Chapter Text
Shuffling. This was the first sound Beatrice had heard since starting her night watch job at the cemetery. Of course, this is not the first time she’s heard sounds from the guard shack, it’s just that she had catalogued the other sounds in her mind already.
The sound of loose papers on her desk that shifted when she moved her arm while writing, the clattering branches swinging in the nighttime breeze, the creaking metal of the old gates shifting in the wind, the dusty rotating fan in the back corner imperceptibly moving the air, were all sounds she had become familiar with.
In three weeks, she had come to know every sound heard at the cemetery – not out of fear or boredom, but rather a deep-seated childhood practice of determining whether a door was closed in anger or just minor annoyance, of recognizing her parents by their footsteps alone.
This, however, isn’t footsteps. That sound she knows. Other living beings can make footsteps, or pitter-patters, or scratches on the ground in the night, such as the cat that roams the graveyard freely. But only a person can make the distinct sound of feet shuffling, shifting on the floorboards – the very way one would walk should you want to avoid making sounds.
Beatrice made no noticeable movements indicating she heard this sound, leaning fully into her instinct to observe rather than confront. She merely kept her eyes down on her book until her alarm rang for her next walkaround.
When Beatrice hadn’t heard the sound for a few hours, she chalked it up to fatigue or exhaustion. Or maybe she actually is hearing things now and she should schedule an appointment with her psychiatrist again. She assumed it wasn’t her meds, if the sounds were rather visions or hallucinations that would absolutely warrant a follow up of course. But she wasn't seeing thing yet, only hearing the sound of small feet adjusting behind her a few hours ago.
In an instant her alarm startles her thoughts and nearly drowns out the mysterious noise.
Shuffle. Okay she was definitely hearing things. The sound was different this time: softer, further away - no, walking away. Beatrice turned off her alarm and turned her head, trying to listen for the sound again. When she did not hear it after a few seconds, she put on her coat to take her first walk of the night.
xxx
For another consecutive morning in a row, she denied a ride home from her coworker.
“It really isn’t out of the way or anything, Bea” her coworker restated. Beatrice had of course heard over the last few offers about how close they live, how it’s not an inconvenience. Beatrice couldn’t tell if she was being offered a ride out of kindness or pity, and refused to figure out which.
“Thank you, Mary, I appreciate it. But I’m just fine walking. Enjoy your day.”
And just like every morning, Mary closed her lips, breathed in, and said goodbye as she walked to her car. It wasn’t that she disliked Mary or her other coworkers, she would rather just not risk getting to know other people right now. There weren’t many only herself, Mary the other night guard, Director Superion, and the gardeners she’d contract every few weeks. It’s easier this way, she tells herself. The fewer people in her life, the fewer people to disappoint.
When she arrives home around 0730, she finds comfort in her routine: she removes her shoes as she enters the flat, draws the blackout curtains in her room, turns on her brown noise sound machine, and enters the bathroom to finish getting ready for bed. She hates looking in the mirror while she washes her face, not because she dislikes it but because all she sees is dead eyes staring back at her. She sighs as she investigates the small wrinkles around her eyes: since when had her under-eyes been so dark? Not that it matters, it’s not like she has people to even look at her, she doesn't even look at her therapist.
Beatrice swallows her medicine dry while she climbs into bed, pulling the covers up to her cheeks. Her therapist had often asked her if she felt lonely, to which Beatrice had simply replied she doesn’t mind it. In truth, Beatrice hates it but the cost of letting people in is too great. Right now she has herself, and that’s all she ever wanted. She whispers a prayer of thanks for her job and her home, and drifts to sleep again.
xxx
The shuffling had now become one of the many sounds Beatrice has accepted in her routine. It no longer bothers her, in fact it now uneases her when she doesn’t hear it. Though that is rare, considering she’s heard it every night she’s worked for almost two weeks. It brings the same comfort that comes from the expectation and regularity of hearing the buzz of the fan or the creaking of the door hinges.
Recently, Beatrice had begun to adjust her nightly routine to the arrival and departure of the small quiet feet. She would read her book in silence while the feet were still, and begin her first walk around the cemetery when she heard them leave. Tonight, however, the feet were late.
