***TW*** gore, blood, m*der, trauma, drugs, abuse

They used to tell me patience is a virtue. A virtue that should be practiced every second of every day. From the moment you open your eyes to the moment they close at night. From your first breath to your last wispy draw of air. And by they, I meant the Great Nuns of St.Petersburg’s Chapel. 

The Chapel is where many people- including myself- drew our first breaths, and even some drew their last; seeking peace with god. This chapel is the same place that I grew up in for eighteen years of my godforsaken life. I grew up with my knees on the floor and my hands pressed together. I grew up with Bibles in every room and every sin punished. 

Sin’s, I never quite understood the idea. Why punish human nature? What was the big deal? I understood sins like murdering and stealing, but what was the big deal with lying around once and a while or loving the same gender?

I could still hear the wailing of the Nun’s when they found me with another girl in the ninth grade. I could still feel the pounding of the bible on my fingers, and the lashes on my back from a yardstick. I remember the two hundred forgive me’s that left my mouth. I remember the sobs that echoed around my room as purple and red bruises flowered on my back. 

Living with the Nuns wasn’t all bad if you learned to avoid them after a while, like I did. I still remember my best friend growing up. Her name was Fiona. She had caramel brown hair, and her eyes were so dark they seemed black. That had scared the other kids growing up in the chapel away, but not me. No, I sought her out, and we were friends from before I could remember. Remember the girl, I was found kissing? It was her. My beautiful Fiona.

I never got to see her after that night. There were some whispers about her being sent to some camp because that wasn’t the first time she was caught with a girl, but it was mine. So, they believed they could still “fix” me, spoiler alert they didn’t. 

I never found a partner that was quite like her in any way. Her rebellious ways always get her in trouble, with me in tow. A smile that always made my cheeks rosy. A twinkle in her eyes that never left, even in the many years that she lived in the chapel, under the buggy eyes of the Nun’s.

She was my virtue, my patience. Even my twenty-five-year-old mind could never forget her. She is what I remember as I walk through the large wooden doors of the chapel, met with the long glistening halls. My blond hair, cut at my chin, tickles my cheek as I move my black book bag closer to my body.

Traveling towards the abbess office, my heart started to race. I haven't seen them for six years, and when I did leave it wasn’t on good terms. I was all but kicked out the second I turned eighteen, only with what I could carry. At that time it was this same black bag and a couple of clothes. No food, no water, no money. All because I was too much of a sin to keep in the Chapel for a few more days.   

Sneering at the thought, I was stopped in my tracks by Sister Francis. A look of horror flashes on her face, and suddenly I’m fifteen again. I’m small and cowering as a wail is heard from Sister Francis as she finds Fiona and me in a once-empty hall. 

“Did you miss me, Sister?” I call out, speaking with a confidence I didn’t have.

My voice must have pulled her back to reality, as she composed her features to say “ What are you here for?.”

Sucking at my teeth, I push out the lie I had practiced “ I’m here for God, Sister. I’ve come to my senses.”

“Well, isn’t that something? We must go to Mother Agnes.” She rushes to turn around, and she does as I reach into my bag and feel the coolness of a blade. Grabbing the handle, I pull the dagger out of the bag and embed it in her back. A sound between a scream and a gasp of pain passes her lips as she falls. 

Red bleeds out of her wound, staining the white floors. Reaching down I pull the blade out of her back, kicking to turn her over. My green eyes met the widening brown of her, and a chuckle passed my lips, in happiness. Bending down on my knees, I smile at her as I bring the knife down upon her once again. Red squirts out staining my face and hair. The muscles and tissue press and fight my knife as I twist it, causing her eye to bulge and blood to trickle out of her mouth. 

“For Fiona,” I whisper to her, as she draws her last breath and the light leaves her eyes. I hope she prayed, and was virtuous to the end. Laughing at the thought, I continued towards the Mother’s office. Knocking on the door, I was met with the old hag herself. Her buggy blue eye, wrinkly skin, a curved nose, and if you could see under her veil gray stringy hair. 

“Hey, Mother Agnes. How are you?” I croaked. A gasp left her mouth whether in shock or hate, I didn’t know. 

