Alone in the cool heart of the building, she raises her wrist to her nose, and breathes in the scent. You are yourself, you are whole, you are safe. Somehow the words don’t ring true this time; the perfume which once assuaged doubts of sanity and self is flat and powdery.
She breathes in again, this time letting the stuffy, incense-tainted air of the chapel fill her. She has never been a Catholic, but the very feel of the place makes her understand why people cling to dogma tighter than their own flesh and blood. The crucifix above the altar is all stark ribcage and bloodied forehead. For a few seconds she cannot help but wonder what it had felt like, and her hands curl around imagined nails.