Order of the Shattered Cross: Pt. 05

I'd like to thank everyone for the continued support and viewership. It continues to be well beyond anything I ever expected when I started posting. I'm trying to get back to my monthly schedule for these kinds of releases, but I'm likely going to settle on every other month just due to work.

If you'd like to buy me a cup of coffee, the information is posted in my Bio.

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Sister Mahoney slowly crept down the halls of the Boston's Childrens Service Association's home for girls. The infants had been cared for by the volunteers. Another room she heard the toddlers messing about and swiftly halted their foolishness and sent them to bed in a way only an old Irish Catholic Nun could. Any toddler out of her bed received two slaps in the rear from the yard stick she always carried, even out of the classroom where she taught English. The girls, ages six to twelve, slept on the second floor, across the hall from the teenagers, ages thirteen to eighteen. The reason for this was simple; it was harder to sneak out from the second floor.

Sister Mahoney had dedicated her life to the Catholic Church, but she didn't come to that life until after significant conflict in her own. Before she was Sister Mahoney, the feared disciplinarian of orphaned girls, she was Hannah Timmons. Like many Nuns she assumed a different name upon taking her vows. Sister Mahoney was a stern, no-nonsense woman. Hannah Timmons was a guideless free spirit. While a scrap of paper may enjoy being blown by the wind, it doesn't realize it has no autonomy of its own. With no regulation of her impulses, Hannah Timmons was a leaf in the wind. City to city, man to man, Hannah floated around the United States until settling in a basement room beneath an ice cream parlor in Chicago in 1930 when she was 17 years old.

Hannah served alcohol, illegal in 1930, at a speak easy with clientele nearly as unsettling as the proprietors. The basement always stank of cigarettes and cigar smoke. During peak hours, it was often difficult to see where she stepped due to the thickness of the smog, and the fact it stung her eyes. Sister Mahoney believed it caused long-term damage to her eyes which she never recovered from. The men were often courteous when they arrived, but savages within the hour. And she didn't know quitting wasn't an option when she took the job.

No one told Hannah she was expected to be more than just a waitress. A man was told ten minutes with the rosy cheeked blonde was two dollars. A shot of whiskey was three. She didn't know about that part of her job until she was pulled into another room of the bar. The room was the size of two broom closets and furnished with only a lumpy mattress on a metal bedframe. Each day, no fewer than five men would take her into that room. This went on for two years. Hannah attempted to alert the police but made the mistake of telling an officer on the payroll. She was beaten severely for that, though not across her face, as to not damage her youthful appearance.

Her salvation appeared almost like divine justice.

A rival gang from across the city discovered the location of the speakeasy and paid it a visit with a hail of gunfire. The clientele was massacred. Management was kept alive long enough for interrogation, and Hannah heard it all while hiding in the room that for two years had been her personal hell. Rather than cover her ears to soften the screams, she placed her left cheek on the cold concrete to watch through the space at the bottom of the door. She only hid when they came to check her room, and miraculously didn't find her hiding beneath the bed. Hannah waited hours before she risked leaving.

Hannah went to the first Cathedral she found and dropped to her knees at the first pew. She thanked God for his retribution and for her salvation. She didn't ask for a sign; she believed she had already received it.

Fifty years later Sister Mahoney often thought about that room and her daily defilement. What she remembered most vividly was her not adverting her ears and eyes to what she perceived as God's wrath. Some of the people she had shared her story with believed it was a coincidence. Evil men being killed by evil men. Sister Mahoney would say "Evil knows no friend". Evil men can never trust each other and are often killed by evil men. It was the reason she believed that evil would never prevail. Good can have friends. Friends can unite against evil, while evil can only betray itself.

Sister Mahoney reached the second floor of the orphanage and debated which room she visited first. She never consistently checked the same room first. She would also check one, then the other, and then return to the first, and catch girls attempting to sneak out believing she would leave their room unbothered after her brief visit. Today, she checked the preteen girls first.

