Page 2 of Beatitude

“You’ll be dead before your thirty-day stay is over at this rate Ronan.”

“You better hope so, Daddy Martin.” His hand freezes on the doorknob as he waits for me to finish. “Because the second I’m free of these restraints, your bloody corpse will be laying at my feet. Tell me Father, how many Hail Mary's does one have to say to be absolved for killing a dirty priest?”

RONAN

ONE

PRESENT DAY

I’ve never been one who fits into society’s definition of “normal.” Sometimes, I can’t help but wonder what life could’ve been like if I had been like everyone else. To not have to work as hard as I do to “blend in”. To have my life all figured out like everyone in my past had expected from me. It’s been a constant struggle, balancing between the person I am and the person I need to pretend to be. From a young age, my thoughts and actions have always been just a little off-kilter from those around me.

My old shrinks would dismissively label it as an understatement, then rattle off my official diagnosis. My "disorders," they called them. Borderline Personality Disorder, Antisocial Personality Disorder, Panic Disorder, a never-ending list of flaws and failures. Everything about me was deemed a fucking disorder, because according to them, I was a fucking disorder."Oh, your son wants to burn down your house, Mrs. Kipling? Must be something wrongwith him."They would tell my mother with their smug smiles and white coats. No one bothered to ask me why; to try to understand the twisted thoughts that consumed me. No, I was just another damaged case that needed to be fixed. I must be fucked in the head to want the things I did… I do. Poor little me wanted to burn down the very place where my father taught me that true faith meant blindly obeying his every command… even if it meant being abused and humiliated.

Honor. Thy. Father.

Whatever, maybe attempting to burn my father and childhood home to the ground because I was forced to orally repent for making my bed wrong is a bit extreme. Honestly, maybe he saw the evil in me long before the abuse started. It brings up that age old question—is evil born or made?

The urge to give in to my darkest impulses has always been present, a menacing voice whispering in my ear, goading me toward violence. From a young age, I found myself fantasizing about harming those who’ve wronged me, and when the opportunity presented itself, I couldn't resist. I remember being so consumed with rage as a child. There was a time in grade school I felt my best friend deserved punishment for cheating on a math test by looking at my sheet, and I nearly choked him until he turned blue. I didn’t really think much about it other than it wasn’t fair that he was using me.

And then at fourteen, I nearly killed my first girlfriend during our first sexual encounter. I’ll admit, that one was unjustified. I couldn’t help it, my hands were around her throat and it just… happened. The rush of power was intoxicating, but my punishment after she told her parents was so severe I had to be pulled from school.

That incident taught me to hide my true desires, to only letthem surface in carefully calculated moments of control. The alternative meant being locked away in a padded cell, drugged and deemed insane by society. But deep down, I know that's where I belong. And if they were ever foolish enough to release me back into the world, I would unleash a storm of carnage unlike anything seen before. Which I did after I walked out of St. Dymphna's.

At nineteen years old, I found myself trapped in the sterile walls of the ward. My scarred arms throbbed with pain as I was forced to confront my self-harming habits. It was all bullshit—I got too fucked up at a party and the guy’s house I was crashing at freaked out when he saw me cutting myself. Yeah, a couple were a little deep but nothing life-threatening. It was, however, enough for me to be deemed unstable and sent away, but not before calling my emergency contacts—my parents who I had been avoiding for nearly a year.

Imagine my surprise, coming out of my high, my body restrained to a hospital bed and two familiar figures looming over me. My mother, the perfect picture of a dutiful Christian wife, kept her head bowed and her eyes trained on the ground, afraid to bear witness to anything that may challenge her twisted faith. And then there was my father, the esteemed deacon of our church, revered leader of the boys' Bible camp and Sunday school. He preached about salvation on Sundays while fucking my mouth every other day of the week until I turned thirteen. But as soon as puberty hit and I became too much for him to control, the sexual abuse stopped and the physical abuse began. Strangely, I welcomed it with open arms—it was like a gift from the God who had been forced down my throat all these years. The bruises and cuts were a welcomed reprieve from the sexual abuse I had endured. Aftera while, I became addicted to the pain, craving more with each passing day. I would find any and every reason to get beat just so the pain could silence everything else, even for a moment. But like with any addiction, eventually it wasn’t enough, I needed more.

So, as every dumb, broken teenager does when they’re looking for a release, I turned to drugs for my escape. The sensation was alright, but it left me feeling empty and dull. I couldn't stand the sluggishness that seeped into my thoughts and movements. Maybe it was years of conditioning or trauma that made me crave a sharp mind, one that could go from zero to sixty in an instant. But none of the drugs provided that release while also allowing me the clarity to defend myself if needed. It was a delicate balance, and I constantly searched for something that could fulfill both needs.

Cutting has always been my go-to coping mechanism. The sharp sting of the blade and the sight of blood dripping down my skin provided a fast and effective release from the turmoil within me. But that night at my friend’s house, I was high on whatever substance I had ingested and I made a rookie mistake. The blade slipped and cut deeper than intended, leaving a jagged gash on my arm.

My hospital stay didn’t improve much; between the drug screening, the multiple scars and cuts and different stages of healing and in my delirium, I may have confessed to some unsavory things about my father, but they were nothing more than fabricated lies as he and my mother tearfully argued. As always, I was just another frequent flier at the hospital, constantly shuttled between therapist offices and psych wards. My reputation preceded me—a damaged soul with no ability to speak the truth or feel remorse for my actions.

