Keeping my Sanity

To write is to live

Candle flame flickers as the door shuts, the yellow light hurts my eyes and I feel them start to water.  I stand still, tension making my shoulders ache.  I wonder why I am here as I look around the group of robed figures standing before the altar.  None turn my way as I step forward wearing my white robe, the colour of a novice.  There are nine people standing in a circle, eight wear black robes and one wears a robe of deep red that seems to shimmer and move like rolling water. 





I take my place in the centre of the circle, the initiation begins.  The others chant, a deep humming sound that vibrates through to my bones.  Their voices are low and I can't make out the words, I think it is latin.  I can not see their faces, the hoods of the robes are pulled low, only their clasped hands are visible.  My heart hammers in my chest and I glance around hoping they can't hear the beating.  The chanting stops and the red robed figure holds a knife against their forearm, I know that this person is the Master.  I feel nauseous at the thought of what is to come.  I watch as the light glints off the blade, in one quick motion the Master cuts a line down their forearm and blood spills out.  Quickly the Masters apprentice who stands on the right holds a goblet underneath the flowing blood.  The chanting has stopped and silence fills the room.