BIRTHDAY WISH.

Two days after the archbishop had raped me, Valeria was arrested. RCMP stormed inside the monastery while we were having dinner and handcuffed her just as she was about to bite into her bread roll.

One police officer said that apparently Valeria had told her deceased boyfriend all about her grim past, including the murder of her father, Robert Fallon, when she had spent a night at his house, and apparently somebody from the Murrays' household had overheard it.

Local authorities were contacted by Ronan's family when the killing of a nineteen-year-old Gabrielle Tremblay (a girl who attended Ronan's university) had appeared in the news. Apparently, the officer said, the Murrays had drawn a connection between Mr. Fallon's killer and the Montreal predator. How Mrs. Regina Murray apparently pointed out, "Well, if she's got guts to kill her own father, she sure can kill strangers."

What preposterous connection! I wanted to yell the name of Edgar Serre but saw that it would only stir the pot in the wrong direction. Those huge skeptics that fed on iron facts would not believe me if I told them how I knew what I knew.

A Q&A seance with a demon? Yeah, right. I was useless, unable to help neither Edgar Serre's victims nor Valeria. I could only plead for them to have mercy on her, but the men in uniform were adamant and mute as walls, dutifully executing their chief's orders. All Valeria could manage was to squeeze my hand and murmur, "In the closet," before they tore us apart and pulled her away.

Her sad smile shattered my heart, devastated me to the point of explosion. "This isn't fair!" I shouted, chasing after the officers that shoved her into their van. "She was 𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘥! She was 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯 for God's sake! 𝘚𝘩𝘦 was the victim!" Sister Rosalyn had to pull me away so I wouldn't fight them all for Val's freedom. I wailed in her arms, listening to the sound of the departing tires taking away my best friend. I cried rivers that whole day, and night.

On the next day came the news of archbishop's sudden passing. Heart attack, I heard the nuns lament. I should have not been so surprised by then, but I was. Shocked and in disbelief. Disappointed, actually.

"I did not pray to save myself," I spat at the white December sky, glaring into its unreachable heights with my swollen eyes, "I prayed to save 𝘩𝘪𝘮. And this is how you save…strike right at the heart."

The archbishop was to be buried next to the late primates in a monetary chapel in Ottawa, so sister Rosalyn escorted his body to the capital while the abbess stayed at the monastery and dealt with the aftermath of Valeria's arrest.

And I wrote a letter to my family, the first one in nearly 3 years, saying how I miss them all, how I craved mom's vegan food and dad's diluted lemonade. How I wanted to see Lucas's soccer games, and how I wished I could go to a Sunday mass with granny and grandpa, asking them to keep me in their prayers.

My letter was preposterous, and my wishes — even more so, but…Dark times change perspectives, you see, make you long for the things you once hated. Make bad things seem….not so bad. Besides, humans by their nature are social creatures, and when alone they need to feel as though they aren't, that they are remembered and connected to a group. Any support would do; any interaction, no matter in what form and in what quantities. A few encouraging words are better than nothing, anything to fill the gaping painful emptiness inside.

So it was not so much love as it was loneliness and fear that had made me reach out to them, to mom and dad, to my crazy granny and to my lethargic grandpa, to Lucas the asshole. No matter how psychotic or cruel, but they were the only family I had ever known. And I needed family. I sent a letter with no hesitation, yearning for connection.

My birthday came a week later. It was December 25th, an exceptionally bleak, cold, sunless, joyless day. I remember feeling no excitement. If anything, I felt ancient and unimportant, like old furniture, dusty and forgotten. It was not like this with Valeria.

She always made it fun and special, always remembered what day it was when even my family didn't. While my family would not send me a simple birthday card, Valeria would get me food contrabands, books and magazines, cakes, perfumes and other little useless girly trinkets.

She'd sing embarrassing happy birthday songs. We'd play games. We'd talk. We'd laugh. She made me happy. And now? Just one thought of her absence crushed my soul. It's like she was dead too.

The gaping hole in my chest expended, and by the time the evening came, it was the size of the black hole.

That whole day I felt like a bug. No. Something much smaller. A speckle of dust floating aimlessly in the air. Women walked past me as if I were invisible, all preoccupied by the upcoming Nativity of the Lord, running back and forth, getting ready for the Sacred Mass, praying like they'd never prayed before.

And how many masses did we have to go through before that final one! There was the Midnight Mass, and then the Dawn Mass. And now the last Christmas Day mass was nearing…and I was hurt. Alone. No Valeria. No joy.

𝘞𝘩𝘺? I lamented. 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴?

