Sinner's reaper

004~ HELPLESS

Jane Adams

The room crackled with tension, and my heart pounded like a war drum against my chest. Startled, I forced myself to maintain composure. "Maybe he mistook me for his daughter," I thought, desperately grasping for a reason that would make sense of this surreal nightmare. Was he scared she was going to leave again?

I stole a glance at him, and a chill ran down my spine. The look he gave me was chilling, an unsettling cocktail of anger and something darker. Panic clawed at the edges of my mind. "The hell is going on? Can you see the look he's giving me?" I whispered to the empty air, as if pleading for a rational explanation.

"I just want to close the door," I lied, my voice trembling with fear.

I attempted to free my hair from his vice-like grip, but his fingers tightened, pulling harder. The air crackled with an unspoken threat, and I knew in my gut that this was not a simple misunderstanding. I didn't want to find out the truth behind that ominous gaze, but escape seemed elusive as he tightened his grip, trapping me in a sinister dance with the unknown.

"Liar! You're just like your shut-off mother, always looking at other men, trying to elope with one. I'll tie you up today and make sure you never step out of this house," he commanded with venom in his voice, and I knew I was in deep trouble.

"Let go of me!" I screamed, my desperation cutting through the air. I fought with everything in me to break free, but his grip was an unyielding vice, stronger than I could have imagined.

In this harrowing moment, fear seized me as he dragged me from the sitting room into a dark hallway. The cold floor seemed to sap the warmth from my trembling body, my legs kicking instinctively, and my voice echoing desperate pleas for help into the oppressive silence.

Panic surged, and I frantically searched for a way to break free, my heart pounding with a cocktail of terror and vulnerability. Each moment in the dimly lit hallway felt like an eternity, a sinister dance between survival and an unseen threat, leaving me gasping for breath as the shadows closed in around my desperate struggle for escape.

As his grip released my hair, I scrambled on my hands and knees back into the dimly lit room, but my escape was short-lived. Before I could fully register my surroundings, he seized me again, lifting me off the ground and forcing me to face him. His anger radiated like a storm, and tears streamed down my face as I braced for the storm that seemed ready to consume me.

In that chilling moment, I couldn't help but reflect on life's cruel disparities. A seething anger rose within me, fueled by the injustice of knowing there were people effortlessly obtaining what I would spend years working multiple part-time jobs to achieve. Life's unfairness gnawed at my soul, and sometimes, in the darkest corners of my mind, I wished for everything to end – the struggles, the pain, the relentless battles. Yet, even in that shadowy abyss, a silent yearning for life persisted, a desperate desire to endure.

Staring into the eyes of the man who seemed poised to end it all, the fear of death eclipsed any previous apprehension. The desire to live, to overcome, clashed with the terror of what lay ahead. In that tumultuous struggle, I found myself caught between the longing for a better life and the immediate threat of a man who appeared ready to extinguish it all.

Summoning every ounce of strength, I fought desperately to break free, my fingers clawing at the unrelenting grip on my hair. The room closed in around me, suffocating as Mr. Freeman's stern face demanded my compliance. Panic surged through me, amplifying my futile attempt to escape, yet the grip only tightened like an unyielding vice.

"I think I've been too lenient with you," he declared with a chilling calmness.

The words hung in the air like an impending storm. Suddenly, a sharp slap echoed through the room, the force of it reverberating through my skull. I couldn't hear properly with my right ear, and a searing burn marked my right cheek. The sting of pain mingled with a profound sense of humiliation, painting the grim reality of the torment I was enduring.

"I'm not your daughter!" I screamed, attempting to kick him, but he cruelly turned my head, ramming it against the wall before flinging me across the room.

The back of my head collided with the unforgiving floor, and a sharp, searing pain shot through my skull, leaving me momentarily breathless. The room seemed to sway, and my surroundings blurred into a disorienting chaos.

As I struggled to make sense of the overwhelming confusion, a wave of nausea swept over me, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. Distant murmurs echoed like whispers in my ears, time warping as I clutched my throbbing head and the world spun around me.

