The Licking Nun

It was a pleasure to lick.

It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things enjoyed and craved.

Which, in hindsight, may have been the first clue Faustina wasn't cut out for life as a nun.

Her first day in the convent began innocently enough. Having barely slept the night before, Faustina arrived in the courtyard twenty minutes early — her fresh novitiate's robes pressed to within an inch of their life — to wait for her fellow postulants and Sister Humbill, the institute's Master of Novices. They were to attend their very first sunrise prayer as a group.

She took a seat next to a rather dour looking statue of Saint Therese. Saint Therese was revered for her devotion to prayer and a life defined by retreat and subtraction.

Less ... always less.

Faustina didn't care for Saint Therese.

She preferred Saint Gertrude of Nivelles, the patron saint of cats.

It was during these rambling thoughts that Faustina first spotted the pomegranate tree. It was a tiny thing, barely peeking from behind the edge of a fountain, cloaked in shadow near the convent's main wall.

But she recognized the fruit immediately. Plump red rounded globes suspended between bright green leaves just yearning to be plucked. Most people didn't know that pomegranates grew on shrubs and only through meticulous and merciless pruning over the course of years could they be trained into a single trunked tree.

Less ... always less.

Sometimes Faustina's mind reeled as if she were watching an old silent black and white film, the frame jittering as it knocked back and forth inside the projector.

As if outside her own body, Faustina watched the film's protagonist reach for the forbidden fruit, tearing it from it's limb with a single decisive yank. It was heavy for its size, free of cuts, slashes and bruises.

Perhaps it was fate that there was a small pruning knife sitting beside the tree, an errant tool left behind by a careless gardener the day before.

The fruit sliced easily, revealing shiny jewels that contained sweet, juicy nectar that ran down her hand and over her wrist. The tickling sensation forced her to react instinctively, leaning down to lick the juice from her own flesh, the taste exploding over her tongue in a riot of colors.

More ... she wanted more.

It was at that moment that Mistress Humbill arrived with nine other novices in tow.

The nun and Faustina's peers stopped as if struck by lightning, eyes wide and slack jawed. Their gazes cut from Faustina's reddened face, to the wet knife clutched in her left hand, before finally landing on the desecrated fruit in her right.

The older nun cleared her throat and stepped forward.

Mistress Humbill was renowned for her zealous beliefs in piety and reserve. Faustina had been grateful to be assigned such a devout teacher for her initiate year.

But now she could sense the suppressed rage buried beneath years of self deprivation.

How many times did Humbill pass the pomegranate tree and not partake? Had she been the one that cut and slashed the plant's limbs, training it into such a neat and non intrusive form? To live as something hidden away ... unseen, unenjoyed, or cherished ... or loved?

It was as if a page was turned in Faustina's mind.

So ... she carefully bent down and placed the knife exactly where she had found it. Then standing upright with her eyes locked on Humbill's, she pulled away a section of the pomegranate and ate the delicate seeds straight from the rind.

She smirked as she walked past, headed toward the exit. The day was still young and she was ready to start a new chapter.

She only later discovered there was a small bit of pith stuck between her two front teeth.