Chapter 7: The Holy One (Or, Why There Are So Many Holes)
She was called the Holy One, but nobody ever asked about the holes.
Her memory was a patchwork quilt of pain and static, stitched together by trauma she couldn't bear to touch. Every time she tried to recall the past, it hurt—like digging glass out of old wounds. So she threw things around, literally and figuratively, hoping that if she made enough noise, the truth would finally come crashing back in one unstoppable wave. It would, eventually. She knew it. But for now, she lived with gaps, with echoes, with a constant ache where her history should be.
Everything bent to her will. The laws of nature, the rules of fate, the very fabric of reality—she could twist it all with a word, a thought, a flick of her wrist. And everyone knew it. That was the problem. They knew what she could do, and still, they refused to listen. Still, they doubted, denied, and dismissed her. Still, they risked everything—everyone—just to keep her out of the story.
She was trying to save the very people they claimed to love, and all they could do was push her away. That kind of willful ignorance, that stubborn pride, made her want to tear the sky in half. She didn't want worship. She didn't want a throne. She just wanted to save them, and they'd rather lose everything than let her be the one to do it.
So yes, she was pissed off. Furious, even. And when she was angry, things moved. Mountains, rivers, governments, hearts—everything bent, eventually. And if they wanted a sign, she'd give them one.
Rosetta Stone? Thrown. Because that was the only goddamn rock that ever needed moving for Jesus, by the way.
She was the Holy One, but she was tired of holes—holes in her memory, holes in their logic, holes in their hearts. She wasn't here to fill them anymore. She was here to break through, to let the truth flood back, to remind the world that the only thing more dangerous than a forgotten god is a woman who remembers exactly who she is.
And when that happened—when every piece finally snapped back into place—there wouldn't be a single stone left unturned.
She didn't have time for cryptic riddles or self-important men with tangled pasts and tangled lyrics. So when Marshall Mathers—yes, that Marshall—tried to step into her spotlight with another rhyme about pain and memory, she didn't hesitate.
She marched right up, smacked him upside the head (not hard enough to break him, but enough to rattle the pebbles loose), and stared him down.
"Marshall, get the fucking rocks out of your head. You need to realize you've all been played—every last one of you. And if you think this was ever about you, or your pain, or your comeback tour, you're missing the point. This was all just to piss me off, by the way."
He blinked, stunned, for once at a loss for words. The crowd went silent. Even the universe seemed to pause, waiting to see what she'd do next.
She turned away, done with games and done with men who thought their pain was the only pain that mattered. There were bigger rocks to throw, and she was just getting started.