Chapter 4: Holy Hell

7:00 a.m.

Pop.

That sound now triggers a full-body flinch—like a war vet hearing fireworks. You shoot upright, already bracing for the next random woman fate has suction-cupped into your life.

This time, it’s a hand.

One hand. Clenched tight. Firm. Flat against your bare right butt cheek like she’s bracing for impact.

You freeze. She gasps.

Then you turn—slowly—and come face to face with a woman in a crisp black habit, veil slightly askew, eyes wide with horror, and skin flushed with righteous mortification.

A nun.

A nun.

“Mother of—!” she hisses, recoiling—but not successfully, because of course you’re fused. Her right hand still grips your ass like she’s stopping you from being sucked out of a plane.

You stare. She stares. Time stops. Birds die in midair.

She recovers first. Barely.

“What is the meaning of this?” she snaps, yanking her arm—which only yanks you both into a clumsy, one-legged spin. Your towel slips dangerously low. You make a noise somewhere between a yelp and a meow.

“Okay! Okay, relax! There’s a—there’s an explanation!” you stammer.

“I am Sister Marianne!” she barks. “And I was just exiting a restroom at St. Jude’s Outreach Center when I was suddenly transported here—to your den of flesh!”

“I live in a condo,” you say weakly.

“Wretched!” she spits. “And drafty!”

7:42 a.m. – Explaining

You give the whole explanation again. The genie. The wish. The consequences. The ‘no consequences.’ The entire sordid, exhausting speech, condensed into its most shame-faced version while you try to brew coffee with a nun handcuffed to your glutes.

She doesn’t interrupt. She just glares, lips pursed, radiating 300 megatons of disappointment.

When you finish, she closes her eyes, whispers a prayer, then says:

“This is a test. The Lord has placed me here for a reason.”

You open your mouth.

She raises one finger. “Not yours. His.”

Right.

9:15 a.m. – Transit

Turns out getting to work with a nun glued to your rear is harder than you'd think.

First, she refuses to get in the car until you remove all visible “sinful distractions.” That means taking down your hula girl dashboard ornament, turning off the radio (she objects to NPR, somehow), and hiding an empty bag of sour gummy worms because “gluttony.”

She rides with one hand on your ass and the other clutching a tiny rosary, which she mutters into like it’s a divine Bluetooth headset.

You hit a pothole and she says, “He is testing us both.”

10:07 a.m. – At Work

If you’ve never walked into a shared office space with a nun’s hand glued to your backside, while she glares over your shoulder like you’re dragging her through a brothel, let me assure you:

It is not good for morale.

Karen gasps. Bryce drops his breakfast taco. Linda whispers “Oh come on” to no one in particular.

You try to keep a low profile. Fail immediately.

Marianne refuses to sit.

She stands behind you all day, hand still fused to your butt, occasionally muttering verses from Leviticus and asking coworkers if they’ve considered their eternal destination.

At one point, she slaps a vending machine for selling “lustful snacks.” (It was a honey bun.)

1:44 p.m. – The Intervention

Midway through the day, your boss pulls you aside.

“Look,” he says, eyes darting to the nun shadowing you like a Vatican-trained hitman, “I don’t know what the hell is going on, and I don’t want to. But HR is begging me to ask if she can at least pretend she’s not spiritually condemning the whole office.”

“I’ll… ask,” you say.

You turn to Sister Marianne.

She stares like you just farted in a confessional.

“No,” she says.

Cool. Glad that went well.

5:38 p.m. – Dinner and Damnation

Back home, you make spaghetti. Sister Marianne refuses to eat anything that hasn’t been “blessed or boiled in humility.” She chews plain toast and silently judges your spice rack.

You watch half an episode of Planet Earth before she turns off the TV.

“Too much mating.”

You sit in silence.

You ask if she has hobbies.

“I lead prayer groups for battered women. And I rescue pigeons.”

You nod. “Cool, cool.”

She purses her lips. “You need deliverance.”

“I need therapy.”

“Same thing.”

11:57 p.m. – The Bed Problem

Sleeping arrangements are… complicated.

She insists on separating your bodies as much as physically possible without detaching her hand. You end up sleeping on your stomach with her awkwardly perched on the floor beside the bed, hand still clenched to your right buttock like a claw machine with commitment issues.

She hums hymns until you fall asleep.

Honestly? She wins this round.

7:00 a.m. – The Release

Pop.

She’s gone.

No note. No farewell. Just a faint trace of incense and a lingering sense of spiritual judgment in your sheets.

You lie there in silence.

Then you roll onto your back and whisper into the ceiling:

“…I deserve that.”

The ceiling offers no response.

But somewhere, the genie chuckles. You can feel it.

Tomorrow is Friday.

And Friday has energy.