She is just a little girl. Yet she believes in evil—she believes that she is evil. Believes that she was born with the evil inside of her. “Maybe the devil got to me before God did?” She asked her father one night, before her bedtime prayer. What a horrible thought for a child to have. And her father, a devout Catholic man, rebuked her for such words. He put candles on her bedside table, with Guadalupe and baby Jesus on the glass, hoping the fire would burn away the unruliness in her heart. It did not.
Katya prayed with tears—cleansing the evil and begging it to never return. She never felt the same way her parents did when they would pray with words. Eyes shut and hands like arrowheads. Like speaking into an abyss, the words left her and came back with less meaning. Knowing that no one could hear, no one was listening. How long would she force herself to believe for her father’s sake? He was always quoting the bible like a poet preaching his own words. She could barely remember what she’s read, even moments after she read it.
She was a walking, breathing, civil war. How hard is it to be pious? To be generous? To be innocent? It was natural for the girls at her church, perhaps. In their white dresses and peach pink bow-tied ponytails. All smiles and “yes, ma’am” this, “no, sir” that. Is envy poisonous enough when you’re filled with it? It was for Katya. She imagined drowning them in the same water they were baptized in but—no. Don’t think like that. You’ll go to hell if you think that. God might be listening.
She was constantly filled with these violent urges, these hideous thoughts. No matter how much she scolded herself for it all, no matter how much she tried to hate herself as much as the Lord would; Kat knew that she meant every terrible thing. Didn’t even feel a hint of remorse about it either. Not when she glued her classmates hair to the desk in the 3rd grade, although she was forced to apologize. Not even when she pushed a boy down the stairs in the 5th, despite serving the detention. By the time she reached the 7th grade, Katya had been expelled for nearly choking a girl to death. Yet she had an excuse every single time.
The parental interventions began in the 1st grade, however. After she came home with another kid’s blood on her teeth. Kat was a biter—a brutal one.”Gavrila!” Her father had called from the foot of the steps, while he stared at his daughter. It wasn’t disappointment on his hard expression. It was a mixture of fear and loathing. Her mother was slow to come down the stairs, holding her bubbled belly and clinging onto the railing for balance. She was a soft woman with sharp features. White-blonde hair and blade-of-grass green eyes. Perfection beside the awkwardness of her husband’s rough appearance. Her heavy Russian accent was surprisingly well hidden within only the Spanish words her mouth didn’t stumble to speak. “Que paso, Carlos?”
Katya could feel the disappointment in their eyes as they looked at her, afraid of the things she never outgrew. It nearly broke her heart. Nearly.
She was six years old when her brother Jophiel was born. Katya called it the “greatest tragedy in her life” and cried when he came home for the first time. Her parents constantly doted on him. They coddled him. Gave him the kind of love and attention that they never knew how to give her. He was the archangel, the favorite—but they thought he was Michael when she knew he was Lucifer. Beautiful and almost angelic in the way he looked, the way he presented himself. Nonetheless, he was just as rotten as Katya was. The only difference being that he could hide it, a devil sitting pretty under his halo.
By the time she reached sixteen, Kat was spectator in her own household. She watched from a distance as her brother received gift after gift from the saints that were her parents. He could manipulate his way out of a lion’s den with a bat of his eyelashes, if he so pleased. Katya had stopped trying to gain acceptance from her parents, or even recognition. She no longer attempted to embrace religion, or even find it. She longed for escape, somewhere far from Sunday mass and bookshelves filled with bibles. Everything in her house was a lie.
The one true thing in the bible, the one line that Kat could remember, was in the book of John. It said, “...and as ye have heard that antichrist shall come, even now are there many antichrists.” She knew of one already. He sat beside her at the dinner table; his hand in hers as he said grace with his eyes open, already chewing on what others were not yet allowed to touch.
Hello to those who are reading! This is Kyara. Just wanted to apologize for my being off schedule and missing an entry last Saturday as well. To make up for it, I am posting the story of my two most treasure original characters. This is Katya Morales, she comes first and will always come first. Now I know this is more like character origin kind of “story” but I promise you, the more you know now, the better you will understand in the future 😉