Bad Habits: A Dark Anthology - Yolanda Olson Page 0,8
so long ago.
Opening the torque, I speed down the gravel road, focusing on the horizon as I head toward the city which I can’t see from here because it’s going to take me a whole fucking day to get back. Once I’m over the border, it will be smooth sailing down to the Big Apple.
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.