Page 23 of Wanted

Her answer, while Jeffrey brought his rod down on me, was, “The Prophet still has a use for you. Your cursed birth will not be in vain.”

I wanted to laugh hysterically, but struggled just to breathe past the pain.

Use for me? What is his use? Using me as a slave to scrub the entire catacombs clean?

At the time, her answer was so outrageous and ridiculous, I couldn’t take it seriously.

But now, I wonder if perhaps the madness I’ve felt creeping into my thoughts lately prevented me from believing it as a way to protect me.

A person can only endure so much torment, so much misery, before they begin to break.

And I’m quite sure that I am breaking.

The cracks in my soul, my psyche, are old and run deep.

It won’t be much longer before I shatter completely.

Over the past few weeks, dark, violent thoughts have slithered their way into my brain.

Sometimes I picture myself growing incredibly strong. Suddenly able to rip into all of those around me.

I want to tear their limbs from their bodies.

I want to punch my fist into their chests and yank out their hearts.

My mouth will fill with salvia as I picture the stone floors painted red with holy blood.

I want to choke the nuns to death with their own rosaries. I want the priests, especially the ones that give me sly, leering looks when they think no one else is looking, to choke to death on their own cocks.

So much burning rage will suddenly fill me, I feel like I could tear the cathedral down to the foundation with my bare hands piece by piece.

And it terrifies me.

I’ve never raised my hand against another, even when they’ve raised theirs against me. Despite everything the Order has put me through, I do not want to cause others pain.

How could I? How could I wish for another soul to experience even a fraction of what I’ve felt on a daily basis?

Just the idea is sickening. The suffering of others, even those who may have wronged me, brings me no joy.

But every day it’s becoming harder and harder to fight these violent urges. A…hungeris beginning to grow inside me. A hunger I cannot sate with food or water.

And no matter how many times I bite the insides of my cheeks, how many times I chew on my own tongue, or fill my mouth with blood, I crave more.

It’s maddening. So maddening I’m starting to feel the cravings in my sleep.

I’ll wake up after tossing and turning all night, my stomach cramping and my sheets tangled around my legs. The sheets will be torn in places or completely destroyed, as if my nails shredded them to pieces.

I’ve received two beatings so far for ruining my bedding, and I’ve been warned the next time it happens I won’t receive any replacements. I’ll be forced to sleep with no bedding at all.

As if my life isn’t miserable enough… I won’t even have the luxury of a sheet to cover me thanks to my dreams.

Heat fills my veins at the thought and my stomach cramps hard. Almost as hard as it did during the Judging.

The edges of oblivion begin to shimmer, darkness loosening its grasp around me.

Fearing I might be expelled back into reality, I try to dive deeper into the abyss.

But another hard cramp yanks me back to the edge of consciousness. This cramp hurts so bad it has me pressing my knees together and swallowing down the bile rising in my throat.

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