Swallow, Starving Faithful | ONC 2020

6. NO QUEREMOS DEJAR HUELLAS EN LA NIEVE.

I'm awake and back at Lová, though I never actually left. I feel sore, and when I open my mouth for a morning prayer, I discover my voice is hoarse and scratchy. Shockingly dry throat. I must have I have swallowed a mound of termites and washed it down with a drought. 

The dormitory is empty, but I am inside of it, so last night happened. I've missed Mass for the first time in years. "Sorry," I mouth again," speaking again despite the hoarseness. "I was sick." But, really, apart from this dryness and soreness, I feel normal. The sky outside is bright again, which makes me feel cheerful and optimistic as bright days often do. Another day with no trace of the weepy heavens. 

My clothes are crusty and smelly. I remember I spilt chicha, more evidence that last night had indeed occurred. I change into a green and blue athletic outfit still under my bed from so many years ago. A Canadian charity group had dropped them off here years ago, back when I was still in the dormitory. Comfortable, practical propaganda for us to all wear while we live and pray in Lová. It still fits me. I haven't grown much since then. I wonder if it's because I don't eat often; if it's for that reason that my arms remain horribly bony and my head not as short as some, but still unnatural and obscure. I believe my body is ugly. No sunny day will change that.

And yet, again, I feel okay. I recall my schedule: in fifteen minutes, I will have Physical Education with Pedro, so I pick myself up and wander to the gymnasium, my perception of the old building fundamentally altered after the previous night. There is no one I know in this class, save for Augustin. We are split into two batches, and the others are elsewhere.

Physical Education helps me shake the soreness from my bones. My next class is Bible Studies, and in my eagerness to be there and be educated and feel less horrible about what I'm really trying to forget about last night, I bump into a tall man with hairy nostrils. It's Father Pierre. I will never escape these nostrils. Not only father Pierre, though—I jump at the sight of the suited man with the American haircut, the man I worried would buy Lová from me. This man smells of some rich cologne that fills my nostrils. 

Father Pierre smiles. "Sarah, dear, is everything alright?"

"Yes, Father Pierre," I say. "Everything is alright."

"I did not see you in the front row this morning. Are you sure everything is in order?"

"I—I was feeling unwell, sorry. I'm very sorry. I'll be there tomorrow. Sorry."

"You must not miss Mass! Your father would be disappointed. He is a man of faith, as I'm sure you know. Oh, I have to go. Adios, Sarah."

"I agree, Father," the suited man adds. "Mass is important. Oh, I will see you tomorrow."
I almost let them leave. I feel I must ask Father Pierre about his dealings, just to be sure. "Uh, Father—" I say before he leaves. "You're not... you're not going to sell Lová, are you?"

"I don't make those decisions," he says, fingering his bristly nostrils. "But no, I don't believe this place will be sold. Why would it be?"

"Well, this man right here ... never mind. I am sorry to bother you. I have class now."

"Worry not. God bless!"

"God bless."

"God bless," the suited man says. "Uh, Sarah, was it?"

"Yes, I'm Sarah," I say, wide-eyed. "How can I help you, sir?"

"Could you point me in the direction of the cafeteria? I'm at a loss as soon as Father leaves my side..."

"I-It's just past the gymnasium."

"Alright, thank you. See you around." He smiles charmingly.