She didn’t need to know the time to know that the sound was late due to its previous timeliness in appearance. It had become a ritual: when the sound arrived, she would read or write silently and when the quiet feet had left, she began her first walkaround of the night. Beatrice nonetheless stared blankly as her alarm sound rang throughout the shack. A few minutes had passed and she had heard nothing. With only a hint of disappointment, Beatrice arose from her chair and turned around to gather her book from her bag.
“Jesus Christ!” Beatrice shouted, placing her hands to her chest in an attempt to still her heart. The small frame of a woman about Beatrice’s age but a little shorter than her stood shocked in front of her. It’s as if she was as surprised as Beatrice was. A moment passes as the woman’s eyes light up in excitement:
“No, no. Just Ava is fine.” the woman tilted her head in a toothy smile.
“What?”
“I’m not Jesus. Well, though, I think I did rise from the dead. Sort of. I kind of ignored most of my theology lessons when I was alive, does that make me like Jesus? Oh my god, god is a woman!”
Beatrice remained still, her mouth slightly open. The woman was rambling, and transparent(?), and oh she’s still talking. Ava placed her hands behind her back and began to rock on her feet suddenly returning Beatrice’s stare, waiting for her to say or do something.
Admittedly, from an outsider’s perspective, perhaps Beatrice’s wide-eyed standstill would be expected after seeing a semi-transparent figure (So a ghost right? Beatrice makes a mental note to actually reschedule with her psychiatrist as soon as the hallucination wears off). Of course, no one but Beatrice would know the true cause of her bewilderment: the woman was beautiful. Her soft brown hair framed her face, her stature was small but confident. Her skin was radiant and smooth. Beatrice would have stared for hours into her deep brown eyes had her mouth not also been as equally distracting.
Ava’s voice poured our of her mouth like warm honey. She smiled and lit up the room and Beatrice thought in that moment her smile could raise the dead - maybe it did, all things considered. Contrasting Beatrice’s absolute resoluteness in movement, Ava swung on her heels, energy flowing out of her like a stream. Beatrice felt warm in her company, as if she wasn’t actually standing in a cemetery guard shack in the middle of the night in the middle of November alone.
“You good?” Ava asked.
“What?”
Ava laughed as she took a step closer to Beatrice, “You look scared. I’m so sorry. I didn't mean to have you see me. Are you okay?”
“I’m Beatrice.”
Ava laughs again, loudly this time, her face unable to hold in her smile. Beatrice finally registers the question she was asked: “I mean, yes, I’m quite alright. Are you? I mean, am I imagining you?”
“Oh you’re imagining me? What am I wearing in your imagination?” Ava teased.
“What? No. I. Well, I mean” Beatrice stumbles over her words for the first time in her life.
Ava saves her from further embarrassment. “Nah, unless you’ve been here imagining me for a few years, I’m actually here. Well, not here here but well, you understand.”
Beatrice nodded, because sure it made perfect sense for a ghost to not be here here. That is, if ghosts made sense in the first place. When she walked away from her parent’s and their religion, she didn’t really land elsewhere. She of course knew of the Holy Ghost and vaguely remembered an Old Testament story about a witch conjuring a ghost for a king. So sure, ghosts existed within the realm of possibility.
“So you’re a ghost? Who lives here at the cemetery?” Beatrice decided for the direct approach.
“Yup. Well, Suzanne prefers the words ‘purgatorial spirit’ or ‘unfulfilled souls,’ since there’s no official Church doctrine on ghosts. She calls this her halfway house for spirits. So yeah basically a ghost, at least that’s what my surprisingly extensive knowledge of Ghost Hunters would say.”
“Um, how did you–” Beatrice immediately notices Ava’s wince at this question and decides against asking it. Perhaps asking how a ghost died is a bit unseemly. She instead redirects her thought process: “You know Director Superion? The owner of the cemetery?”
“Sort of. I’m pretty sure she buried me. And me and the others listen to her sermons some times. She’s almost always here.”
“She hired me for this position a few weeks ago, she never said anything about ghosts.”
“I don’t think she can see us,”' Ava replied matter-of-factly. Before Beatrice can respond, Ava asks a question: “Why did you come here? People usually only come here to look for something or bury something.”
