I fall down on my weary, frail old knees and pray to every deity that I can think of, begging them to have mercy on an old woman. My father always told me that pain and remorse and things such as this came from the Gods. It meant they were displeased with me, and found me unrighteous. I had not served them well. I had not tried hard enough.
I pray until my lips are cracked and bleeding. My mouth feels like it is taut over my cheeks like an animal skin stretched out ready to be tanned. My voice is so hoarse, not even a good old cup of my mother’s chamomile tea could soothe my poor throat. I finally give up and cast myself to the floor. I do not get up. I no longer have the strength to beg for something I know will not come to me. I will not be saved. I am a sinner whose hands are forever stained red.