Ora et Labora
The tapered fingers came to life, maneuvered by invisible threads, following the murderous order whispered by the woman. The blow fell on the victim, surgical and impregnated with inevitable fate.
"We took it, Agnes."
Finally, the peace of the monastery's kitchen had been restored. A fleeting veil of reproach slipped over the cook's cheerful gaze as Flynn swore triumphantly at the fly, spread on his notebook.
"But now let's get back to our business, barley soup doesn't cook itself and ... not even your thesis".
"It's a nice association, even if it's my brain to cook," said the young man with his eyes shining curiously between the pots.
"If Father Thoram saw us wasting time chasing flies, you already know he'd send you to the library," the cook remarked.
Flynn threw her an accomplice grimace, before returning to dive into the pages of his thesis. No, all in all, the friar would not have thrown him out of the kitchen so easily.
Agnes could not have known what long walks in the cloister's rose garden had slowly revealed to his confessor father. That laborious daily harmony had a different taste for Flynn than what his other contemporaries of the Benedictine community felt.
Flynn sighed as the words drifted slowly from the pages, evaporating intertwined in his thoughts. Every moment, every little ritual within the silent walls of the monastery were like prickly air that swelled his lungs, giving him life. Those were precious moments far from the creature who, just two quarters away, was waiting every night unable to satisfy his craving for pain. Far from his stepfather.
The echoes of vespers suffused in his ears: soon the refectory would have been populated. It was almost time to help Agnes set the tables.
While books and notebooks were swallowed up by the backpack in random order, Flynn found himself thinking of that strange event months ago, when he was still an occasional guest of the monks' community. There was, indeed, another reason why he preferred to study among the noise of the pans. He would have never wanted to see that internet page, hastily closed but clear enough to impress itself deeply into his retina. All in all, the friar would not have thrown him out of the kitchen so easily.
"Flynn."
The backpack fell, spilling its contents onto the floor.
"Son, follow me, Agnes can set her own."
Father Thoram didn't even seem to have noticed the mountain of papers scattered on the brown tiles. Standing out from the sagging features of his face, his eyes looked blacker than usual.
My Entry:
Flynn looked to Agnes, his heartbeat increasing. He wondered if the woman knew how much she meant to him, all those years she had waited with chocolate and a kiss after he had scraped a knee in the rose garden.
Father Thoram turned around and withdrew from the kitchen. The instruction was clear: follow me.
The cook ran her hand over his arm as the boy passed her. He followed the friar to his office, every footstep echoing like the ticks of a clock in a silent room. Father Thoram held open the door and gestured for Flynn to sit in the threadbare chair.
“How are you, my boy?”
The question was unassuming but Flynn knew what he was really asking. He wondered how he had managed to avoid this conversation for a month. Father Thoram continued in the silence.
“You haven’t been attending chapel, you know it’s important for when you decide to join.”
Flynn purposely looked away feigning disinterest, he studied the selves of ancient leather bound books, each gleaming from a recent clean.
Father Thoram sighed.
“We need to talk about this Flynn.”
Anger surged from the pit of his stomach to the tips of his fingers.
“You lied to me.”
That was the truth of the matter. There was no hiding from it, for either of them.
“I understand your anger, please be angry with me, but don’t shut yourself away from God.”
Flynn spoke before the friar had finished.
“You told me she died in a car accident.”
Tears pooled and cascaded down his cheeks.
“I thought I was protecting you, I see now I was wrong.”
Flynn furiously wiped away the tears and spoke through gritted teeth.
“She went to hell for committing suicide, forgive me Father for not looking to God for help with this.”
He stood up quickly, pushing the old chair to the floor and flew out of the room.
He thought back to the day when everything had changed, when he had found the letter on the Friar’s laptop.
He hadn’t told anyone about the suicide note addressed to him from his mother, he hadn’t even told Agnes.
His feet found themselves treading well worn routes, coming to stop at a particular spot. He looked at the wall that displayed a mahogany and brass plaque. In memory of Barbara Howard. Loving mother and wife.
After finding out the truth, he had focused on his thesis, the sooner he graduated, the sooner he could leave. He couldn’t bear the idea of taking the holy orders after being tainted by her sin. No, he would leave and never step foot in the cloisters again.
This is my entry to the 
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