“To work, of course.” Beatrice said hoping this would be enough. It wasn’t.
“I know that look, Bea, you're seeking something.” Bea? What look? Probably the same look Mary sees every day: pity.
“I don’t know what I’m looking for yet” was the closest to the truth Beatrice could articulate.
Ava’s smile was kind, “I hope you find it here,” she blew Beatrice a kiss and disappeared instantly, soft footsteps stepping away.
xxx
Beatrice took this job in part simply to bring a change to her life. In many ways it wasn’t much of an adjustment from her parent’s firm - sitting in a box surrounded by the dead. But primarily she took the job to piss off her parents. Suzanne Superion’s description of the cemetery night watch job was exactly what Beatrice needed: quiet, easy, and decent pay. As long as someone had the resolve to work in a cemetery during the night, anyone could do it. Luckily for Beatrice, not many people were clamoring for the job.
Her entire childhood, Beatrice had spent pleasing her parents and their God. It’s not hard to be the well behaved, perfect child when your parents promised you an agonizing afterlife in fire should you stray from their religion. Beatrice didn’t believe in this same God, not at first. But she could only take so many years of being afraid to sleep, of confessing every possible action in case one was sinful, of shaming herself lest her sinful desires show themselves, before she gave in. So she turned toward the one thing her parents said that was good in her: God’s grace. And grace it was, her parents made sure she knew she didn't deserve it (as if she needed reminding).
The one time her mother had walked in on hers and Camila’s 12 year birthday sleepover was enough to condemn her straight to hell despite her devotion and faith in God. Their expectations for Beatrice became singular: prove yourself worthy of love. So Beatrice did what any child who’s been kicked, screamed at, punished, and cut-off: she followed her parent’s wishes to the letter hoping one day, as her life aged, her sin might be forgiven.
When her childhood home was forcibly exchanged for the cold boarding school in Switzerland miles away, her parents’ expectations continued to press on her. The one reprieve now is that she would only hear of their disappointment and promises of hellfire through mailed letters. She preferred the letters over being yelled at through a shut door or the sting of her father’s hand. Because she was an only child, during her second year, they extended her some grace in the promise of a position at their law firm upon graduation should she prove herself worthy of them. A grace she took in desperation upon graduation..
For three years, Beatrice continued under her parent’s eyes dutifully. While she was not given a job she liked, she was at least allowed to work in the mailroom to start. She stayed overtime, exceeded in her law studies and removed all outside distractions. As far as she was concerned, this was the way to salvation, to have value, to finally be worthy of love.
Though her dedication borderlined excessive, it was still not enough for her parents.
Beatrice, perhaps if you didn’t have a dog, you’d have more time for your studies. So Beatrice let her dog go.
Beatrice, have you considered that your friends might be distracting you from your faith?, aftercall they don’t go to church. So Beatrice removed herself from the group chat, blocked her best friends Camila and Lilith, and slowly continued to lose pieces of herself.
Overtime Beatrice became tense, agitated, and angry. Every day she fueled her workouts with anger. Her stress responses, triggers, and her trauma, become compressed as coal until her doctor referred her to a psychiatrist, a psychiatrist who christened her anxiety and anger with new names: general anxiety disorder, PTSD, major depressive disorder. She stopped eating, but she graduated with honors. She stopped sleeping, but she was offered overtime. She muffled her emotions with alcohol and books, but she was finally promoted to her parent’s floor. But to finally have her parent’s approval? She welcomed the words depressed, suicidal, alone, and dead-inside in order to achieve her parent’s wishes: perfect, straight, pious, valuable.
Beatrice had graduated summa cum laud, passed the bar, and was excited for her promised promotion at her parent’s firm - a promotion that would hopefully come with the thing she desperately wanted above everything else: worth.
She knocked on her mother’s office door and waited for permission to enter. Opening the door, Beatrice stood firm and spoke directly: “Mother, I’d like to speak with you concerning the possibility of my promotion.”
“Beatrice, sit down.” Her mother leaned forward in her chair, training her eyes over Beatrice’s face. “You really should be taking better care of your skin. And your posture is horrendous.”
“Yes, Mother. May I speak?”
