Sunday, July 6th, 2019

Dear Mother,

It is another beautiful Sunday. The birds are chirping. The sun is shining brilliantly, a ball of yellow fire glowing in the blue sky. Snatches of harmonious hymns float up to my room, surrounding me in their soulful serenades, lulling me.

But I am certain that you noticed the sarcasm heavily implied in those sentences because by now, you are very much acquainted with the fact that I loathe Sundays.

Not only are they awful, they remind me of your bastard husband whom I abhor. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. I HATE HIM!

And if I could go back in time to stab Father, to burn the heathen to ashes, to flay him unceasingly with my metal beads, then I will gladly do so. With all my heart.

My hands are trembling as I write this to you, my right hand clutching the rosary beads, sweat beading on my forehead.

I am not sated.

I am hungry, ravenous. The girl on July 4th did only nothing but whet my appetite!

How could she not repeat the rosary perfectly?! What was so hard about it?! Why was she stupid? I want to yell, roar, scream but no, if I do so I'll destroy everything I worked hard for.

Such a waste.

The metal beads chinkes against each other as I whip my pen across the pages of this journal, the faint light from the bulbs above illuminating the grotesque sheen of dried blood coating its metallic surface. The blood of a virgin.

My insides are clenching, memories of the day before washing over me. The feel of her. Her tight channel. My seeds coating her insides. The womb of a virgin.

Her cries were like music to the ears. Sweet. Refreshing. Her pleas, a melodious symphony. Why beg when you wouldn't be forgiven? Couldn't be forgiven. Shouldn't be forgiven.

Poor poor girl. Well, Daddy gave you some relief in the end.

But you didn't! You didn't give Daddy relief, you naughty naughty girl. I still need more and if I don't come across any of her kind soon, Mother, I fear something terrible awaits me.

A weary sigh escapes my lips.

Well, Mother, as much as I want to continue writing more tales of my escapades, I have to go. Duty calls.

But before I drop my pen, let us hail her ten times, just as your husband taught me:

Hail Mary full of Grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.

As I write this, I am muttering the words in disdain, detesting and at the same time afraid of this prayer. But I have no choice. It has been ingrained in me.

I chant to Mary, blessing her for the victim she gifted me on Friday. Thanking her for presenting her womb through the girl. For bestowing onto me this splendid honour.

Hail Mary full of Grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.

Amen.

I am done now and peace be onto you Mother.

Your beloved in whom you are well pleased with,

Ave Maria.

A/N: This is not written as an insult to any Catholic out there, I am Catholic myself by the way and this is just a part of the novel.

Also, stuff like these will be appearing frequently and there will be scenes which will be quite graphic and triggering. But never fear, I would inform you guys if such a scene is to occur.

So far what dyu think of this book?

Nita :-)