And then the light touch of Her wispy fingers gently felt the bruises on my psyche and I moaned for Her to leave me be.

“Look at me, Angelina.”

What else could She do—there could be no greater condemnation than that which She had opened to me.

But wait. Those were my terrors, my horrors. Where were Hers? Where was Her revelation?

I turned my eyes toward Her, and at last I saw Her for who She really was. I thought She had pulled from me all the terror I owned, but upon seeing Her face, again terror ripped through me. And then amazement. And then hope.

Finally, finally, I understood. Of course I could never escape Her affections. How foolish I had been to ever try.

A younger, freer Angelina hooted with extravagant enthusiasm somewhere within my heart. And then I understood love, and freedom, and satisfaction—a satisfaction so deep, so adult, so solid and substantial, that the joy of our evening just past paled in comparison.

My joints were stiff when awareness sloshed through my body. I disengaged myself from Sarah’s cold embrace and opened the closet door, listening. Heightened senses were suddenly mine, as was the ability to mask pain through the use of internal music.

I showered, noticing a new posture of my body. My skin seemed to have a translucence about it; blue veins showed plainly. I no longer looked scrawny and unhealthy; I was lean and statuesque. Overnight, I had changed into a person worthy of worship.

I dried myself and combed my hair straight back, using Sarah’s comb. My face had gained years, wisdom, confidence, character features that were ever so handsome. I viewed my face for a long moment in the harsh light of the bathroom mirror, then turned out the light. In the dim glow cast by the moon and captured by the mirror, my cheeks and eyes hollowed in the shadow of prominent bones and ridges. The skin of my face was clear and unlined, pale and fragile. Yet it was strangely incomplete. Something was missing.