(Chapters are stored chronologically in ARCHIVES.)
The Diary of Rhea Sinclair
November 18, 1932
I am alone in my cell.
The world is still.
Except a night bird calls in the trees beyond the back lawn of Sterns-Carson.
I savor these hours. The ones between dark and light. Just before the veil of Nyx has been lifted and the sun rises over the trees like the great skyboat of Ra. This is when my mind knows peace. When I am able to shed my soul cloak and rise like a diver in the deep blue sea who is hungry for the fresh air above.
A time will come when I will no longer require such a respite.
A time will come when the last vestige of Rhea Sinclair is assigned to the ash heap of mortals.
A time will come when I am the night.
Perhaps I will then be free. Perhaps I will forget all of my life that came before. Perhaps I will understand and embrace my fate. I have been called and those who are called can deign but answer.
The priest returned yesterday. I was unsurprised. Despite his emasculating vows of celibacy he wants me as all men want me.
Perhaps that is the motive for his solicitous attentions. To gain my trust in hopes to lift my gown and have his way with me behind the closed door of my cell where he thinks no one will ever know or ever see or ever believe what a madwoman has to say.
It will be a cold day in hell before I surrender to a papist in black. Unless it suits my purposes.
A knock on the door announced his arrival. Then the little speakeasy window slid open. The priest put his mouth close and spoke loudly like I was deaf. Hargest opened the door and the confessor entered my room. He just stood there for a few moments. Stared at me like an awkward little boy. Afraid of the nascent desires that wrenched his gut.
Ive something for you he finally said.
When a man makes such a pronouncement it can mean one of only two things. I saw the package in his hand and understood his intentions.
Rather than offer me the gift he tore off the brown wrapping paper. Like it was his right to do so. Then he handed me a book. This
gilt edged journal with the red leather cover.
The priest told me that Dr. Agnostica had consented to the indulgence. Agreed it may prove therapeutic for me to write down my thoughts and feelings. That dago bastard doesnt want to know my thoughts and feelings. He couldnt reconcile the sum.
I graciously accepted the gift with the self effacing good manners I had been taught as a young girl though my days as a self effacing young girl are long ago and far away.
My demure manner impressed the priest. It left him vulnerable.
I cast my spell.
Scarlet rose on the pale expanse of his throat when I bade him kiss me.
He trembled as I filled his mouth.
He quivered as I speared his heart.
I showed Michael Leavell what his life of misplaced devotion has cost him.
Desire and longing and lust overwhelmed his spirit.
Fear and doubt and recrimination ravaged his soul.
Men are such puny creatures.
Children masquerading as Titans.
They remain their entire lives wet and helpless.
Were my powers in full bloom I could have taken him once and forever at that moment. Though I nearly emptied him of resistance he managed to elude me. His mind will never be at peace again.
Will the priest ever dare attempt to reverse his fortunes. Attempt to reclaim the treasure that he cast away in the name of some dead prophet.
No. He will add his suffering to the mountain of misery and penance that has supplanted the impulses of his natural endowments. He lives by a philosophy that preaches humility. A false humility. A humility that merely enables the illusion of a sense of moral superiority. While it sucks him dry.
I brought his spirit to hand yesterday and I will do so again if he dares to confront me in the future.
I know that he will confront me. That is his calling. That is why he he came to see me in the first place. He is a lackey of the Citta del Vaticano. An errand boy who thinks he is a warrior.
I will teach him the true ways of war before all is said and done. Of that one thing I am certain.
I hear Hargest now. His footsteps in the hall are like the dull clod of some lethargic bovine. He fancies himself to possess the physical prowess of a great bull. He is more like a cud chewing milk cow with testicles.
I see his mind as he approaches. Risen early and hoping to avail himself of my charms while the rest of the hospital struggles to wake and meet the day. I will lay down and feign sleep. Let him enter and gaze at me. Let him touch me as I let him touch me before.
His clumsy caress is to me nothing more than the treadle of a small insect. With each touch he becomes more completely mine. A day will soon dawn when he will do my unspoken bidding. Unaware of the motives for his behavior. Unable to stop himself from performing any deed that I see fit. No matter that he may be repulsed by it.
If my intentions were not to be misconstrued I would thank the priest for this diary the next time he returns. For I am learning more each hour. Lessons of magnitude that need inscription. One day there will no longer be any need to inscribe the lessons. I will have become the lessons.
Until that time this red leather volume will be my bible of darkness. My tome of perdition. My Book of the Dead.
©2011 j.edwardfitzgerald all rights reserved
echo lake road 
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