A Corrupted Nun: The Confession of Sister Skylar

A Corrupted Nun: The Confession of Sister Skylar

A corrupted nun must make her confession. I took my vows on a winter morning that bit at the skin like sin. The wind howled through the abbey corridors as if it, too, cried out for deliverance. I had thought I would find peace in the quiet rhythm of sacred life… prayers before dawn, silence after dusk, and the ever-watching eyes of crucifixes nailed to every wall. For a time, I did find something like peace. But then came .

It started with a crack in the chapel’s stained glass. A contractor was called to mend it, and he arrived just before Matins. His name, I learned later, was Daniel. He smelled of cedar and sweat. His jeans were worn, his hands rough, his presence… an affront to everything holy. Yet, from the moment he stepped into the nave, I couldn’t stop watching him. Even during the chants, I heard the scrape of his boots on stone louder than any psalm.

Already a corrupted nun, I told myself it was curiosity..

After all, we were encouraged to be hospitable to strangers. So, I brought him water. Then, a second time, a cloth to wipe the dust from his hands. Eventually, as though possessed, I found myself in the chapel more than my duties required. Watching him work, pretending to pray. Despite my habit cloaking me like armor, I felt his gaze linger on my neck when I knelt. He must have known, I was soon to be a corrupted nun. Perhaps he even waited for it. Because one late afternoon, after all the others had gone to vespers, he came to me.

I was in the vestibule, arranging lilies for Sunday. He stood behind me, saying nothing. But I felt the heat of him, the hum of tension. When he touched my wrist, I didn’t flinch. And when his fingers trailed under my sleeve, I didn’t stop him.

I should have. But instead, I leaned into it. Into him. The lilies fell. The vase shattered. I didn’t hear the glass break… only the sound of my breath hitching as his lips found my throat. My veil slipped. My hands gripped the collar of his shirt as though it were a lifeline, though I knew it was a descent. A betrayal.

A corrupted nun doesn’t care.

He lifted me onto the wooden table like an offering, and I let him part the folds of my robe, just as the Red Sea had once parted for the chosen. But I was no chosen. I was burning… flesh on fire, faith melting into sweat. The chapel walls seemed to pulse, icons glaring down at us in silent judgment. Still, I arched into his hand, my prayers now moans, guttural and full of hunger.

Afterward, I lay there, tangled in my habit and his hand dripping with my juices. The shame didn’t come as swiftly as I expected. Instead, there was silence. Not the holy kind, but the quiet after thunder, the eerie stillness of knowing the ground has shifted beneath you.

At first, I rationalized it as temptation… something to resist. But eventually, it became something else entirely. I began to crave his scent more than incense. His voice more than hymns. His hands more than rosary beads.

A corrupted nun prayed for forgiveness.

While I murmured prayers at Lauds, I remembered how he whispered my name. As I confessed imagined sins of the leather mistress to the priest, I bit down on the real ones, tasting blood and memory. Each time I took communion, I thought not of Christ’s body… but of Daniel’s. My hot sticky reality. Though I feared divine punishment, I also feared losing him more. One night, he asked me to leave with him. Not in words. Just a look, a tilt of the head toward the world beyond the abbey gates.  I knew I was a corrupted nun already.

Did I go with him? Did I let my habit hit the ground as I ran off with my favorite sin? Call me to hear more…

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