Sometimes, I hate being in the US, which is why I bought the cabin in the middle of nowhere, in Canada. It's my escape. New York was a reminder of what I’d lost. And I couldn’t live with that. So, I ran. Like a frightened schoolboy, I ran so far. I stayed away for years before I found Heaven, before I met God and he hired me. Even my family didn’t recognize me when I returned.
Now I’m heading back, and I’ll make sure that the moment I find her, the moment I find my sister, the men who took her will fucking pay. Each and every one of them.
Then, once I have their blood on my hands, I’ll focus on those who took my first love from me.
I crank the engine even more, speeding furiously down the highway as I head back into the country where I lost everything.
My sister.
My fiancée.
And my fucking soul.
Maeve
Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven.
Nights are the worst.I recall images in my mind that I don’t want to see. The haunting cries, pleasured sounds, and the gurgling of breaths visit me every day. I wish I could push them all out of my mind and focus on the here and now.
My father always told me that we should pray. He taught me how powerful God's word was. But I never believed him.
Why would we ask for things to be here the way they are in Heaven?
And if God's word is true, why are there so many atrocities here on Earth?
Somehow, I think His promises are all a lie.
Men and women can’t do things like that and expect forgiveness as if it were merely a white lie. And if they do, aren’t they struck down to Hell? I believe that’s where my parents will end up. I’m not sure where they are now, in some small town in the middle of America is my best guess.
In two days, I turn twenty-one and I know it’s the age my mother gave the stranger. I’m still considered a child in many circles, but I’ve seen much more than most children ever will. The horrors I’ve witnessed have made me doubt how much our so-called "God" loves us. Even on the darkest of nights, he never saved any of the girls or boys lives I saw come to an end.
Rolling over on the small, hard mattress, I stare at the wall. The smooth, creamy paint is slowly flaking onto the concrete floor below. I’m not sure what else to do in the dark but lie here and think about a stranger who could’ve saved me. I offered him a cup of tea, stupidly, I should’ve offered him a glass of whiskey.
One of the sisters occasionally goes out to complete tasks out in the community, and she comes back with gifts for us all. I always get a small bottle of Scotch, or bourbon, whichever is easiest for her to get.
I hide the bottles under my mattress. I pull one out now, scooting up on my bed before taking a long sip of the burning amber liquid. I want so badly to forget about everything. I want to drink myself into a stupor, but I know I can’t.
I think back on the stranger.
To the man who stole a kiss without me resisting.Is it still stealing when you give yourself willingly?I certainly would’ve run away if he’d asked me to.
I originally joined the convent in search of answers in the lifestyle of the bible and believing in something I couldn’t see. I prayed, hoping God would explain why my parents were so evil, why they'd claimed that their practices were performed in the name of the Lord, when all I've learned here was love, forgiveness, and sacrifice.
My stepfather, despite being a pastor, was nothing but evil. And my mother, the woman who carried me in her womb, she was as vile as the man she slept beside.Could I be as evil as they were?I take another gulp of the Scotch and close my eyes as the burn trickles its way down my throat.
I think back to the times I listened. I heard the sounds of pleasure, of filth and violence, yet even then, in my young mind, I knew it was wrong. Thankfully, my stepfather never came into my room to seek pleasure with me. I was safe. I was guarded. But the other girls, they were torn apart like dolls, broken and shattered.
Closing my eyes, I lie back, setting the bottle on the floor before I focus on the spinning ceiling. Even though I drank my body weight in alcohol before joining the convent, I’m still a lightweight.
I’m nothing more than an imposter trying to be a nun. I always wonder why Alexia is so crass, so vile in some of the things she says, then I realize I’m judging her. I’m just as bad. I may not voice certain things outwardly, but deep in my gut, I’m needy for all-consuming passion. For darkness. For a man to engulf me with his lust and craving. Because I’m broken.
Behind my lids, I see images playing as if they’re on a screen. I recall the moments of surprise when my body reacted to touch, to smell, or to physical contact from boys at school. My stepfather made sure I was a virgin after every play date, after each trip to the movies with my friends… he’d make mother check for my purity.
He believed this was the only thing that made a woman worthy of entering Heaven. I wanted to tell him that if that meant being anything like my mother, I’d rather rot in Hell, but at the time, I wasn’t strong enough. I was far too young to utter those words.
And even now, living in the house of the Lord, I know I’m not worthy. Not because I’ve done bad things or because of my actions, but because I know I don’t belong here.
Closing my eyes, I focus on the pain that still lives in my heart. It's been two long years since I walked into the convent and asked for sanctuary, thinking it would save me. I now know nothing can save me.