Fighting against the encroaching darkness, I saw Mr. Freeman looming over me, reaching out towards my shirt. Panic surged as I realized I was losing consciousness, the world slipping away like sand through my fingers. Desperation fueled my attempt to move away, but my body wouldn't respond.

Suddenly, a black-robed figure intervened, pushing Mr. Freeman away from my body. Another voice pierced through the haze, offering a glimmer of hope before consciousness wavered, and I surrendered to the impending darkness, unsure of what awaited beyond the shroud of unconsciousness.

I opened my eyes and I found myself in a room bathed in dim lights. My head throbbed with an insistent pain, a cruel reminder of the violent ordeal that had unfolded. As I blinked away the haze, my eyes were drawn to the wall facing the bed where I lay, and there it was—a solemn cross hanging as if guarding the room.

Memories flashed before me, my face mercilessly bashed against a wall and my body being flung across the room. The room itself seemed unfamiliar, a strange tapestry of shadows and dim light.The air felt heavy with an unspoken mystery, and I gingerly touched the back of my head, wincing at the tenderness. As my senses adjusted, I took in the details—a room cloaked in solemnity, the cross casting a protective shadow over the bed.Confusion and curiosity

How the hell did I end up here?

The echoes of Mr. Freeman's sinister grins lingered, replaying like a horror film in my mind. I shivered as the memory of him tearing at my shirt sent a cascade of goosebumps down my spine. To my bewilderment, I glanced down at my body only to discover I was now adorned in a makeshift shirt, a stark contrast to what I had been wearing earlier, my trusty blue pants the only familiar element.

Summoning courage, I peeled back the duvet, planting my legs on the frigid floor in an attempt to stand, but my limbs betrayed me, feeling as wobbly as jelly. As I took stock of the surreal scene, my gaze gravitated towards a wall mirror. A mysterious bandage encircled my forehead, and my lips bore the marks of a bruise.

As the echoing footsteps drew near, my heart raced with uncertainty. Anticipation hung in the air, and I pivoted to face the door, my mind caught in the delicate balance between hope and fear. A silent prayer echoed in the chambers of my mind, a fervent wish that the approaching figure wasn't the ominous Mr. Freeman.

With a gentle creak, the door swung open, revealing a mysterious silhouette draped in a black priest's robe. Tension lingered in the room as he gracefully stepped inside, bearing a tray veiled in pristine white.

"You are awake already," he declared, a subtle curve gracing his lips. In that moment, a wave of relief washed over me, for it was none other than Father Jerome. His smile, like a beacon of familiarity, sparked a quiet reassurance, and I found myself surrendering to the calming presence that had entered the room.

"I had planned to leave this on the table for your awakening feast, but who knew you were already stirring," he chuckled, setting the tray delicately on the bed and gesturing for me to sit.

"Where am I?" I questioned, glancing around, though my intuition hinted at the familiar ambiance of a church – a haven I hadn't visited in ages. "And what about that despicable man?"

"Watch your language, Jane. Sit and eat; you're in no state to stress yourself," Father Jerome advised.

"This is no time to choose my words carefully. I'm reporting him to the police this instant," I declared, intending to storm out, only to collapse on the bed, underestimating the pain coursing through my body.

"You can do that after you've recovered. It's 4 a.m.; wait for daybreak," Father Jerome suggested.

"How long was I unconscious?" I wondered.

"You're safe here. Mr. Freeman was drunk, something he shouldn't indulge in. That's why members are warned against alcohol; it turns them into beasts," he said, glaring at the door, as if the alcohol itself stood accused.

"I know it's not just the alcohol acting. He must have been abusing his daughter for a long time, and she kept it all to herself because—" The sudden revelation struck me like a bolt of lightning. Amira had endured silently, a silent victim to a man revered by the town; after all, who would believe that Mr. Freeman, esteemed by all, could inflict harm on anyone, let alone his own daughter? And why had he tried to rip my shirt, assuming I was her?

"Don't cast aspersions on a man highly respected by the church and the town. That's why the bar needs immediate closure. Our youth are succumbing to its temptations, even Mr. Freeman couldn't resist," Father Jerome wrinkled his nose in disgust as the word 'alcohol' slid off his lips.