“Beatrice, I know what you’re going to ask but your father and I have already made up our minds. Your state of life is simply unacceptable to represent our firm. Why on earth do you insist on making your life miserable with this drinking and debt and these so-called psychoses? Have we not given you everything?”
“You have, Mother,” Beatrice lied.
“So then, you can see how much work you still must do? Do you know how embarrassing it is to have a daughter who had to spend three weeks in a mental health hospital? You know that depression and thinking about suicide are sins, lies of the devil, and yet you continually choose these over the Church.”
“Mother, please I–”
“Stop right there. Is it not obvious that you do not have what it takes to represent your father’s name in our world? But it doesn’t matter. There are always options for girls like you. Your father and I have arranged for you to meet a colleague of ours for dinner: Mr. Schaeffer. Perhaps in joining our family’s statuses, you might yet be worthy to represent our name and firm.”
Beatrice offered silence in response. Without a word to her mother, she turned and exited. She didn’t say a word to her colleagues. She didn’t say a word to her Uber driver, or her doorman. She prepared dinner for herself in silence, content in the moment enough to make a decision for herself for the first time in her life: she chose to live.
With no notice to her parents, suitor, or coworkers she sold her apartment and belongings; she unblocked Lilith and Camila (though she wouldn’t reach out yet, that bridge was too scorched to be rebuilt yet). She drained her trust fund, cut her hair, and shuffled a deck of postcards at the airport. With a twist of her wrist she pulled a card and headed toward the terminal. Her life was buried with her past, and she was raised to walk in a new life in Spain.
xxx
“Bea, stop! I can’t, I can’t breathe,” Ava laughed inaudibly, crossing her arms over her stomach. “Beatrice, I swear to God, if you don’t stop I’m going to die.”
Beatrice couldn’t even remember how deluded their joke had become and definitely forgot when she turned her head as quickly as she could when Ava said the word “die.” They both stared at each other, chests heaving, faces flushed from laughter. Beatrice could see it, the moment Ava lost control. Air escaped her lips and she began laughing even harder. It definitely wasn’t that funny at first.
Ava visited Beatrice every night that she worked. Ava would patiently wait while Bea finished her logs for the night before going out on their walk together. Though walking around each night was part of her job description, she made sure Ava knew it was her pleasure to walk with her.
Ava would tell her stories about the cemetery and those who have come and gone since she arrived. In exchange, Beatrice would talk about her friends and the things she missed in life: her dog and school in particular.
“Wait so you’re telling me, your parents kicked you out for being gay … and then sent you to an all girls boarding school?” Ava laughed in bewilderment.
Beatrice smiled back, “In hindsight I can see how absurd that is, though I think that at the time they were focused most on the catholic part. School was rather uneventful.”
“There’s more to it than you’re telling,” Ava said turning her head to face Beatrice.
Beatrice slowed down to a stop and put her hands in her pockets and sighed. She turned to Ava, not realizing how close she was, and breathed in a sharp breath. Ava didn’t move. Beatrice couldn’t take the direct attention and turned her eyes around, simply replying, “there’s always more Ava.” Beatrice looked back at Ava and smiled and continued their walk.
xxx
Late one night, Ava was standing across from Beatrice in her guard shack as she finished up her logs for the night. Beatrice, lost in her own thoughts trying to remember what sections of the cemetery they need to cover that night, missed what Ava had said. “I’m sorry, Ava, what did you say?”
“Can you teach me how to write?”
Though Ava knew that Beatrice was different than the nuns who read to her, she still expected the same judgmental response you can’t write? Instead, Beatrice’s response caused her to believe she might be hearing things: “Of course, Ava.”
“You’re not going to ask me why I don’t know how to write? I mean, I started learning with my mom before… but uh, since I was at the orphanage my education kind of stopped.”
Several weeks have passed since they first met, so Beatrice was not unfamiliar with some of Ava’s time spent at the orphanage. It did not surprise Beatrice that Ava would ask her such a question, it was simply surprising that an orphanage wouldn’t teach those in their care to write.
“There’s no shame in it, Ava. We can start now if you’d like?”
Beatrice turned in her notebook to a blank sheet and ripped it out. She placed it on the desk and gestured for Ava to move in closer. Ava picks up the pen and stares at the paper.