At current, the orphanage housed more teen girls than any other age. Girls were often adopted earlier, so the preteen population was smaller, and the girls who were not adopted by age thirteen knew their childhood would likely be spent here. Only seven preteen girls lay asleep in their beds. Her poor eyes scanned the room the way a prey animal sensed danger. Her ears had remained sharp, listening for the slightest sound of awake girls. No noise was heard, and she slowly closed the door behind her.

Michelle Frost's eyes peeled open, and she tilted her head over her shoulder to see the door. As she did, the springs of her bed creaked, and she quickly returned to her demonstration of slumber. Sister Mahoney returned, surveyed the room, and closed the door again. Michelle exhaled and waited until she heard the Sister's steps at the stairs.

Michelle sat up on her bed and carefully swung her feet to the floor. She pulled her nightgown off her body and over her head and proceeded to get dressed as quietly as possible. Hidden in her pillowcase was a folded pair of blue jeans, always positioned between the pillow and mattress. A plain white shirt she hid, spread open under the sheet, appearing merely as an uneven portion of an old bed. After slipping on a pair of shoes, and tip toed out the door.

Once in the hallway, she listened for the Sister's presence for a moment before sneaking to the communal bathroom. Four stalls and four sinks on the right when you entered, and four showers with no curtains to the right. She entered the leftmost stall and lifted the lid off the back of the toilet. Concealed in a Ziplock bag was a roll of small bills she had gradually stolen over the last three months from the offering plate during her mandatory Sunday service. She unsealed the bag and quickly counted it. She knew a bus ticket to New York City was about thirty dollars, and she had accumulated sixty-three dollars in ones, fives, and tens. She tucked the cash into her pocket and replaced the lid. Between the stalls and showers was a small utility closet she had hidden her backpack in. It was filled with two changes of clothes and some food she had stolen from the kitchen two days ago.

The girl's lavatory had a window too small for most of the older girls, but not for her. She took a bucket from the closet and placed it down under the window to help her reach the exposed pipes above. Michelle was rail thin, and only six months removed from her blossoming. She had rehearsed this escape months ago, fitting easily through the narrow window. In those few months, she noticed her budding breasts were already more trouble than they were worth.

Michelle jumped up and grabbed the pipe above her, and lifted her legs up and pushed it open with her foot. Balancing with her heels on the edge, she reoriented her body fully around so she could lead with toes facing down. She lowered her shoulder so her bag would slide to the crook of her elbow and threw it out the window ahead of her. The hard part was letting go of the pipe and not immediately front flipping to the bathroom floor. She grabbed the open window with one hand and slowly pulled herself down, and released the pipe with the opposite hand, confident she wouldn't fall forward.

Michelle inched her way out until she was hanging out the window by her fingertips. She looked down, took a few deep breaths, and let go. On impact she fell backwards onto the grass and forced herself to not emote any discomfort. After a hasty assessment which concluded with no injuries, she found her bag and swung it onto her back. The fenced off area of the orphanage was child's play. A tree was near the fence with a branch that extended over the sidewalk on the other side.

Michelle confidently walked along Huntington Avenue, smoking a Camel cigarette, tilting her head up to blow the smoke straight above her. Michelle had a few habits she cultivated purely from a desire to do things the Nuns forbade the girls from doing. Sister Mahoney particularly hated smoking for a reason the girls never knew. She also cursed, slammed doors, and purposefully exaggerated her Bostonian accent. No amount of whips from that ruler deterred her.

The midnight traffic and Boston night owls paid her no mind. The orphanage was just a little past a mile from the bus station. The last bus departing Boston for New York City would leave just before midnight.

At the ticket counter she asked for New York City and was given one ticket in exchange for thirty-two dollars. The cashier asked nothing about her age. With her ticket in hand, she stepped onto the bus and sat on an empty seat. All but two were empty. Michelle placed her backpack on the seat next to her and opened it to retrieve a bag of chips and a book. 'The Second Sex' by Simone de Beauvoir. The text itself didn't interest her, but one thing about the book did. The book was from the New York City public library. It was checked out in 1969, a year before her birth. The book was one of the few personal effects she had from her late mother Sarah Frost. She knew it likely wasn't her mother's real name, as girls who found themselves at homes for unwed mothers would often conceal their identity, and no one asked questions about what brought them there in the first place.

