Cold was all she knew her entire life.

Cold were the hands of the mother who picked and snipped, ensuring nothing was out of place with her perfect daughter. Cold was the night when she chewed on wormwood and cried, aiming to kill the parasite growing inside her. Cold were the looks, the glares, the words when people found out what she had done.

She sat in the back of the Church, cold and alone.

Whenever she could, she came to Church, praying to the God she barely had any faith for anymore. She wanted to believe, truly, she did, but how could she worship a God who had left her in the hands of people who hurt her? Who let those men take from her what she could never get back?

No one acknowledged her anymore. No one spoke to her. Her own parents were ashamed to be around her. She ruined her life, all because those men touched her and she'd killed something that wasn't at fault and she was to blame-

She realised you'd entered out of the corner of her eye, 'the city slicker' you were dubbed, a distant relative of one of the priests, she vaguely recalled. They must not have told you about her sin, because your gaze stayed upon her, even when you made eye contact.

She hoped you wouldn't be unkind. She'd been hurt enough.