My prayers do not reach the goddess. Of course not. Whose prayers ever do? None of the priestesses here at her temple really matter to her as anything more than pretty dolls on display, performing our devotion during her centuries of absent neglect.
Every day of my life since childhood—when my parents gave me up as sacrifice to her—has been spent learning to perform the role of a good priestess who loves her goddess and opens her heart to bleed devotion every moment of her life. But my love has turned sour over time.
I cannot sustain myself on a lifetime of self-abnegation, and even if the others can, they deserve better. Still, I wear my mask because I cannot trust them to understand my needs, and I do not let it drop except when I can steal some privacy and remember myself.
On a moonless night I slip out and make my way to the untamed woods that always call to me so sweetly. The white garments of a priestess I carefully tuck away in a bag for safekeeping; it wouldn’t do for anyone to notice a suspicious stain. Bare skin embraces the wild on the air.
My eyes do not see, but my feet know where to step. I walk a trail no human has ever cleared which opens in greeting for me and only me. At last I arrive at the site of my true work.
A strange circle of pale, glowing mushrooms illuminates a pit that fills my bones with an aching hum as I descend. It is a song that promises the opposite of what my life has been. Pure indulgence. Every night I manage to steal to continue my dig brings me closer to its source.
Tonight is the night. After hours of mindless toil, the song reaches a crescendo and I feel…something, at my feet. A wetness weakly pulsing out of the ground like the blood of some huge dying creature. Entranced, I fall to my knees and lower my head.
I did not notice my mouth was open, but I feel my tongue graze the surface. The taste is warm and salty-sweet and pungent, filling my senses, and before I know it, I am drinking greedily. The song burns as it thrums within. Are there words? I do not understand the words.
I do understand the words. They are my words. They are my thoughts and my needs. They sing my song of desecration for the temple and its pitiful target of worship. My smile is a mask no longer. I smile with anticipation and joy.
I must teach my sisters this song.