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PROLOGUE
EVE
The sun sets on another day, shrouding the church in darkness, the same darkness that resides in me—in my soul.
It surrounds me during prayer…retrospection…every aspect of my simple life.
I twist the rosary around my fingers. Soul of Christ, sanctify me. I twist tighter. Body of Christ, save me. Tighter. Blood of Christ, inebriate me. Tighter still until I can’t feel the tips of my fingers. Water from the side of Christ, wash me.
The numbness, the pain, they’ve been a part of me since I lost everything, including who I am.
Passion of Christ, strengthen me.
I’ve been abandoned by everyone that matters.
O good Jesus, hear me.
I’ve suffered in silence, in my own prison of solitude.
Hide me within your wounds, keep me close to you, defend me from the evil enemy.
A single tear falls.
Call me at the hour of my death, and bid me to come to you.
I keep the rosary clenched between my fingers as I use my free hand to reach for the small blade sitting on the edge of the tub. The first cut is always the shallowest, straight across my wrist, just under my palm. A test to see if I can feel… anything.
To praise you with your saints.
The rosary sways back and forth as I make the next cut, this time a little deeper, a little longer. The blood swells from the slashes, dripping down my hand and coating the beads. More tears fall, and I still feel nothing. I slice the blade through my skin again. And again.
Forever and ever.
One more swipe of the blade, one more punishing cut, and I can rest. I sink down into the shallow water of the tub, letting my tears fall freely. I clutch the rosary to my chest, barely noticing the blood painting my skin.
I hope that one day I won’t need to open up my wounds and bleed out the pain. That one day I’ll be stronger, and won’t need to be punished for my sins. That maybe God will feel I’m finally good enough.
Amen.
CHAPTER ONE
DECLAN
Three Years Later
My dick is broken.
That’s the only thing that explains why I’m sitting here without so much as a half chub as several practically naked women saunter into the VIP room and close the door behind them.
They’re wearing everything from thin vinyl straps that expose more than they cover, to thongs and heels, to garters, thigh highs, and no need for an imagination.
It doesn't escape my notice there’s no security and no cameras—which would be perfect if everything was operational.
One of them, a top-heavy brunette, in nothing but a light pink thong, locks her gaze with mine. A sly smirk spreads across her face as she sways her hips to the sultry beat of the music and heads my way.
Fuck me sideways.
Her breasts are huge and my fingers flex as I imagine squeezing them, bruising her tanned skin as I fuck her tits and come all over her pretty face. But of course, my cock doesn’t even twitch, and instead of looking at her tight little nipples, all I can think is how much I hate that color thong.
