“Remember that you are dust, and to dust, you shall return…”
A choir of voices and aromatic incense saturates my senses. A smoky thurible, ordained priest, uniformed girls, and a superfluity of nuns emerge in front of me. The elegant ballroom has transformed into a place of worship. One by one, the girls circle back to their seats, ashes crossed on their foreheads.
My face and ribs ache, alerting me to my changed form. I’m the girl—body and mind—stricken with her heated emotions. Briny pools leak from my eyes, stinging my bruised cheek and swollen lip. A schoolgirl ahead of me turns around, her face battered and bruised as the one I’ve assumed. She taunts with a whispered slur. “Your manmi’s a Creole whore.”
Anger heats my burning face. “Fèmen bouch!” With a hard yank on the girl’s brai