“So what do you remember from when you were young?” Beatrice asked.
“The alphabet at least. I remember reading and writing some simple words in kindergarten.”
“We can start with our names, how does that sound?” Ava nodded her head and moved the pencil to the top of the page. Beatrice did not comment on the tremble apparent in her fingers as she drew a line. “May I” Beatrice offered her hand looking up at Ava, but Ava said nothing as Beatrice moved her hand to cover Ava’s holding the pencil.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I, I didn’t know that would happen” a whisper escapes Beatrice as her hand passes directly through Ava’s and taps the desk below. Ava drops the pencil as she stands and runs outside through the wall without a look back at Beatrice.
xxx
There were no sounds in her dream. She could see the headlights and smell the smoke and feel the seatbelt press into her body and taste the blood from her own lips, but she never heard any sounds: not the screeching of metal, nor the sirens, and thankfully not her mother’s sobs. Ava awoke the same way she awoke every night: cold and drenched in sweat. Years ago she would awake from this dream with screams, but a few days without food as punishment had taught her it wasn’t worth it. Not all of the nuns were mean, in fact many were nice and doing the best they could despite the orphanage’s surprising lack of funds. But their niceness does not excuse the fact that one nun in particular had been allowed to work as Ava’s caretaker.
When Ava had been yanked out of her panic that first night, she thought it was her mother’s hands pulling her from the dream, but that thought vanished as soon as she felt her head jerk back at the rough pull of Sister Frances. Where one might imagine concern, Frances’ eyes were only filled with anger; her face distinctly lacked any creases from smiles and only contained deep wrinkles in her forehead. Her voice was stern and hateful.
“Quit your crying, child. There’s no need to be a nuisance to the entire orphanage. Don’t you see? Your selfish crying only served to wake me up.” Sister Frances snapped.
She roughly moved Ava’s hair out of her eyes only so that she could see Frances better. “Your mother is not worth crying about. So perhaps you should think of the others first before you decide to be a burden.”
The wreck had left Ava paralyzed from the chest down. A fact that was met with resentment instead of concern by Sister Frances. Many nights she would wake up wet in urine and sweat, and Sister Frances had told her time and time again that it was her fault, that Ava did it on purpose to “pick on one of God’s servants.” Frances would roughly move Ava’s body from the bed, change the sheets and drop her back down - many times not even bothering to clean her.
Bed sores and infections had become such a common occurrence that Ava had wondered if maybe she actually deserved them. She didn’t like the version of God the priest lectured on about or that Sister Frances embodied, but she was left with no other options. Perhaps there’s only so many times you can be called a worthless sinner deserving of hell before you start to believe it.
Ava prayed every night for Frances to be taken away, yet every night she went to bed with a bruising face from Frances for daring to ask her for water. Ava tried to help others, but given her limited mobility it was quite difficult. Once she had offered to teach some of the younger boys to read only to be hit in the stomach repeatedly. She could never feel these punishments, but somehow they hurt worse knowing that Frances knew she couldn’t feel it. Frances, red in the face, screamed at Ava “You idiot!. You can barely read yourself, you’ll just drag those poor souls down with you.”
Ava’s childhood nighttime routine from Frances began with a forceful teeth brushing that left her mouth sore and ended with detailed descriptions of the fire and torture that awaited sinners like her. There was no hope for her, Frances made it clear: Ava wasn’t worth saving.
As she grew older, the punishments turned more cerebral. The physical abuse gave way to whispered verbal promises in her ear: “God hates you. Don’t you see that? He doesn't love you, and neither did your mother. Your mother left you and your father hates you so much he’s never bothered to come find you. I am all you have.” Ava wasn’t strong enough to hold back her tears anymore.
“You turn 19 tomorrow, Ava. You know what that means, right? That you will be tossed outside and left to survive on your own. Because no one is coming to help you. You’ve brought this all on yourself. Poor crippled, Ava.”
“At least I won’t have to be with you anymore,” Ava snapped.
“On the contrary, child,” she leaned into Ava’s face and said, “I will be the last face you ever see and you will burn in hell with that memory.” Ava held in her breath, not wanting to give Frances the satisfaction of seeing her afraid. Ava didn’t want to believe in hell, but her life already was one, she prayed that Satan would be kinder than Sister Frances.
