Page 39 of The Savage

Her mouth drops open and the tiniest wave of anger washes over her face. She wrestles it down quickly enough but I’m electrified with the need to poke her again. Just to see that spark. Set fire to whatever fortress her memories have retreated behind.

She shakes her head, more in desperation than denial. ‘No. She wouldn’t lie. She said I should see the fire as a cleansing.’

I laugh, rough and humourless. ‘And you bought that? Sounds like she’s protecting herself. Or at the very least, someone else.’

‘No,’ she repeats, stronger this time. ‘She… the sisters, they’ve shown me nothing but kindness. They’ve helped me overcome the gaps in my memory with prayer and hard work. I had nothing else to believe. They’ve given me a future.’

There’s a hollow ring to the confession that hits harder than I expect. Her fingers twitch on the rosary again, like she can pray herself back to safety.

‘You ever wonder,’ I say softly, ‘what would happen if you stopped waiting for God to give you permission to live?’

She meets my gaze, startled. ‘That’s blasphemy.’

‘No.’ I lean forward, ignoring the sharp pull in my arm and my back. ‘That’s truth.’

The machine at my bedside ticks once, loud in the hush. I can feel her thoughts spinning with fear, doubt and confusion. She opens her mouth, then closes it again, caught between faith and curiosity.

‘You said the Madre Superiora was going to show you who you were,’ I press. ‘And when the file burned, you just accepted it? No questions?’

‘What choice did I have?’ she fires back, voice rising. ‘I was found half-dead. My head was bleeding, I couldn’t remember anything. The convent gave me a name, a purpose. I owe them my life.’

‘And if they stole it instead?’

Her breath hitches. ‘I don’t understand what you’re implying.’

‘Yes, you do. I think deep down you’ve always wondered what they were hiding from you.’

I reach out again, not touching her this time – just letting my hand hover close enough for her to feel the heat of it. ‘You feel it, don’t you? Somewhere deep. That this isn’t your life. That Benedetta isn’t your name.’

She blinks hard, shaking her head. ‘You’re confused. You’ve been injured⁠—’

‘I’ve been haunted,’ I cut in. ‘And you’re the beautiful ghost responsible for every one of my crazy dreams.’

While I mean them like a confession, the words eject like an accusation, and she flinches.

I could tell her everything right now. The church. The blood. The agony of Mama’s funeral. The way her name ripped my life apart and the carnage that came after. But something stops me.

Maybe it’s the way she looks at me – not with guilt, but with pity. Or the faint tremor in her voice when she says ‘God’.

Instead, I sit back against the pillow and let the tension stretch between us until it hums.

Her eyes fall to my hand, to the veins marked with bruises and IV scars. To the damaged ribs covered by a thin sheet. ‘You should rest,’ she says softly. ‘You’re still healing.’

‘So are you, apparently,’ I murmur.

She doesn’t answer.

For a long moment, neither of us moves. Then I tilt my head, voice dropping to a whisper meant for her alone.

‘Tell me something, Sister. When you pray for salvation, do you ever ask who you’re really trying to save?’

She stares at me, lips parting, but no sound comes out.

And in the quiet, I see it again, the flicker of something familiar behind her eyes. Memory, maybe.

Or the ghost of a name trying to claw its way back to the surface.

* * *