"Are you serious?" I exclaimed in disbelief.

While I understood the dangers of alcohol, could it truly be the sole culprit in the disturbing events that unfolded? The shadows of doubt crept in, challenging the simplicity of the narrative painted by the priest.

Father Jerome, the parish priest, stood as a pillar of the community. His graying hair whispered of wisdom, and a warm smile painted stories of compassion on his face. His kindness had woven a tapestry of admiration around him, endearing him to many. Yet, beneath this façade of warmth lurked a man tethered to tradition, a rigid adherence that anchored him in the church's customs.

Leading the congregation with unwavering devotion, Father Jerome orchestrated rituals and followed rules with meticulous precision. Church services under his guidance were a testament to strict order, emphasizing tradition over adaptability. Despite this, in personal interactions, Father Jerome morphed into an approachable figure, offering solace and guidance with a listening ear for those in need.

Though I yearned to engage in a heated debate with him, I sensed the futility of it and decided to drop the matter. Declaring my intent to return home, I resisted Father Jerome's attempt to convince me to stay until daybreak. Eventually, he relented, but not without a condition – Father Thomas, another priest in the church, would be my escort on the journey home.

I sucked in a deep breath as I stepped into the police station, my battered appearance telling a painful story. Recounting the brutal incident involving Mr. Freeman, who had violently attacked me just hours ago, seemed like reliving a nightmare.

The officer in charge, however, didn't seem convinced. Despite visible injuries and a supporting witness in Father Jerome, skepticism hung in the air like a thick fog. It made me question how Amira felt when seeking help from these supposed guardians of justice.

"Officer, he bashed my head against the wall and slapped me. Look at my bruises! Father Jerome witnessed the whole thing," I exclaimed, frustration building in my voice.

The officer raised an eyebrow, seemingly uninterested, eyes darting between me and his mundane computer screen.

"Mr. Freeman is a respected member of the Church. Are you sure he'd act this way? People know him as a calm individual. Don't you think you're being unfair to a man who just lost his child some weeks ago?"

"I wouldn't make this up. Look at my injuries! And as I said, Father Jerome is my witness," I protested, shocked at the officer's indifferent attitude.

"Nah, you said you lost consciousness and woke up in the church. We'd need to confirm it with the priest first," the brown-haired officer said, his lackadaisical demeanor making it clear he had little intention of taking action.

The door swung open dramatically, revealing Mr. Freeman with a pitiful expression etched on his face.

"I'm terribly sorry for my actions. It was the alcohol; I wasn't myself. I didn't even remember what happened yesterday; Father Jerome had to tell me about it. I am really sorry and ready to pay any compensation," he blurted out as he approached, and though fear gripped me, I concealed it with a façade of composure.

The officer turned to me, a smile on his face that I wished I could slap off. "Miss Jane, maybe it's best to settle this without pressing charges. Mr. Freeman is genuinely remorseful. He's a good man; let's give him a chance to make amends. There's no reason to be that serious, right?"

"Was this how you brushed off the case every time Amira came to report her father?" I found myself asking, catching the police officer off guard.

A pang gripped my chest as I pondered. Would Amira's fate have shifted if I had glimpsed the torment she faced? Yet, in reflection, I realized my own impotence. Like her, I was a fragile girl, helpless in the face of adversity. I couldn't even rescue my sister; how could I rescue another? Despite our closeness, I remained oblivious to my sister's silent struggle, living carefree while she endured agony. My frustration manifested physically as I pinched my thighs, tears welling up. Uselessness engulfed me, a torrent of emotions screaming my inadequacy.

Disappointed and disheartened, I stood up, leaving the police station, suppressing tears. I despised showing this vulnerable side. Exiting, I caught a glimpse of a sinister smirk on Mr. Freeman's face, exposing a dark side that contradicted his feigned remorse.Questioning the system and those I turned to for help, I confronted the harsh reality that Amira, despite her courage, was let down by those meant to protect her. The façade of respectability shattered, and I faced the unsettling truth that appearances could be deceiving. May Amira's soul rest in peace.