“You’re lucky I am here to save you, dear” Frances said as she pulled a syringe from her bag. She shifted in the moonlight as she tapped the syringe. “If you could feel this, this would hurt.” Ava’s eyes went wide with shock as Frances jammed the needle into Ava’s small arm. “I thank God I won’t see you in heaven” were the last words Ava heard as fear drowned out the world.
xxx
“Suicide?” the woman had asked. “How is that possible?”
“It is as God wills. It is a burden that is mine alone to carry, to see so many children choose to turn away from God’s grace,” Sister Frances said with certainty.
The woman made no show of her face reacting. She was stern-looking and quiet. Frances made sure not to ask about the scar running down her face.
“I will take the body,” the woman said.
“Ha! Absolutely not. It is set for the crematorium next week.” Frances was growing more impatient with the woman who had demanded an audience in the middle of the night.
“I will leave this building with the girl’s body, or shall I draw attention to St. Michael’s financial documents next time I meet with the dioceses?”
Frances wasn’t sure where this woman came from, but decided that keeping the girl’s body was not worth the trouble. Ava was in hell either way.
“Of course.”
The woman had the girl’s body loaded into the van, the distinct lack of gentleness with which Frances handled the body was not lost on her. Frances closed the double doors to the van and offered the woman a scoff as she pushed the gurney away.
The scarred woman opened the van door and turned to place a hand on the body. “Do not worry, my child. You are loved.” The body bag remained motionless as she prayed over the body, a circle of light emanating from the woman’s back.
xxx
Ava watched the sunrise as she did every morning. Though she was stuck within the gates of the cemetery, Ava was thankful for the hill on which it is built.
“Good morning everyone,” Ava would often greet the others as she roamed around the lots. Most of the others remained in a half-asleep state as they waited away the years. A few had left, or moved on, as she heard Superion once say. Ava smiles at the sunflowers as she makes her way to the chapel. She and a few others have made a habit to listen to Superion’s homilies each Sunday morning. Though Ava has never quite figured out to whom she is speaking, as the only listeners are those like herself: An older man who stands alone in the back, two siblings - a brother and a sister - holding hands right in the middle of the pews, and Ava standing in the back with her friend.
“Do you think she knows there’s a bunch of spirits listening to her talk all the time?” Ava asked as she leaned into Mateo. He was taller and older than her, but still much too young to be living in a cemetery. His hair and beard were brown and his eyes were surrounded by soft wrinkles, the kind you only get from smiling.
“I wish I knew. Though it seems that she needs this time as much as we do,” Mateo said.
Superion paced around the chapel, her metal cane rhythmically tapping with every step: “By contrast, the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. There is no law against such things. And those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the flesh with its passion and desires. If we live by the Spirit, let us also be guided by the Spirit.” Director Superion glances around the room as though she can see everyone in attendance, and continues to read. Her voice echoes off the walls and empty pews. Though the cemetery rarely receives visitors, there are still fresh flowers sitting in the windows every Sunday.
“You know, not that I’m really a fan of the content she’s reading, but I do think I prefer her reading from the New Testament over the other one. There’s at least nice passages like this,” Ava smiled. She often made light of Superion’s chosen passages when they seemed particularly directed at her or her life. Sure the content of this one was good, but how good can God be when he lets people like Sister Frances do what they do in his name. Besides, Ava decided to love others in spite of what this god has done for her – not because of him. She loved others because she chose too, hoping one day it might not make her feel as worthless as she feels.
“Ava, can I ask you a question?” Mateo turned his head toward Ava.
“Of course.”
“Why do you come to Suzanne’s sermons now? I don't remember you coming when you first arrived with us.”
“Because you’re here, Mateo, duh.” Ava’s face broke into a wide smile.
He offered a small smile in return, letting a small sigh escape. “You know what I mean, Ava.”
“I mean it. It’s not like there’s a lot to do in this graveyard. After the first couple years, the walks get kind of boring, you know?” Mateo’s face softens at this. “Besides, some of what she reads is actually kind of nice. I never really got to hear the nice parts of the bible when I was alive.”
