I was born in a secluded convent on the outskirts of New Orleans, a place where the whispers of the trees and the songs of birds were the only witnesses to the secrets hidden there. My life began as a mistake, the result of one of those silent scandals the convent tried to bury under prayers and punishments. I was the daughter of one of the rebellious nuns—women who, unable to suppress their human desires, fell into what the Mother Superior called "the devil's temptations."

My biological mother was never mentioned by name, but her story was not unique. There were other girls like me, born from the hidden sins of those women who had vowed eternal devotion to God. The convent was strict and ruthless with them. The nuns who succumbed to such "weaknesses" were punished severely: endless penance, lashes until they bled, and confinement in dark cells for days or weeks. It was made clear that these women were neither worthy of being mothers nor even human, according to the rules of the place. As for their children, like me, we became living reminders of their disobedience.

From as far back as I can remember, I was always treated as a burden, as if my mere existence was a sin. I was given barely enough to survive. Food was rationed to the extreme, blankets barely shielded against the cold, and punishments were constant for the most absurd reasons: for not praying fervently enough, for failing to complete assigned tasks, or simply because they needed someone to vent their frustration on.

I grew up with other girls who shared the same origin as I did. We were kept away from the few outsiders who visited the convent to avoid awkward questions. They told us we were impure, that we had to atone for our mothers' sins and learn to accept our position with humility and obedience. But we all knew the truth: we were nothing more than an embarrassing burden they wanted to hide behind their walls.

Despite everything, the nuns ensured we were taught the word of God. From an early age, they instilled prayers, verses, and the fear of sin. But as the years passed, that forced devotion began to wear thin. What filled me with the most anger was the hypocrisy: when important visitors came, those same nuns who treated us with contempt transformed into models of grace and kindness. They paraded with sweet smiles and gentle voices, feigning a holiness that vanished as soon as the convent doors closed behind the visitors.

These actions left a deep mark on me. How could they preach love and compassion while treating their own companions and us so cruelly? I began to hate them, not only for what they did to me but because they made me doubt my faith. What kind of God would allow such hypocrisy in His name? How could He consider just these women, who preached goodness while treating us as if we were worth nothing?

As we grew older, we daughters of the rebellious nuns shared a sense of isolation and resentment. We knew we would never be accepted as equals within those walls. But we also shared a silent bond: the desire for something more, a life far from the shadow of that convent that seemed to absorb all hope.

Thus, I spent my early years trapped between the prayers they taught me and the hatred that grew inside me toward those who spoke them with such hypocrisy. Each day I reminded myself that, though I was surrounded by those walls, my spirit did not belong to them. I knew that one day I would find a way to leave, to leave that place and everything it represented behind.

Over time, despite all the hatred and resentment growing within me, I became deeply devout. I clung to my faith as if it were the only thing that could save me from the emptiness I felt. Every prayer was a refuge, every verse an escape from the cruel reality that surrounded me. I believed in God with absolute certainty, but not in the God of the nuns who mistreated me—not in the God they claimed to represent with their empty words and hypocritical actions. My God was pure, just, and perfect, and I became more and more convinced that those women didn’t even deserve to utter His name.

Only my friends, the other daughters of the rebellious nuns, escaped my contempt. We understood each other because we all bore the same burden, shared the same pain. We supported each other silently, forming a bond stronger than any blood tie. But even among us, hope was fragile. The mistreatment was constant, and some couldn’t endure it.

I remember the day Anne, one of my closest friends, died. She had fallen ill, but the nuns barely paid her any attention. They said it was divine punishment, that her suffering was the result of her mother’s sins. We tried to help her with what little we had, but it wasn’t enough. I watched her fade away slowly, and when she finally stopped breathing, something inside me changed. The anger that already burned within me transformed into something much deeper.

Anne wasn’t the only one. Others followed the same fate, and with each loss, my resentment toward that place and its inhabitants grew. I watched them walk through the halls, dressed in their immaculate habits, pretending to be saints while innocent girls died under their care. They were not worthy of God. They did not deserve His love or His forgiveness. Every time I heard them pray, it felt like they were desecrating His name.

And as my hatred for them intensified, my faith in God grew stronger. I saw Him as an absolute judge, someone who would one day punish these women for their crimes. I clung desperately to this idea because if there was no justice in this world, then there had to be justice in the next. I repeated this to myself over and over, like a mantra that helped me keep going.

But even in the midst of my devotion, there were nights when I wondered if God could truly hear me. Could He see my suffering and remain silent? And then, guilt filled me, and I prayed even more, seeking a sign, something to tell me I wasn’t alone. “The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing,” I repeated in my darkest moments, even though I knew I lacked everything.

As I grew older, that hatred and faith became the pillars of my life. I woke up each day with the certainty that the nuns were worthless in God’s eyes and that I was different. I was someone special, someone destined for something greater. And though I didn’t yet know how, I swore that one day I would leave that place and find a way to bring justice—not just for myself but for all the girls who had suffered and died in that hell disguised as holiness.

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At sixteen, life in the convent was still the same oppressive routine as always: endless prayers, forced labor, and the constant vigilance of the nuns. However, that afternoon, something was different. I felt a strange unease in the air, as if an invisible thread were tugging at every fiber of my being. My heart began to race for no apparent reason, and a sense of alertness surged within me, as if the world were about to shatter. I tried to ignore it, attributing it to my imagination, but the feeling wouldn’t go away.