This book, just maybe, could help her discover who her mother was. She'd go to the city, and return the book, and ask who checked it out thirteen years ago. Assuming they even kept records that far back. It was better than nothing. It was better than doing nothing and living in that place until she couldn't. If she could discover the true identity of her mother, perhaps she could find her father, or any other family. Deep down she knew her father had likely abandoned her mother, but maybe, hope against hope, he was simply never told and would welcome her home with a loving embrace.

"May I?" a man asked. Michelle looked up and was tongue tied. An incredibly handsome man was gesturing toward the seat across the aisle from her. Tall, handsome, suave black hair slicked back over his head as if combed by the wind. A clean black suit and shiny shoes that reflected like oil.

When Michelle didn't respond he tilted his head to tease the response out of her.

"Yeah. Yeah, sure, go right ahead," Michelle stammered. She looked away from him and into the reflection of the window. One look at herself and she thought 'I look like shit'. From the reflection, she also saw his bemused grin watching her examine herself. She immediately blushed and looked at her lap instead.

Any woman would have warned Michelle not to speak to strange men. Especially not an older man who initiated a conversation with a lonely twelve-year-old girl. Michelle had received no such talk in her life. Often the Nuns pretended things like this never happened. In her mind, this was flattering, and made her feel like the grown-up she'd always wanted to be treated as.

"Business or pleasure?" the man asked. Michelle turned to him, and he repeated the question.

"What?"

"Why are you traveling? Business, or pleasure?"

"Oh, um...business...I don't know. Personal, I guess," she replied, clearly flustered.

"Personal business, huh?" he asked, and she nodded.

"I'm Michelle," she blurted out, and sucked in her bottom lip in embarrassment. "I'm Michelle," she repeated, trying to sound more womanly. She resembled a girl trying on her mother's makeup and making an absolute mess of it.

"Hello Michelle," the man replied and extended his hand for a shake. She reciprocated but held onto his hand for too long. She snapped herself out of her daydream and retracted her hand, but the damage was done.

"You are?" Michelle asked.

"I have many names Michelle," he answered without answering. "For the purposes of this conversation, call me Morgan."

"Morgan? Okay. Nice to meet you, Morgan."

"To you as well, Michelle." His voice was so crisp. Just deep enough, with beautiful articulate speech the Nuns would be jealous of. The Nuns, Sister Mahoney especially, would give a girl a good slap with a ruler if their Boston accents came out.

"What brings you here?" Michelle asked.

"Business."

"What's your business?"

Morgan leaned over the aisle and teasingly whispered, "None of yours."

"Mysterious," Michelle said, trying her best to be flirty. It came off as try-hard, making him laugh a little. Even his laugh made her swoon.

"What is a twelve-year-old girl named Michelle, doing on a bus at midnight?" he asked.

"For your information, I'm fifteen, not twelve," she lied, and knew from his one cheek grin he saw through the lie. "Fine I'm thirteen."

"Pardon me. Thirteen-year-old. Same question."

"None of your business," she teased back.

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," he said, and Michelle sucked her lip again. She felt her hair hang loose and flicked it behind her ear.

"Returning a library book," she replied and held it up to his eye level.

"So, you're taking a bus, at midnight?" he inquired.

"It was my mother's. She died, a long time ago. Twelve years ago, when I was born."

"I thought you were thirteen?"

"...fine, I'm twelve. I'm in an orphanage, and I just hoped, somehow, I can learn her real name. The Nuns say her name was Sarah Frost, but I know that's not true."

"You're hoping the library can tell you who checked out the book, and from there you can find the family who likely doesn't know you even exist?" Morgan asked in a neat summary of her plan.

"It's a little depressing to say it that way, but yes," Michelle confirmed.

"What then?"

"Then I get my family."

