Sinner's reaper

002~ SUCIDE

Jane adams

On my route to the coffee shop the following morning, I strolled past Amira's house. The lights were dim, and the silence hung in the air. A quiet wish crossed my mind, hoping she was finding solace. Strangely, I felt an unexpected interest in her well-being, perhaps because she echoed a resemblance to my own sister.

Suppressing the emotions that stirred within me, I donned my earphones, drowning the unspoken concerns with music, and continued on my way. I reached the coffee shop before others, silently hoping that today would cast a brighter light than the shadows of yesterday.

Who was I fooling, right?

At 7 a.m., I had no plans of clocking out early. Today, I was extending a hand to Nancy, covering her shift as she dashed off somewhere urgent. Just as I settled into the rhythm of the coffee shop, the distant wail of an ambulance pierced the air, drawing a curious crowd outside, eager to unravel the unfolding drama.

"That wretched child—" A man hissed as he strode in. "—should've faced her demons alone, not attempting to destroy the father she's shamed."

"Weeds like her should be uprooted before they poison our youth," Mr. Martinez chimed in.

Bad luck! I was thrilled he didn't appear yesterday, and now he's poised to shatter my peace.

Mr. Martinez, a regular known for sipping his espresso while scrutinizing the morning paper, had a talent for criticism. He never missed an opportunity to remark on my "ungodly" tattoos or label me a bad influence on kids. I braced myself for his predictable disapproval.

"Good morning, Mr. Martinez. The usual espresso?" I greeted him with a strained smile, secretly wishing he'd realize our sentiments were mutual.

He raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting from anger to pure disgust. "Why are you the one serving?"

"Isn't it obvious? I work here," I retorted, meeting his intense gaze head-on.

"You!" He pointed at me, tension building.

"I'll take it from here." Timothy intervened, smoothly sliding in to manage their orders.

Mr. Martinez couldn't contain his disdain. "How do you allow people like her to work here? It's individuals like her and Freeman's ungrateful daughter who should be shown the door. They're the ones destined for tragedy, playing the victim card."

"Sorry about that, Mr. Martinez," Timothy apologized, diffusing the tension with practised ease.

Fuming with anger, I stormed into the break room. The sheer audacity of someone believing Amira deserved to die fueled my frustration. How warped are people's perspectives? Why does society persist in blaming women when they are victims of rape, abuse, or privacy violations? What about the culpability of the men they trusted? And to think, Mr. Martinez, a father himself, held such views.

Amidst my seething thoughts, the break room unfolded the full gravity of the morning commotion. Amira Freeman discovered lifeless in her bathtub, surrounded by her own blood, while her father clung to life on their porch. The neighbour's swift report had saved what remained of him, rushed to the hospital in a desperate bid for survival. The whirlwind of tragedy unfolded before my eyes, leaving me stunned.

The weight of the news settled heavily on my shoulders. The echo of Amira's demise by suicide reverberated in my mind. Seated in a quiet corner, I grappled with the haunting memories of our brief connection. Throughout the day, I wrestled with a cocktail of sorrow and guilt, questioning whether my words to her had triggered something. The clinking of cups and the hum of conversations in the coffee shop became a distant symphony to the inner turmoil consuming me.

On a sombre Thursday, Amira took her last breath, and since that day, her father lingered in the hospital, shrouded in mystery. The town remained hushed, the police conspiring to keep the case under wraps. The week crawled by, and all conversations in the town square revolved around the harsh judgment of Amira. It was as if no one had a single kind word for her, a stark contrast to the girl every parent once wished their child to emulate.

Reflecting on this, it's disheartening how swiftly opinions shift. Humans, in their fickleness, can be the harshest judges.

◇ ◇ ◇

On Sunday mornings, the coffee shop remained closed, granting me a reprieve from the usual rush to work. Typically, I'd embrace a leisurely slumber until the afternoon, gearing up for my bar shift later. However, today deviated from the norm; fatigue clung to me like an unwelcome shadow. Amira's presence haunted my dreams for a week now, disrupting my once-peaceful sleep. It's ironic—after conquering nightmares about my sister, I find myself ensnared by dreams of a girl I hadn't spoken to since the day before her untimely departure.

Mercy barged into my room, neglecting the courtesy of a knock — a familiar intrusion. Resolving to fix my door lock within the week, I vowed not to procrastinate.

"How do I look?" she inquired.

