Saint of the Damned

Clip, clop.

I felt like a prisoner, or perhaps a slave…

Rattle, rattle.

The whispers. The oppressive stares. The undeniable orders.

Clatter, clatter.

'It wasn’t my fault I was born like this, so why should I be punished for their insecurities? Why should I bear the weight of their doubt?'

Caw, Caw.

I’m not strong enough to make it out from the border alive and with the more vocal and affluent members of the congregation I was sure to be ostracized even in death.

'Those rich assholes have ties to Archangel Michael, I’m sure I’ll be barred from New Heaven when I die.'

Fear blossomed in my heart, as we passed another mound of dead bodies.



‘I don’t want to die by the enemy's hands. I don’t want my soul to be captured by their hounds. Is there some way I can escape or at least hide when night comes?’

“Last stop. Everyone out. Welcome to Fort Braggart, the end of our Kingdom” the coachman shouted. The ten other souls aboard grabbed their luggage and some grabbed weapons. Clutching my single briefcase of items, I stood from the hard wooden seat.

“Damn, seats should at least have cushions. A week of discomfort is hell on the old kisser,” a fellow passenger gripped, rubbing their behind.

“Yeah. It’s not like a pillow is a form of technology, unlike cars, planes, and guns. It’ll still work outside the holy cities,” another passenger commiserated.

I had never known the joys of technology. The end days happened a few days after I was born. It was unknown if my parents had been spared and sent to old heaven or if they fell in the first battles. All I knew was that the Abbey took me in as an unbaptized baby and, being just outside the walls of the holy cities, we had no access to technology.

“Man, I'll miss air conditioning and electricity. At least we’ll be able to leave once we finish the inspection, unlike that girl–”

“Shut yer yap. That sinner can hear you,” the first one scolded, speeding up their disembarking from the old carriage. I followed them, trying to ignore their comments, but that one word always bothered me.

Sinner. It was a word that I was familiar with but did not agree with. I was not baptized and could not be due to the end days. Only those chosen by priests can be given an audience with the lower administrative angels to plead a case for baptismal. However, to be chosen you had to complete your priest or nun training, become a decorated warrior, or give a great contribution to society. There were rumors that you could also ‘donate’ your way into a meeting, but I doubt the angels would listen to someone so full of greed.

Another reason I bore that spiteful title was due to the power within my core. I was five the first time I used it…

…

Wet, orange and red fur trembled in my arms. Its tiny feline heart beating against my hand as the black hungry beast growled at us; my back against the alley wall, trapped. Those sharp fangs dripped with crazed rage. I stole its prey. I ripped the pitiful thing out of the wolf’s emaciated jaws, and it wanted revenge.

‘I don’t want to get hurt. I want to help this kitty and make the scary dog go away.’

Tears rushed down my face as the wolf lunged towards us. I prayed for safety, even though someone like me had no right to pray. A green light suddenly enveloped the three of us as a surge of energy rushed through my tiny body; blinding me temporarily. A loud thump reverberated through the dirt at my feet as my vision came back little by little.

Before me lay a dead black wolf, crumpled on the ground, and in my arms rested a purring, healed, orange kitten.

…

I had the power to heal and harm. My powers, though not holy, weren't demonic. I could still be a good person while using them, but the head of the church refused to overlook this fact, especially with the congregation whispering their fears in his ears. I had heard it so many times, usually on a Sunday as I cleaned up the pews, the Father would end up surrounded by upset members of the congregation.

…

“Father Izah, how can you justify this?” an angry older man demanded. “She has no holy mark and yet she bears magic. I saw her heal a dove the other day–”

“Healing wounded animals is a wonderful trait to have,” Father Izah smiled.

“She also killed the cow in the storehouse with a single glance,” an old woman added. “You know what they say about people that kill animals for fun–”

“Ma’am, it wasn’t for fun, and it was quick and painless to my understanding. That cow was discovered to be full of disease,” Father Izah protested. “It would have died in a month or two and gotten us sick had we eaten it.”

“She is unbaptized–” another member of the congregation blurted out in exasperation.

“As are many in this day and age,” Father Izah reminded him. “She has started her training as a nun, so she may have a chance to absolve her sins and get baptized. I am done with this conversation. Please stop pestering me every Sunday. She’s a good girl.”

“Fine,” the original old man grumbled. “We’ll stop for today, but you really should think about what’s best for this congregation.”

…

Even starting my training as a nun and learning holy magic, wasn’t enough to assuage public worries. It only added to fears and gave birth to rumors I could be a demon’s spy. Simply trying to get in good with the church to find and harm angels. Not that a lowly nun would have access to those urethral beings or the documents about them. Only head priests were granted such an honor.

The public, however, refused to acknowledge these facts and started to leave our tiny church in droves. Eventually my caretakers crumbled under the pressure of lessening donations they needed to survive and sent me to the farthest place from any congregation; the border where the war raged on every evening.