Area of Study Creative

The old door groans as I push against it; its ancient hinges barely surviving the mundane task
of opening. The rain that drenches my habit, drips down the rosary beads that dangle like
wind chimes from my neck; soaking into the wood that croaks beneath me. Inside the
church, the scent of dust and gun powder is distinctly different to the usual fragrance of
sacramental oils. Fluorescent shards of glass plummet towards the already shattered
tabernacle; the crash echoing throughout the hallowed halls. I sharply inhale the dusty air,
looking upwards at the once lustrous stained glass window that is now fractured and
cracked. In the centre of the window stands Archangel Michael, the soldier of heaven and
leader of God’s angel army, who stares down shamefully at the grotesque parade in front of
him.

The church that I’ve called home for so long before and after becoming a nun, now feels
freakishly foreign. Familiar pews and familiar statues of holy saints lay shattered and
scattered; strewn across the floor in an unfamiliar fashion. Woven through the labyrinth of
chairs and rubble, lie mutilated pieces of once whole soldiers; unmoving, as if they were toy
soldiers waiting to be played with.

I try to move. I try to scream. But I am paralysed by the gory sight of corpses that compel my
gaze like Medusa. Everywhere I look, the corpses scream pain, their volume grows with the
sight of fragments of flesh that are splattered all over the pews. I wail at the sight of a single
detached arm; its fingers outstretched towards the heavens like a sunflower bending
towards the sun. Blood drips from the gruesome joint, flowing over the exposed flesh, over
the bone that ends in a sharp point, snapped off from the rest of its arm. The blood falls and
drowns the unrecognisable face of its owner, three metres beneath him; the broken cross
impaling out of his stomach, stained a deep crimson. Flailing like a bird with a broken wing, I
claw at the rosary beads on my neck as if it is a serpent coiling itself tighter and tighter.

My thoughts, loud and unnerving, yell at me, reverberating in my ears. This war for
‘independence’ is just a foolish pursuit that will end in death. The broken icons of my faith
become blurrier with the bitter taste of salt. The horrific scene around me, caused by the
war that I once thought would save us, is only trapping those who fight for freedom in a
prison of death. I scorn myself for commending those fighting for Italia’s unification; when
Camillo Benso, is just delivering us to evil. Unlike the war in Heaven, this second war for
Italia’s independence will only cause death and destroy our nation. Why should we sacrifice
our soldiers, our nurses, our children; to the gruesome grasp of war?

Falling to my knees, I stare at the broken stained glass window above. Archangel Michael’s
forlorn expression compels my gaze. The rain outside attacks the window, falling through
the cracks and holes as if the angel is crying.

***
“Congratulations Sister Maria! We are proud to welcome you as a nun” Father
Antonio exclaimed, his jubilance shone inextricably across his face. Luminous beams
glistened through the stained glass window; a kaleidoscope of colours was projected
 on the insides of the church. The angel Michael stands within the window, he seemed
to comfortingly smile down on me.
***
Looking at this same window, 10 years later, no comfort comes. Only dread. The memory of
my perpetual profession of vows, when I first became a nun, comes flooding back to me,
denying any other thoughts.

“As a vowed nun, I will continue my growth and development of ministerial, personal and
communal life of a sister” the words I once profoundly professed are muttered with disgust.

Scrupulously staring at each soldier’s face, I constantly see the same expression of suffering
branded upon each soldiers face, as if they were now owned by death. How hadn’t I noticed
this before? Darkness appears when I close my eyes, screaming out even though nobody
will hear. How could God allow this to happen? I stand, trembling in confusion. I don’t
understand; we preach God’s will and those who follow it are all rewarded with death,
praying for help, safety or guidance to the saints who lie shattered among the dead soldiers;
seems like a naïve, childish dream.

“A God of any religion would not inflict this kind of hate onto his people,” I firmly speak out
loud.

Defiantly walking towards the door, I eagerly rip off my habit and toss it liberatingly over an
Italian soldier. My robes fall in a crumpled heap like the statues that are shattered around
me, slowly sagging next to the face of a disfigured man. Piles of statues and corpses are
easily overcome, falling to rubble when stepped on. I turn and stare at the horrific sight in
front of me, looking at my beloved stained glass window. Michael’s figure is barely
recognisable; but he seems to solemnly smile. A faint breeze carries with it the delicate
scent of daffodils that lure me outside into the reassuring sun.