The Nun Who Loved Rammstein

Fiction
Natasha Cabot


Photo Credit: Celine Nadeau/Flickr (CC-by-sa)

Sister Mary Moira Frances O’Shannon stands naked at her window, smoking and fingering herself as she watches the boy and girl across the street drink whiskey and make out. If they were to look up, they’d see the naked nun but they don’t so they won’t. She sees the boy kiss the girl’s neck while the girl reaches down and rubs the boy’s crotch. Their mouths connect again with an inelegant grace. The boy pushes the girl down on the concrete steps while he roughly grabs one of the girl’s breasts—Sister Mary Moira thinks it is the left breast but from this distance, she cannot be sure. Her eyesight isn’t what it used to be.

She’s jealous of the girl. Age has made her bitter and filled her with numerous regrets. Her most notable regret is never having fucked someone. As a Bride of Christ, she will have instant entry into heaven but she’d give it all up to have been fucked at some point in her life. Christ will have many brides, she tells herself. And he’ll fuck none of us.

She stubs her cigarette out on the windowsill and pulls a wet hand out from between her thighs.

She sighs, somewhat satisfied but not entirely. Masturbation is no substitute for actual sex, she thinks.

Sister Mary Moira walks into the bathroom and stares at her reflection as warm water pours over her left hand. The harsh, fluorescent light magnifies every large pore, every facial hair, as well as the spider veins crawling along the tip of her nose.

She looks at the moles on her face and the grey hairs that poke out of them. To pluck them would be vain and vanity is a sin, she’s been told. So she doesn’t pluck and the hairs grow and grow and they curl at the end. When she walks, they flap gently in the breeze. The other nuns don’t notice; they have their own facial hair issues, too. The good thing about living with other ugly women is no one notices anyone else’s physical faults.

She takes a wash cloth, runs it under very hot water, and places it between her thighs and scrubs hard. This is her penance. She does this every time she masturbates. It hurts but feels good at the same time. She enjoys the feeling of the hot cloth rubbing against her dilapidated clitoris.

Now fully absolved, she goes back into her room and walks to the window. The boy and girl are gone and the concrete steps are empty. Opening the window a bit, she inhales deeply—wanting to catch any remaining scent of the boy and girl but it has left. Too late, she tells herself. Again, I’m too late.

The nun walks away from the window, goes to her desk, and pulls out her iPod, which she won at bingo one night. She lights another cigarette, closes her eyes and listens to Rammstein. She finds almost as much salvation in the voice of the singer as she does in Jesus Christ. She feels protected by him even though she doesn’t speak German. There’s something about his deep, rumbling voice she finds safe and that allows her to momentarily forget about the cast-iron hymen lounging inside of her cunt.

She closes her eyes and falls into the music while her lungs fill with smoke. Sister Mary Moira Frances O’Shannon once again imagines what it would have felt like to be fingered and fucked at age 15.

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Natasha Cabot is a Toronto-based Canadian author whose work has been published in numerous international journals. She recently finished her first novel and hopes to begin work on her second soon. Email: natashacabot22[at]gmail.com