The venomous words dripped from their mouths, painting a distorted picture of innocence and victimhood. But I refused to be seen as a victim, to be pitied or underestimated. Surviving the hellhole that was St. Dymphna's was a brutal awakening, one that I didn't know I needed. It revealed to me that I wasn't alone in my darkness, that others also harbored secrets and desires deemed taboo by society. And though I would emerge from that ward a changed man, I first had to endure the wrath of Sister Agatha and Father Martin—two formidable figures who ruled with an iron fist and unshakeable faith.

During that stay, I had the same standing appointment with the Father and his psychotic nun. Every fucking day without fail. She was a devilish woman if there ever was one. She would slip into my room, drown me with holy water and try to choke me with a rosary, all while calling me a demon. She could see it in me then, the evil I was trying so hard to hide. She recommended a permanent place in the facility to the priest, stating society would never be safe if I was out there on the loose. She was partially right and as much as I hated the holy cunt, and fuck… I hated her, I appreciated her being so open with her recommendations as it showed me I had to become better at masking.

I had just slaughtered Martin; my hands coated in his still-warm blood; I turned from his lifeless body to see Agatha and, well, she was an honest mistake. Listen, don’t be going around spitting nonsense about demons if you have a heart condition. I didn’t expect her to come in while I was finishing off Father Martin, the old bat collapsed right then and there.

Anyhow, after their deaths, I learned quickly how to cover it up. Mind you it wasn’t my best work and I’m sure I should feel some semblance of guilt for laying the blame on anotherpatient but let’s be honest, the patient was a lifer anyway and I had shit to do outside those walls.

The other thing I learned was that I can’t go around killing everybody I want. I know, it should be a no brainer right? Well not for me, the itch is always there, begging to be scratched. And I had to learn that if I wanted to be on the outside, I would have to refrain from emotional outbursts that cause cardiac arrest in elderly nuns.

Like a tightrope walker, I constantly teeter on the delicate line between control and release. The slightest misstep could result in catastrophic consequences. That's why I meticulously plan and execute every move, leaving no room for error. But even in my calculated existence, I allow myself fleeting moments of liberation before quickly retreating back into my carefully constructed facade. It's a never-ending dance, this balancing act between restraint and abandon.

For nearly two damn decades, I've tirelessly honed and perfected this craft, never veering from my carefully constructed plan. It is my lifeline, keeping me afloat in a world of chaos. Without it, I would surely lose my grip on sanity and end up behind bars, or worse, dead. It is my one constant, the anchor that prevents me from being swept away by the tides of life.

That is, until now.

“Please!” she pleads for my mercy, her soft whimpers escaping those trembling lips while I revel in her agony, savoring the sight of her shivering, flawless form. Fuck, she’s too beautiful for this world. Too pure for the darkness that consumes us all. I mean, who would allow an actual, literal angel to walk among us depraved sinners? And so vulnerable? It's almost laughable. But as I stare at her now,I can't help but feel a twisted sense of satisfaction. Her fiery locks cling to her pale, rain-soaked skin, highlighting every delicate curve and angle of her body. I smirk in satisfaction knowing she is mine to do with as I please, bound and exposed before me. Her once-perfect skin is marred by bruises and cuts from her struggles against the restraints, only adding to the twisted pleasure I derive from watching her suffer.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, trying to resist the urge to run over and lick her skin clean of blood droplets, my arousal growing with each passing second. The thought alone is enough to make my cock ache as it grows harder. I’m not usually one to draw sexual pleasure from my captives. It’s not my scene and taking women is definitely not my M.O. In fact, the only woman’s death I’m responsible for is Agatha, and I still fight that one.

But this sweet angel, she captivates me. She's bewitched me with her ethereal beauty and delicate nature.How could I ever leave her alone?My heart races with worry at the mere thought of her being in harm's way. What if I had just walked away and something had happened to her? The thought alonesends shivers down my spine. I can picture myself driving back north and suddenly hearing on the radio about a beautiful, otherworldly woman being hurt, and then finding out it was her. And had I taken her with me, I could have prevented such a tragedy from befalling her.

So, here we are.

Is my current situation ideal? No. I’d rather not have this beauty tied up in the woods, but I’m at a crossroads, it’s a pivotal moment for me. I have a choice to make and it’s not an easy one. I have to get back home, I need to get back across the border and head back to Canada. These are the rules. I have these rules for a fucking reason and deviating from said rules will end in my demise. Then again, I’ve moved so far away from my rules… what is a little more, right? Plus, I need to either kill this Angel… or take her with me. Both seem like terrible options. I don’twantto kill her, which I know, I’m a serial killer. This should be like a typical day—walk over with a ‘Hi, how are ya,’ and slit her throat. But I don’t want to, and not just because she’s a woman. Yeah, I don’t kill women, nun excluded, but if push came to shove, I would. No, this is different. She was so sweet when she bumped into me, too fucking sweet. No one is that nice, not to me. I’m a massive man with tattoos and a face that screams “fuck off”. Yet she looked at me and smiled, and continued to look. No, I can’t kill her.

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