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by Lavinia Jane Collins
Originally published by on 18/04/2018

I was ten years old the first time it happened. I saw the apples falling from the bowl before the abbess even tripped. I cried out a warning, but too late. Before I picked them up, I already knew they would be bruised and ruined.

That night, I could hear them talking about me, all sin and demons. Ill omens: the smell of pitch in the air, a comet cracking the sky in two, like a crack of light under the door.

I left in the dead of night. I had already seen the priest's knife, slick with sacrificial blood.

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