"Like the devil recruiting followers from the house of the lord," I quipped, without even glancing her way.

"Would it hurt to be a little nice? Unlike you, I do attend church, ensuring my spot in heaven," she boldly asserted, examining herself in the mirror.

"Does merely attending church guarantee a spot in heaven? If that's the criteria, would anyone end up in hell?" I pondered, injecting a touch of seriousness into the conversation.

I've never believed in God. Raised in an environment that seldom spoke of him, my prayers, if ever offered, went unanswered. Perhaps I didn't pray enough, or maybe he simply didn't know me. In the end, I concluded he didn't exist. Yet, attending church alone doesn't guarantee heaven. I can't help but question that, especially considering I know Mercy better than anyone in this town, and she's no saint.

"Yeah, you. No wonder most of the town people avoid you. You act like an agent of the devil. I wonder how you still keep your job at the coffee shop?" she remarked, wearing my perfume.

I sat up on the bed, frowning, witnessing the hissing sound as my perfume escaped the bottle.

"I'll get you another one, shithead," she declared before leaving, a promise I'd heard before but never saw fulfilled.

Living with Mercy wasn't my initial reality. She surfaced as my mom's sister, a revelation following an incident three years ago. We fled to this town after her involvement in a drug overdose case, seeking refuge. She proved an unreliable guardian, running her business from home, disrupting my peace. I sometimes avoid sleeping there because of it. I thought I could endure it, but I can't anymore.

I left home earlier than planned, seeking a distraction from the chaos around me. As I entered the bar, the owner, Blade, sat behind the counter, casually puffing on a cigarette.

"What's prompting this early escape from home?" he asked with a smile.

"Good afternoon, Blade," I greeted, settling onto a high stool and resting my jaw on the counter.

"My escape plan isn't going well. I got robbed by my own roommate last month, lost all my hard-earned money, and now I have to start over. It's complicated because I'm staying in her place, so I can't even be angry at her." A sigh escaped my lips.

Blade poured a drink and slid it towards me. Staring at the golden liquid in the glass, I took a sip, grimacing at the bitterness. I'm not a fan of alcohol, but sometimes it serves its purpose in a world that feels strange and adversarial.

"Your life isn't worse than mine," Blade remarked.

"There's a petition to shut down the bar. Some claim it's a bad influence on their kids, leading them to do things they shouldn't and others the noise." Blade, in his signature style, announced, leaning on the counter and puffing another cigarette, smoke swirling theatrically from his nose and mouth simultaneously.

"So, what's your game plan?" I inquired, a trace of concern in my voice.

Blade, a dependable figure in my life, much like Nancy, wasn't just a bar owner; he was a massive, seemingly cold-hearted man with a warm core known to those close to him. Two years of bar ownership had seen its fair share of town gossip, but nothing as dire as the current situation. The ominous feeling crept in; perhaps this was the end.

"We'll play it by ear. Right now, let's gear up for business. Most of my clientele comes from outside town, so I can't fathom what's amiss with these locals."

I've pinpointed the issue – it's the reluctance to engage in religious discussions. I firmly believe in the freedom to embrace any belief or none at all without facing judgment. Unfortunately, the folks in this town often act superior, especially those tied to the church. Take Mr. Martinez, for instance; he dismisses me simply for my lack of faith, deeming me unworthy of his time. It's disheartening that many others follow suit, but perhaps some conceal their rudeness better.

The neon sign danced outside, casting an unpredictable glow on the deserted streets. As midnight loomed, the town surrendered to an eerie calm.

With a damp cloth, I wiped down the counter, stealing glances at the entrance, eager for the next chapter to unfold. The worn wooden stools sat expectantly, craving tales from those willing to share.

A solitary figure entered, door chimes jingling, a regular from Blade's clientele. He sank into his usual stool, a weary grin on his face. I served his customary order, met with gratitude.

The night progressed, the door swinging open and closed, each newcomer weaving into the tapestry of the evening. Two girls huddled in a corner booth, sharing clandestine secrets. A mysterious stranger nursed a drink, lost in contemplation, a silent actor in the evolving drama.

The bar, a haven for those seeking solace or escape, embraced its nocturnal visitors with an unspoken understanding. In the pauses between orders, I stole glances out the window, witnessing the town's nocturnal secrets unfold. Once deserted streets now murmured with life as the clock edged toward 3 a.m. Sundays meant longer shifts.

A new week, I hoped, would unfold with stories untainted by death.