Page 30 of Deviant

They say that before he left for the games, he was a good, decent man, honorable in his quest. However, what came back was something broken and deranged.

The Scourgenot only killed eleven people that year but also ravished the priest’s body, mind, and soul.

With one of his eyes gouged out of its socket and his left hand amputated by the wrist, his wrecked body is a true testament to the cruelest forms of torture he endured.

No one truly expected him to return. But return, he did. And with him, a suitcase with over a million dollars in it—the prize money for surviving.

Legend has it that his last lucid act was building a bonfire at the very center of the town square and flinging each dollar bill into the flames while dousing it with bourbon.

The most fucking expensive way to keep warm if you ask me, but no one dared to stop him, too afraid of what the priest would do in retaliation.

People usually stay clear of Father O’Sullivan since he’s known to lose his temper and react like he’s still stuck in the games.

Hmm.

Could that be why Rowen looked so frantic to seek him out?

Because she thinks she can goad him into killing her?

I frown at the idea.

If I had to choose between the priest taking her life and myself, I would rather it be me.

Ineedit to be me.

I walk closer to the pair, the priest still talking to himself about God knows what while Rowen approaches him like one would a wounded animal.

“Father O’Sullivan?” I hear her call out ever so sweetly.

“Red. Red. Everything red. Always red,” he mutters, his focus purely on his roses.

“I was wondering if I could talk to you,” she insists, trying to bypass his looney remarks, hoping to have a coherent conversation with him.

“White won’t do. White never stays white for long. Only red. Only red will do.”

Fucking wacko.

She frowns when he doesn’t so much as look up at her.

“The roses are very pretty, Father,” she says, trying to gauge his attention. “I can tell that you’ve put a lot of time and care into them.”

“Red is true. True. Honest. Not white. Never white.”

Her frown deepens.

“I don’t want to impose and take you away from your roses, but I was wondering if we could talk.”

“Red is true. True. Not white. Never white. Never white.”

“It will only take a minute of your time. I promise,” she insists. “I just need to ask you a few questions about the games.”

Old man O’Sullivan shakes his head, grabbing the roses at their stems and pulling them from the soil.

Easy, Rowen.

You’re spooking him.

“I know it’s a sensitive subject for you, but I promise it won’t take long. Just a minute or so.”

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