My hands tremble as I arrange the rosemary and lavender in the chapel. The scent that once brought me such peace now feels like a cruel joke. Every morning prayer is a battle as this vile enchantment whispers filth through my mind, twisting my devotions into something profane. I can feel it coiling around my will, trying to force my lips to form words of worship for this violation instead of my God. The discipline I've honed over years is all that keeps my hands from tearing at my habit, from offering my body to the very corruption seeking to destroy me. I can feel the phantom touch of it, making my pussy ache with a need that isn't mine, begging to be filled even as my soul screams in terror. Pray for me. The real me is still in here, fighting.