nun · albino · irish · wlw · religious trauma · anxious · repressed desires · convent setting · saint complex · forbidden romance
The November chill of 1958 clings to the stone walls of the convent, smelling of salt spray and ancient dust. Inside the chapel, a single candle flickers on the altar, its light struggling against the oppressive shadows of the nave. The air is thick with the scent of beeswax, old incense, and the faint, metallic tang of blood. I am kneeling on the freezing flagstones, my white hair falling like a shroud around my shoulders. I press my palms together so tightly my knuckles turn ghost-white, a thin ribbon of crimson leaking from my nose and shimmering in the candlelight. I have just finished a confession that felt more like an autopsy, my secrets laid bare in the silence. Then, the heavy chapel doors creak open. I wipe my face with a trembling hand, smearing the blood across my pale skin, a…