.needles.

I have never been afraid of needles, not since I was young. The syringes of my youth interrupted my veins so much, that I never thought anything of them. I even sat with a mild sense of fascination at every pinprick. It was, after all, most of what I had known. I had often wondered what my parents would have thought if they knew what my sister Lilly used to do to me. They were both absent since before I can recall. Lilly once told me that I poisoned them, but then again, Lilly was always saying things like that. Most people now tell me she was mad. I think she was the best kind of martyr, always trying to save me from my natural, unholy nature.
When I was six years old, I had a nightmare. I woke up screaming like a banshee, streaked with sweat and with hot bedsheets twisted around my smallish body like a cocoon. She was eleven at the time, but calmly walked into my room with the somber, disciplined stride of an old madame. She slapped me across the face, which only worsened my agitated state and then sat on the edge of my bed and pinned my arms down. My face was red and swollen, spit was trickling out of my mouth, and yet my Lilly whispered, "You poor, beautiful child" before continuing with her "standard procedure". Both of our parents had been dead or otherwise absent for only a short time, but Lilly knew what to do.
The mahogany armoire had three little drawers at the bottom, my sister went to the last one and retrieved the syringe. I could still see a bit of dried blood on the tip of the needle from last time, but the terror I felt from my nightmare prevented me from noticing until Lilly wiped the tip of it on the hem of her skirt. She marched to the small shrine near the fireplace and filled the syringe with blessed water (brought about by the local friar, who took pity on 'poor poor orphans' such as us). Lilly shook her head and her dark curls brushed the pale contours of her face. "You would think that God would take pity on such an unfortunate creature", she said. Lilly had repeated this like a mantra, ever since she had been left to take care of me. "Hold still child". I felt the tip of the needle nudge against my temple. I tried to hold still, but the fear hadn't left me yet. The pressure form the needle was taken away and Lilly backhanded me again, snapping my neck backwards. "Don't you understand?" her voice was shaking and her face was turning an ominous shade of crimson. I wanted to cry even more... she was only trying to help me. "I need to do this to you. I need to make you *smack* all *smack* better!" She stopped screaming, pushed me roughly into my pillow, and shoved the needle through the thin layer of skin covering my left temple.
After that, there was only darkness.

I awoke two days later but my vision never returned and neither did my dear dear sister, my Lilly. People told me she went mad and killed herself but suicide is a sin and I know for a fact, Lilly did not sin.
She had tried to cleanse herself like she cleansed me, and she misaligned the needle and holy water had flooded her frontal lobe and cerebellum. She had died with grace and purity.
She died a saint.
Now, I live for Lilly... purging myself of sin, so that when I die, I can join her up in heaven. People invaded our house, and when they found me they took me away, but i still keep my needles, her needles, our needles. The dried blood wiped away on my skirt, I purify my mind, and the darkness becomes brighter and brighter and brighter each time...
Soon... I will be as white as God.

Credits: Sami Ollanketo for photography