Page 1 of Beatitude

RONAN

PROLOGUE

TWENTY-ONE YEARS AGO

“Mom! Please!” My screams echo through the sterile walls of St. Dymphna's mental institution as I struggle against the two burly orderlies. My snake of a mother sobs against my father's chest, her mascara running down her face in smudged black streaks. This is all her fault—her and that damn priest who’s convinced them I’m possessed by the Devil. How can they lock me away like this? I’m nineteen, I’m a goddamn legal adult, how are they allowed to do this to me?

The old man in the cassock stands beside them, his hand resting comfortingly on my mother's shoulder as he spews out lies about their "treatment" methods. I glared at him, hatred burning in my veins. “He’s in good hands.” His overly calm voice is like nails on a chalkboard. “I assure you, here at St. Dymphna’s, we take great pride in the treatment and curing of those who have a little more of the Devil in them thanothers.”

The Devil?I don’t have the Devil in me. I’m completely fucking fine but it’s the Devil they want, they can rest assured, it’s the Devil they’re going to get. The priest looks at me, his eyes darkening as our gaze’s lock. “You’re going to be a good young man and allow us to help you, right, Ronan?”

“Fuck. You.” I spit the words out, fighting against the men again. I feel something sharp puncture the skin on my ass. “God… dammit.” I grit as the medication begins to weaken me, my muscles going limp, making it impossible for me to continue fighting as they strap me to the bed. My parents lean over me, tears continuing to stream down my mother’s face, landing on my cheek as she whispers apologies and promises thatthis is for my own good. I glare up at her as my vision begins to blur.

“I’m so sorry,” she chokes out. Sorry, always sorry. Sorry means nothing if you don’t change your actions. Sorry you got beat. Sorry you spent hours kneeling on rice while praying. Sorry your father molested you while I ignored your cries and turned the music up to drown out your cries. Sorry. Sorry. SORRY.

Fuck her and fuck her sorrys. She’s worse than that disgusting creature she created me with. I’m the Devil, sure. If I’m the Devil, what does that make him?

Closing my eyes, I allow the drugs to pull me into the dark abyss, my temporary reprieve from this prison. They’re going to try tocureme, ha, good luck with that. They have no idea who they’re dealing with. There is no cure for what I’ve become and by them holding me here against my will, it’s only ensuring that once I get out of this hellhole—and I fucking will—retribution would be swift and merciless forallthose who betrayed me.

“Bitch!”I gasp as the wretched old hag of a nun, Sister Agatha, forces the cloth over my nose and mouth once more. The holy water drenches my skin as she douses it over my face, making me feel like I am drowning in pain. My body convulses against the restraints and my lungs burn for air as she continues to chant the same phrases over and over again in Latin. She finally removes the cloth and I gasp for air, only to have her rosary viciously tighten around my neck, cutting off my air supply once again. Her cold eyes pierce into mine as she chants on.

“Daemonium!” she hisses. “Relinquo daemonium!”

“Ah,” Father Martin muses while strolling into my room, his cool smile front and center. “Sister Agatha, I see you’ve been hard at work.” He places a hand on the nun’s shoulder and she releases her chokehold, allowing her rosary to loosen and air to fill my lungs once more. “Ronan, good evening my son, are you ready to have a chat with me?” It’s the same question he’s asked every day for a week now. He has his psychotic nun come in here and try to kill me and then he strolls in and plays the good guy. This may work on weaker people, but not me. I don’t fear him, that cunt, this place or death itself. And since I fear nothing, I am unbreakable.

Staring at Sister Agatha with her gnarly yellowed teeth and heavy eyes, I sneer before spitting in her face. The derangedbitch tries to lunge at me as I laugh from my restraints in the bed. Father Martin holds her back, calmly ordering her to leave the room, as is customary.

“Hey!” I call out to her retreating figure. “The next time you wanna choke me, try going a little further south! There’s definitely something down there needing to be extracted.” I grin as Father Martin sighs and shakes his head before sitting in the chair next to my bed.

“You gonna tell me what the cunt is saying every day she comes in here trying to kill me?” I ask while blowing my wet hair out of my face. Father Martin's face contorts into a malevolent grin, his eyes filled with sick amusement as he continues to play this stupid fucking game with me.

“Are you going to address her by her proper name?”

“Apologies, where are my manners.” I bow my head before smirking. “SisterCunt.”

The man's deep, rumbling laughter fills the room as he leans back in his chair, his eyes glittering with amusement. "It's a shame you're so determined to dive straight into the fiery pits of Hell," he chuckles, his voice smooth. "You've got a sharp wit, Ronan. I like that about you."

I shift uncomfortably on my wet, itchy pillow, trying to find some small semblance of comfort. "Yeah well," I begin, my voice strained from the nun's earlier assault. "I hear I'm about ten years too old for you, Daddy Martin." I wink as his amused smile turns to a dark scowl.

With a deep, guttural grunt, he slowly opens the weathered book in his lap. “Leave, demon,” he mutters, his eyes scanning the pages intently. “Sister Agatha, bless her kind heart, believes there is a demon attached to your soul and is determined to rid you of it.”

“Oh, how very kind,” I mutter while looking at my restraints. “Tomorrow I’ll make sure to vomit on her, give her a real show.”

"Why do you want to die, Ronan?" His question is like a punch to the gut, unexpected and jolting. He's never asked me a genuine question before; usually, I just remind him that I know he’s fucking boys in the chapel and he leaves the room five minutes later. It’s disgusting really and once I’m out of these restraints, he'll likely be my first kill. Not because I'm some hero seeking justice for those poor boys; they're already broken and beyond saving. No, I want him dead because he reminds me of my own father—preaching bible verses while doling out punishments. It's a cliché, I know—always with the daddy issues—but it doesn't make it any less true.

“Now what would make you think I’d want to die, Daddy Martin?” His eye twitches at the name but he otherwise ignores it.

“You were brought here because you attempted suicide.”

“Is that what they’re calling it?” I breathe out a laugh and shake my head. “So dramatic I swear.”

“You slit your wrists, Ronan,” he states pointedly and I shrug nonchalantly—this entire conversation is boring me and I would like to get dried off.

“And your bitch of a nun seems to have a bit of an asphyxia kink, I don’t see you trying to stop her from trying to kill me.” The corners of his weathered lips twist in a sardonic smirk as he jots something down in his leather-bound book. I lean in closer, my voice barely above a whisper. “Do you think she’s rubbing that old cunt of hers right now to my gasps and sputters while stuffing that rosary up her dry ass-cunt?”

“Enough!” he barks out, slamming his book shut. “We areservants of God!”

“And I bet he is just thrilled to have you on his team,” I mutter while leaning back. Father Martin sighs before standing up.

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