After all, I was conditioned to be lower than grass, quieter than water. Invisible. My birthdays were no exception, always the afterthought of a Christmas table. Never balloons, gifts, or gatherings in my name but in Christ's alone. Only once I was able to steal the show, on my fourteen's birthday when I had announced I was to become a nun.

I still remember that evening, remember squeezing my limbs into a ruffled potato sack of a "Christmas dress", which made me look like a lunatic in a paper gown, and still remember the laughing hysteria in Peter's and other kids' eyes when they saw me in it, and how they sucked their lips in to not let their hysteria burst out.

I remember colorful attires, twinkling garlands, our huge steaming table, daddy's toasts, discussions of Lucas's bright future and my future—marriage.

And I remember sister Rosalyn's poise, her stunning entrance, the deep winter smell clinging to her Benedictine robe, her eyes, gleaming like the green lights on our Christmas tree, and her voice that pointed the spotlight beam to me.

I wasn't sure if that memory was bitter or sweet. I didn't like the way it felt regardless and shook it off.

At 9:45 p.m. the Christmas Mass was done with and the parishioners took off to their homes to end the night in the company of their loved ones. I thought about my folks. 𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘬 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮, I thought. 𝘚𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺'𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦.

Our mailbox, however, told me otherwise: No letters to my name, not for Christmas wishes, not for my birthday. It was an indescribable feeling.

My dejection grew when I went to the kitchen and pulled out a cake, the ugly thing I had baked earlier hoping somebody would notice and ask me about its occasion. No one did. So I cut a tiny piece and brought it with me to my cell where I stuck a candle in, lit it up and just stared at it forever.

𝘞𝘩𝘰 𝘥𝘰 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦? I thought. 𝘕𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘕𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. That cruelly distant God took away everything. My family's minds — corrupted. My childhood and the love I had never received — stolen. My future — bleak. My current life — pretense. The only person who made me happy — in a fucking prison.

Even my birthday was not mine but his! Maybe that's why I had no desire to blow out the candle. So I sat alone in darkness with only that birthday candle burning sorrowfully, my heart filling slowly with wrath that eventually overflowed into my every vein, raced through me like blood, and wrath I became.

"You've won, Asmodeus. Now I am useless junk even to God." I murmured at the steady flame. "I hate you. With all my heart I hate you."

The candle burned wistfully.

I watched it hard. 30 seconds turning to 1 minute. 1 minute to 2. Then to 3.

Candle crackled softly.

My face contorted in pain. "But if now I call for you and you come…"

Silence.

I tried swallowing the humiliating words that just could not be swallowed. "I swear on your fucking stars I'll be the most loyal dog in your possession."

Can you blame me for wanting company? For needing affection? For escaping loneliness? For being only human? People turn to booze. To drugs. To meds. To food. To promiscuity. To violence. 𝘔𝘺 poison was Asmodeus.

I made my wish and with clear intent blew out the candle. And I swear, that same instant two brilliant eyes appeared. It happened so fast I had to let it sink in.

"Asmodeus…" I breathed his name like air. "You're 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 here."

"𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍."

It growled softly.

It is amazing how even demons appear angelic if they make you feel special. So did those eyes that illuminated me like morning stars. I was scared of them no more, I found. Did not shudder at the sight of their blazing glow. On the contrary, actually. When I saw them, ridiculous tears streamed down my cheeks, for those were tears of my broken joy.

"Asmodeus," I sniveled. "Thank you…thank you. So much." 𝘠𝘦𝘴…𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘐'𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨.

"𝚃𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎."

I stared with my glossy eyes into darkness, into his. "I-I thought—generosity was not your forte?"

"𝙸 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚘𝚢𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚘𝚐. 𝙽𝚘𝚠, 𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑. 𝙻𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝."

The voice murmured.

I should have not been forced to be a believer, so that I could become a believer sooner. And for being so late to know God, I should have repented for my stubborn atheism, for not understanding the essence of faith. But I still repented, didn't I? Late as I was?

I did.

I prayed to God to stop me, to protect me from me. To make me understand him. I prayed to God to heal me, to be with me, to fill me with his fatherly love. I sincerely believed and hoped that my pleas would be heard and answered.

And they were.

Only by the wrong god, not the 𝐈𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 and 𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 but the 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 and 𝐕𝐢𝐥𝐞. Not by the god whom men glorified and loved but whom they loathed and dreaded. That was the wrong god. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘰𝘥. But it was he who kept his word and came. And in return I kept my promise.

What happened next? Well…one 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 of a ride.