"You know, black vestments suit you," the voice of sin sounded in your ear, tugging at the long sleeves of your cassock, as if playing with the fabric and you as a whole. And your eyes were running around, afraid to be disclosures in that dark corner of the monastery, which was barely reached by the warm light of the candles. Afraid to be caught in such a vulnerable state by the other monks, even though you knew your sin was not visible to their eyes. But to your rounded deer eyes it was more than real, seeing how the light of those candles cast shadows on the contours of his face.

Your curiosity went beyond all the boundaries your religious parents had shielded you with. Your back was dotted with vertical trails of scars left by the lashes of every punishment for where you seemed too vicious. Too amenable to sin. Too desperate for lust. And it didn't take much for righteous punishment from your parents: one glance from you at a boy in the church choir or an attempt to strike up a conversation, an entry on social media. And still in their eyes you were a fallen angel, no matter how hard you tried to be right. The spoiled fruit of Adam's rib that glommed onto the red juicy apple every time. God's patience was infinite according to the parents' words, but their patience was not. The path of redemption was that at your twenty-two your parents sent you to a convent. What they didn't know was that your sin of Lust was already clinging to you like a leech.

"By locking you in here, they're afraid too many words will fly off that beautiful mouth, not even knowing how it could be used for another purpose," Phillip whispered into your skin, tracing his thumb around your plump lips. His hand tightened on your jaw and his lips kissed that outline fondly. "And if God cared about sinners, they'd be long gone," Phillip continued to assure you. Your mortal sin of Lust.