The Blessed by Tonya Hurley Read Free Book Online Page A

room that belonged to someone who never received care packages from home. The only thing hanging on the wall was a faded picture of what looked to be a religious icon.
    Agnes studied it closely, losing track of time and the fact that she wasn’t alone.
    “Saint Dymphna,” her roommate said in a weak tone. “The patron saint of nervous disorders and the mentally ill.”
    Agnes looked at the girl lying on her bed facing the wall.
    “She was murdered by her father,” the girl said. “See, he was a pagan king and her mother was a devout Christian. When Dymphna was fourteen, her mother died. Her father loved her mother so much that he went totally crazy after her death and tried to get with Dymphna ’cause she reminded him of her.”
    The girl closed her eyes and mustered the strength to continue. “She ran away. And, when he found her . . . he drew his sword. And then he . . . ” She paused and swallowed. “CUT off her head. She was sixteen. Like me.”
    “You sure know her story well,” Agnes said.
    “I’m Iris.”
    Iris turned around to face Agnes. She was sickly looking and sunken-eyed.
    It hit Agnes that Iris knew Dymphna’s story all too well.
    “I’m Agnes.”
    “So, Agnes, why are you in here?”
    After looking into the vulnerable girl’s eyes, Agnes puther arms in front of her and exposed her bandaged wrists.
    “Yeah, me too,” the girl said.
    “Why did you do it?” Agnes asked.
    “Doesn’t matter. No one believes me, anyway.”
    The girl turned back over in bed, again facing the wall.
    “I will,” Agnes said, surprising herself with the certainty of her reply. Maybe it’s the pill, or maybe it’s something else, she thought.

13 “Touché, mothafuckas!” Cecilia yelled, a slim silhouette wielding her guitar from the darkened wooden stage at the Continental bar on the Bowery.
    Cecilia was killing.
    As usual.
    It was her night to headline. Thursday. The midnight show.
    The emergency room detour of the previous weekend was a distant memory and the only ones who appeared to be gasping for breath now were the awestruck fans before her. She held them mercilessly, musically, by the throat.
    The Vari-Lite rig flicked on. Incandescent beams shone around her head and shoulders like a fractured, multicolored laser light halo.
    The PA system crackled expectantly.
    The audience, anxiously awaiting her surround-sound sermon.
    There she stood.
    Silent and powerful. A vanguard vixen vision in white.
    A blank screen ripe for whatever the audience wanted to project upon her. With her don’t-fuck-with-me fashion and her weapon of choice, CeCe was ready for the jaded hands-in-pocket hipsters that were gatekeepers on the New York club scene. She accepted the challenge.
    And she certainly looked the part. Over her head, she wore a sheer, white, netted veil tucked close, obscuring her face even to those at the edge of the stage. Her hair was pinned up in a messy, romantic do. Her thin, long neck was bare. She wore a white peekaboo kevlar vest, strapped tight with Velcro bands. Her pants were white McQueen “thrift score” leggings, made of vinyl, that laced up the front. A chain mail epaulet dangled from her bare shoulder with a single-strand sash made of old rhinestones crossing her torso. Her nails were painted white with some type from a book faintly visible—she dipped them in rubbing alcohol and pressed a cheaply printed Bible that Bill, her homeless poet friend, had acquired over them so that words would transfer to her nails. Her eyes were dark, smoky black and gray, and her lips glossed in a flesh-colored hue.
    Cecilia stared blankly toward the back of the long, narrow room as she surveyed the crowd in front of her from the drum riser, legs spread, Fender guitar slung low around her waist, arm stiffened and extended straight outward as ifdrawing a bead on the audience. It was an aggressive pose, and one she thought worth striking.
    Beaming. Beautiful. Badass.
    People didn’t so much attend her