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--- *** --- --- The Following Night ---
Shortly after the former sleazy jazz nightclub singer finished her shift in the mental hospital with escorting the security guards to lock up the ocean of hysterical inmates in their austerely, poorly furnished, subsequently she retired back to her austerely atmospheric office.
It has been a couple of hours since the middle-aged lady has beheld a wee inkling of the ambitious Monsignor's silhouette even motioning anatomic muscle past her honey brown poetic depths. The last interaction with the British compatriot was staged in the common room when the ambitious Monsignor paid a visit for awhile in the old, infernally dilapidating asylum to acknowledge himself about the condition and the utmost factors constructing its crucial existence of the mental institution such as staff members, inmates, supplies and so forth.
Furthermore, the Bostonian has kindheartedly arranged another coq-au-vin dinner night for Friday night the following week. Little did she know about her boss's blackout in one of your friends' house shortly after the ominously stealthy plotted idea wavering your and your friends' thoughts to sedate Timothy to hire other men of the cloth and nuns to exorcise him easier. The medley of scenarios melding the possibility of unconditional heartache and stark distress over the British aristocrat's absence for more than the usual somehow plagued her mind and consciousness.
While stepping beside the exquisitely lacquered pulpit to recite in murmur the evening prayer and knotting her orthodoxy spidery, marbled fingers to joint her brittle knuckles and bowing faintly her head, whereas pinching shut her flimsy eyelids, the grandiose old mental hospital's dully, lifelessly hoary walls didn't elaborate modicum of further, fiendishly mischievous noises apprehending to the background in general. The security guards who worked night shift at the moment frequent ghostwrote their figures gliding smoothly, warily in the profoundly empty, dim lit corridors.
In a long minute of sheerly refreshing prayer, the abruptness of series of politely meek, feather-soft raps daubing its fashioned mammoth, masculinely veiny hand into balled fist against the woode wooden material, catching off guard the middle-aged lady and tingling alarming tones into her petite, vulnerable ears.
"Oh! Goodness!" The pure impulse of the profane language conjugate in its brief response to the door rap wrenched broadly curtained the pious sister of the church's huge, glassily roundish honey brown optics narrowing at the battered window, showering its profusely nocturnal mantle of pitch-black darkness to stream through the walls and furniture with meager opacity of palish light. Solely the dim illumination of the artificial light divinely filtering the en-suite bedroom provided Judy with sufficient scale of light to saturate profusely the site's furniture and surroundings. Her flimsy heart raced.
In the interim, the blonde retreated plainly from her en-suite bedroom and diabolically ambling up to the office door as her classy elegant jet-black chunks docilely demure whispered against the cemented flooring, manifesting her petite, marbled hands to fix her conservatively wool, rigid wimple coiffing fashionably her halo ringlet of angelically velvet old Hollywood aureate tresses. An eerie flat line blurred each vague inkling pattern of vibrant glee or venomous upsetness, glinting her elderly attractive facial attributes.