We were in the chapel, murmuring prayers in a monotonous drone, when it happened. A deafening crash shook the ground, as if the earth itself groaned. The walls trembled, and the sound of an explosion echoed from the east wing of the convent. Some of the nuns screamed, and chalices fell to the floor, spilling wine like blood.

I ran to a broken window and saw a column of black smoke rising into the sky. One of the nuns rushed into the hallway, screaming in a harrowing voice.

"A demon! A demon has entered the house of God!"

Panic spread like wildfire. Several nuns tried to organize themselves, praying fervently, forming small circles in a desperate attempt to repel whatever was happening. But then, I saw it.

Walking among the rubble of the east wing was that creature. It was a tall figure, wrapped in what seemed to be a shroud of ashes and fire, but its face was a cracked porcelain mask, from which black, oil-like tears flowed. Its presence was overwhelming, as if its mere existence warped the space around it. It carried a black scythe, its edges glowing with a dull radiance, and every step it took seemed to make the air vibrate.

It didn’t move like someone in a hurry or in rage. No. It moved with the calm of an executioner who knew no one could stop him.

A brave nun stood in its path, raising a crucifix with trembling hands.

“Step back, infernal creature! In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ!” she shouted desperately.

The creature tilted its head, as if evaluating her small act of defiance, and in a movement so swift I barely saw it, the scythe sliced through the nun's body. She fell to the ground without a sound, her blood splattering the sanctified walls.

Others tried the same, reciting prayers and wielding rosaries as if they were swords. But it was all in vain. One by one, they fell. It was a grotesque spectacle: blood-stained walls, overturned pews, statues of saints shattered into pieces. It was as if hell itself had taken control of that sacred place.

The demon didn’t utter a single word, but its presence spoke louder than any scream. I could feel the hatred emanating from it, a hatred that seemed to feed on the despair and fear of those who confronted it. And then I understood: it wasn’t a demon—not like the ones from Bible stories. It was something else, something older and far more terrifying. It was a manifestation of everything we had feared for generations, an echo of the hidden sins and whispered lies within these walls.

As all of this unfolded, my body remained paralyzed. I wanted to run, to hide, to do something, but my legs refused to move. All I could do was watch, my heart pounding in my ears, as the convent crumbled around me. A growing rage surged inside me, mingling with the panic. Was this God’s punishment? Had He allowed this thing to enter here to purge the evil? Or was it simply meaningless chaos?

My friends were there too, hiding behind a broken column. We exchanged terrified glances, knowing that perhaps not all of us would survive that night. But at that moment, an idea began to form in my mind: if this was God’s judgment, then perhaps I had a role in it too.

That night was pure hell. The convent, with its walls that had once seemed impenetrable, crumbled in a matter of minutes. The monster left nothing in its wake but ashes and death. I tried to protect my friends, tried to keep us together, but one by one, they fell. Every scream I heard was a reminder of my powerlessness.

Sofía was the first to fall, pushed against the rubble by a wave of energy that ripped through the air like thunder. Then María, who tried to run, only to be caught by the creature’s scythe. I was covered in dust and blood—mine and others’—as I tried to crawl toward what remained of the chapel. There, I saw Clara, the last of my friends, screaming my name before being impaled by a fragment of stone that fell from the ceiling.

The ground beneath my feet felt like a tombstone. There was nothing left. No hope, no sanctity, no life. I was alone. And in front of me stood him, the monster, that aberration with its cracked mask and gleaming scythe. He looked at me with cold indifference, tilting his head slightly, as if assessing how much time I had left.

I tried to move, but my legs wouldn’t respond. I was hurt, broken in more ways than I could count.

When he raised his weapon, I knew it was the end. I closed my eyes and prayed—not for my salvation, but for my friends’. That their suffering might at least come to an end. The air was cut by the sound of the scythe descending, but instead of feeling the blow, I heard a deafening crash.

I opened my eyes and saw something I hadn’t expected: the creature recoiling, its mask cracking even further. In front of me stood a woman, illuminated by the fire still burning in the convent’s ruins. Her dark hair moved with the wind, and in her hand, she held what looked like a radiant spear, surrounded by a celestial aura.

Without a word, the woman advanced toward the creature, and a battle began that left me speechless. Every blow they exchanged made the rubble and even the forest surrounding the convent tremble. It felt like a clash between an angel and a demon, but they were more than that—something beyond my comprehension.

I could barely remain conscious. Blood poured from my wounds, my strength was fading, but my eyes refused to close. I had to know how this would end. After what seemed like hours but was probably just minutes, the woman delivered the decisive strike. The anomaly let out a guttural sound, as if the very hatred that sustained it dissolved along with its body. And then, it vanished.

The woman, covered in dust, turned to me. Her steps were slow but assured, and her gaze, though serious, lacked the harshness I had expected. She knelt beside me, observing me closely before speaking.

“How badly are you hurt?” Her voice was soft but carried a firmness that made me want to answer, though I couldn’t say a word.

My whole body trembled, and I could only move my head slightly to indicate that I wasn’t well. She nodded, as if understanding more than I could express.

“It’s all right now,” she said as she carefully lifted me, carrying me on her back with surprising ease, considering the state I was in. Her warmth was the last thing I felt before my body finally gave in to exhaustion.

Her voice was the last thing I heard before losing consciousness:

“You have nothing to worry about. You’re safe now. I am…”

And with those words, I surrendered to the darkness, leaving behind the hell that had been my home.