heavy oak door and read the name plate: Papa Emeritus IV. Smooth black with gold lettering, simple, elegant belying what you feel. The previous summoning left you bruised for days, each dark blotch's ache reminding you of torturous delicious feelings every time you moved. He'd never left a mark that couldn't be covered with your habit, nor hurt you so much that you couldn't perform your other duties. You straighten your skirts, tuck a stray hair back under your wimple and turn your grucifix's clasp to directly at the back of your neck. Taking a deep breath you straighten your spine, lower your shoulders, raise your chin just a fraction and knock.

Keeping your breathing even you wait for permission to enter. You struggle to keep your composure wanting Papa's approval and touch, but anticipation causes you to tremble. The knob turns and the door swings open silently. An elderly sister steps aside ushering you into the room. "Meetings have not gone well, today," she whispers to you. You watch her curtsy deeply in front of Papa and she backs out of the room closing the door gently.

The room is dark and feels stuffily warm. Heavy velvet drapes are pulled over the windows blacking out all light. A fire burns low, almost embers, and casts deep shadows across the room. Papa sits in a deep leather Queen Anne armchair, light from the dying flames casting a ruddy glow onto his rat skull face paint. You bend into a curtsey, head bowing down and eyes cast to the floor and remain in position. You will stay in that pose all evening if he asks you do.

"Rise, sister," he says, and you do. You stand straight and tall looking directly forward. You tuck your hands into your sleeves crossing your arms in front of you.

"Would you like me to open the curtains? Or put more wood on the fire, My Lord?" you ask. You don't think the room needs any more heat, but it isn't up to you.

"Undress," he demands. You have learned over time that to undress is not to just drop your clothes on the floor. You pull off your veil, fold it and place it on a small table against the wall. Next your wimple, then scapular, and robes. Each piece properly folded, smoothed and placed reverently on the table in a tidy pile. You adjust your grucifix to lie between your breasts. Undergarments are never to be worn.

"Shoes on or off today, Papa," you ask.

"On for now," he responds. "I need an ottoman."

You glide forward toward him looking through eyes slightly lowered never making eye contact. He points to the floor in front of him. Fluidly, you sink to your knees, gauging the distance from his knees to where you perch on the floor. Inching slightly closer and then place your hands firmly on the floor straightening your back. Seconds later you feel the weight of his legs across your back. You absorb the weight not letting your spine sink downward. The heel of his black shoe digs into your shoulder and you aren't sure if he is doing it on purpose. You steel your mind to ignore it and to let the pressure fade into static in your mind. Under your hand a fleck of dirt presses into your palm. You damn your luck at picking an unclean spot. You try to shift minutely to take pressure off, but you know if Papa notices he will be displeased. You can hear him rattle ice in a glass and smell the telltale aroma of whiskey. Time passes, 5 minutes or half an hour you can't tell as with each moment your back and arms get sorer. He shifts his legs to rest them on your buttocks. You almost sigh as your pelvis takes up some of the weight.

"Your head is drooping," he snaps, "get it back up." You feel a glass placed on the back of your head. You stiffen your spine and brace your neck to balance the glass. "Do not let that fall." The legs move from your back as he moves across the room. You hear the door across the room open. The door you know opens into his bedroom. You briefly wonder if he will be taking you into his bed, then as you feel the glass minutely shift you focus all your attention back to your task.