Ava doesn’t tell Mateo everything. She began to listen to Suzanne’s readings because they helped to drown out Sister France’s voice in her head. You will always be a burden, Ava. Some days were worse than others, even when she distracted her mind with something else, it’s like her body still remembered. Her body could remember the words and actions of Sister Frances, and today her body heard the word Director Superion read aloud as she continued through Galatians:
“... and take care that you yourselves are not tempted. Bear one another’s burdens…”
There it was, that word.
A door slammed in the distance and Ava jumped. Her heart started racing and her chest tightened at the intrusive sound and Suzann's words. She said goodbye to Mateo and quickly left the chapel. Without knowing why, she started crying and she hated herself for it. She sat behind a tree and balled her fists into her eyes. “You stupid stupid girl. Stop fucking crying,” she told herself. Hours had passed as the afternoon gave way to dusk. “Fuck, I hate this. I hate her for consuming me all the time. I’m so fucking useless.” Ava sobbed into her hands and fell asleep. When she finally opened her eyes, the sunset had already passed. Though her sobs had softened by now, her anger hadn’t. She screamed until her voice grew hoarse. Ava fell against the tree, barely hearing the sound of footsteps over the sound of the beating heart in her ears.
When Beatrice had arrived for the night and walked toward the guard shack she had heard screams - Ava’s screams - and dropped everything to run toward the source of the sound. It was dark now and her shift was about to begin, nonetheless Beatrice ran towards the chapel and reached a quiet, exhausted, sniffling, Ava.
“Ava, darling, are you okay?”
“Yeah” Ava says as she wipes the corners of her eyes with her sleeve.
“Your eyes are swollen. And red. Have you been crying?” Beatrice knelt down in the wet grass to face her.
Beatrice reaches out, wanting to offer some comfort to a being she couldn’t touch. She withdraws her hand, knowing she wouldn’t feel anything anyway. The corners of Ava’s mouth curl for just a second at Beatrice’s movement.
“It’s nothing. It all just comes out of nowhere sometimes. The panic. It’s like a living dream. A nightmare really.”
“About your mother?” Beatrice asked
“I wish” Ava scoffs playfully. “I wish it was about her. But uh, no. It’s about the orphanage, the nun, Sister Frances, my caretaker. I just hear her words scratching my brain sometimes.”
“You're not worthless, Ava.” Ava didn’t know that she had spoken Sister France’s words out loud enough times for Beatrice to remember. “Ava?”
“It’s fine. It’s whatever. I mean, it’s not like I’m not you know? I’m sure I was a burden. I was definitely a pain in the ass. I mean, she had to wash me, change me. I had to be spoon fed. Frances had to change my sheets daily - from blood or urine or sometimes just sweat. I mean yeah, I couldn’t do anything because I was fucking paralyzed but I was a lot of work. She was probably justified in feeling hateful. I just wasn’t worth the effort honestly, I get it. I don’t even like myself. My whole life I imagined being dead. And now I am, and it feels no different than being alive.”
By then Ava’s tears had dried, her face red from something besides sadness - anger maybe. “Anyway, sorry for rambling. So that’s me. I hate me. God hates me. Sister Frances hated me. I hate what happened to me, who I am, ha even what I am,” she frantically swings her arms through her own torso, trying to show how nonexistent she really is.
At this Beatrice felt her soul heave. Her heart dropped, becoming too heavy to listen to another word. This incredible, energetic, life-giving, joyous light in her world .. felt that she herself was worthless. Beatrice leaned in closer. Knowing she wouldn’t feel anything, she nevertheless cupped her hands around Ava’s cheek, wiping at an intangible tear with her thumb. Beatrice could have sworn she saw Ava lean into the non-apparent touch. “Ava, please, don’t hate what you are. What you are is beautiful.”
For the first time in 12 years, Ava felt something. Felt someone. Paralysis, death, and resurrection had left her without even the memory of touch beyond Sister France’s punishments. But when Beatrice had touched her cheek, Ava would swear to god herself that Beatrice actually touched her cheek. She felt the warmth of her tears, the blood pumping in Beatrice’s palm, so soft and steady. When Beatrice told her she was beautiful, for the first time in 12 years she actually believed it.