“Harley” she gasped out.

“The one and only,” I responded with a smirk. 

“Why are you here?” the hag droned.

Grinning, I repeated the same lie as I told Sister Francis, with a serious face. A flash of shock and skepticism took over her features “Really?”

“Yes, Mother Agnes,” I told her, barely holding back an eye roll. The hate I had for this woman was deeper than their hell. I’m surprised the hate wasn’t dripping from my voice like venom. 

“Come in my dear,” She motions for me to follow her and I do. Walking into the office, the old hag starts to drone on about how this was unexpected of me or whatever. 

“Mother Agnes, can I have a glass of water?” I asked. 

“Yes, yes of course. Now that you say that, I’m quite thirsty myself.” She responds, scuffling toward the bottles of water on the corner and two glasses by her desk. Pouring the water, she handed me a glass. How do I make her look away from her glass? As the old hag droned on I grabbed the pill bottle tucked in my pocket. An idea popped into my head. Was it a good one? Maybe, maybe not. 

“Mother, could you tell me more about the painting?” I wondered, pointing to the painting of Jesus. As she turns away, I slip a sleepy drug into her water. I wanted to have enough time with her. She deserves what is coming to her. She would be the one to dish out our punishment for our sins. She was the one who left the ruler marks and bruises. She was the one who sent away Fiona to that godforsaken camp. 

Drinking my water, she followed suit with a sip from hers. Zoning out, I waited for it to hit her. And when it did it hit her hard. 

“Pardon me, but I think I need to sit.” moaned out Mother Agnes. 

And then I knew my plan was starting to take form. As I watched her eyes slowly close, I grinned ready now more than ever. 

As she opened her eyes, I already had her tied up to a chair with my weapons of choice laid out. “Harley, wh-what’s going on?” asks the mother, speechless.

“Oh Mother Agnes, this is a well-deserved punishment,” I responded, messing with my blades. 

“What on heaven earth are you talking about, child?” She struggled against her restraints before continuing, “ I have been nothing but gracious to you.”

Sneering at the woman, “You call those punishments gracious.” Moving closer to her with the very dagger I killed the sister with. “ All those bruised backs and fingers or sending Fiona off to camp.” I finished, dagger held up to her neck. 

“I did that to get the devil outta ya.” Mother says to plead her case, leaning away from the dagger. 

Hearing enough of her bullshit, I stab her right shoulder and I watch as the blood leaks. Drip drop. Drip drop. It goes as it rolls from her shoulder to the floor in a crimson color. A yell of agony harshly pushes past her lips. Twisting the knife, feeling the tissue and muscle rip I laugh. A laugh of pure happiness. She was getting what she deserved and I was the one doing it.   

“You wretched child. Stop this nonsense and let me go.” She shrieks out like a mad woman. 

“Ah ah ah now shhhh,” I pressed my finger to her lips, “ we haven’t even got to the fun part Mother.” Grabbing a wad of fabric, I gag her with it not wanting our fun to be stopped if someone heard. “Now, what should we do next?” I ask, facing the hag, only to receive a shake of her head and a plea through the gag. “Blah, you’re no fun,” I mumble as I drag my fingers over my weapon options, settling for a ruler. I would show her what it felt like to be a little kid again, a kid in this damn chapel. 

About 2 hours later, the old hag was still tied up, blood pruterting from many many different places, a couple of knives- from when I threw them for target practice at her-, and a couple hundred bruises. I was getting bored though. Taking out my.45, I added the silencer for precaution, even if I didn’t care about being caught. “ Any last words, Mother Agnes?” I question with a grin. 

Only to be met with muffled screams and pleading puffy watering eyes. Rolling my eyes, I pointed the gun at her and paused remembering something she had told me when I was younger. Lowering the gun, she looked surprised and relieved, but she won't be for long I thought. “Mother Agnes, don't forget to pray and be virtuous to the end.” And with that, I pulled the trigger, the bullet landing in her head before she could even scream. 

I believe they were right. Patience is a virtue. A virtue I practiced, for six years, but I finally got my revenge. Sweet ice cold revenge.