"I understand your desired outcome, but that's not guaranteed. What do you do if no one wants you?" he asked, and it made her stomach sink.

"Someone will want me," she replied.

"Michelle, you just ran away from an orphanage," Morgan pointed out, and her eyes began to water.

"They don't know about me yet," she said, sniffing deep and running her sleeve across her nose. Morgan reached into his pocket and extended her his hanky. It was milk white with red embroidery spelling out M.S. "I'll meet them. My dad, my grandparents."

"Let me tell you, my business. For the lack of a better description, I give people what they want," he replied, and she tilted her head in confusion.

"Do they give you anything in return?"

"No, I just, give it to them. Everything they want."

"Nothing is free, what's the catch?" Michelle asked.

"Smart girl," he replied with a grin. "Sooner or later, they give me what I want. Not always, but my batting average would put me in the Hall of Fame."

"What do you want from them?"

"Something far more valuable than anything I could have given them. I have a innate sense. I just know what people want."

"What do I want then?" she asked.

"Something I can't give you. I can fill a concrete desire, but not an abstract one. What you want is a family, or maybe belonging in general. I can't snap my fingers and make a family, or make people want to be your family. I can snap my fingers and give you a million dollars."

"Could you?" she asked. "I think I'd like a million dollars."

Morgan shook his head. "No deal. You're going to be too important to allow you, to owe me anything."

"Important huh? Can I be famous? Actress?"

"I'd prefer you to be you, and that doesn't cost you a thing worth trading," he replied.

"The bus traveling to New York City will be departing in two minutes," a PA announced over the speaker.

"New York?" he asked and requested to see her ticket. "I'm on the wrong bus. I'm supposed to be going to Georgia. I haven't missed a game of chess even once, and I do not plan to."

Michelle was disappointed this man was leaving her side. She extended his hanky out, but he gestured for her to keep it.

"Some parting wisdom," Morgan began, and she nodded to accept it. "The worst thing people can get, is often, exactly what they ask for."

Michelle watched the strange man leave the bus, and then leaned back into her seat. His words were swirling in her mind. What if no one wanted her? What if she was better off not knowing? What did he mean when he said she'd be important? And how would he even know that? Michelle looked at the book still in her hand. What if the worst thing for her was what she asked for? Michelle wanted to know who her family was. A feeling formed in her gut, and it twisted her insides. What if her family knew exactly where she was?

The orphanage wasn't ideal. The Nuns, Sister Mahoney specifically, could be her worst nightmare. She also knew she didn't make that easier on herself. Michelle had turned doing what she was told not to do into a sport. She also knew she had never once gone to bed hungry in her life. The bed wasn't the greatest, but she had one. The older girls were bullies and stole her belongings, but as she got older that became less common. It became nonexistent after she finally defended herself. The teenaged girl had underestimated Michelle who tackled her to the floor and slapped her bloody. The Nuns knew Michelle had done it, the bruises and cuts on her hand were difficult to hide, but the older girl refused to say who had attacked her, because that would be admitting a girl half her size beat her senseless.

"Last call for New York City," the PA system announced.

Michelle looked at the book again, and decided she didn't need to know. Michelle collected her things and departed the bus, leaving the book, and her last best chance to find out, behind.

--

Michelle Frost had decided to continue wearing normal clothing the following morning. The events and revelations from the previous evening didn't make her comfortable in her habit. The knowledge of her parentage made her feel unworthy of wearing it any longer. Not only was she sired by a demon, but she was also conceived from rape. A full-blown crisis of faith mere weeks after taking her vows. This wasn't how she imagined the beginning of her new life. It was Sunday though. She went to mass without speaking to Timothy.

St. Richard's parish was where she found herself. It was easy to find, only having to wander the town until she saw men and women in their best dress and follow them. Comparatively she was underdressed. While the other women wore dresses with coats to shield them from the crisp New England weather, Michelle wore blue jeans, sneakers and a white shirt. She sat in the back most pew and could feel the curious stares of those who entered. Curious about who this stranger was, and curious as to her purpose here.