Page 20 of Sinister

7

PETRA

8 March 1896

I got caught.

The soulful music echoes through the room. Everyone is rooted in the moment, feeling every word sung aloud, surrendering to the melody.

I open my mouth to sing along, though I am not sure if any sound escapes.

My throat is still raw from screaming for mercy. My body aches with the memory of the beating I took just days ago.

I had been foolish to think I could sneak a book into the house and go unnoticed. Foolish to believe I wouldn’t be found out. And now, I wear the consequences. Every movement is a reminder—each breath, a searing pain. My split lip, a memento of my father’s slap, is caked with dried blood.

Of course, I was forced to attend church. It’s Sunday, after all. But at least my veil hides the artwork he painted across my face. No one sees. No one suspects. Around me, the congregation sings on, blissfully unaware.

Every motion sends a ripple of pain through me. Yet, in some twisted way, I am glad no one can see my suffering. I would not want the shame of it to accompany the pain. And yet, part of me wishes they could.

I wish they could look upon my bloodied face, my bruised eyes, my battered ribs. I wish they could see the price we pay for stepping out of line.

This church preaches forgiveness, acceptance. And yet, one mistake, and you are out. There was a moment when I thought that was it—my end. Lying on the floor as my father’s foot crashed into my ribs, my stomach, my back.

Dying over a book. Would that have made me a martyr?

I was a mere step away from death for something so small. For curiosity.

Even now, despite the pain, despite knowing that had my brother not interfered, I could be dead—I wonder: Would I have still read it?

The seeds of doubt had long been planted in my mind—sometimes watered, sometimes left to wither. But this book, this forbidden book, fed those seeds, rained upon them, and made them flourish. And now, I am different.

Because now, I understand what it is to truly doubt. To wonder if there is such a thing as right and wrong, or if anyone truly knows the difference.

I glance around at the congregation, all pretending, all going along with the service, even as the hypocrisy in the words they sing and the actions they take is deafening.

The song eventually ends. We all take our seats while the reverend resumes his sermon. I sit with my family, though this is the last place I want to be: next to the man who made me limp in pain, who made me choke on my own blood.

I steal a glance at my father, sitting beside my mother and brother. The three perfect members of our family. The pillars of our congregation. No one would suspect anything, would they? My father, respected, revered. My mother, celebrated as the perfect wife—silent, compliant, always standing by her husband. Even when he beats their child nearly to death.

I looked at her while I writhed on the ground. She was in the room. But it was as if she weren’t there. I wonder—does she condone what my father does, or does she simply refuse to see? Most days, she is little more than a ghost, a shell of a person, a woman without a voice.

And then there is my brother. The eldest. The heir. He will inherit my father’s position in the congregation. Already respected as a young man of proper manners and a good education.

And then there’s me.

Not troublesome, not officially. One cannot have such a reputation here without being excommunicated. But there have been moments, instances, where I have asked the wrong questions, where I have been harshly reprimanded. If people knew my father had taken his fist to my face over a book, they would not be surprised.

Theoretically, it would not be condoned. In practice, it is expected. Every household enforces discipline. I know because this is not the first time I have worn bruises. And it is not the first time I have seen them on others—even through the veils, pain cannot always be hidden.

The scent of incense fills my nostrils. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I hate this place. And yet, I love it. Or rather, I have been forced to love it.

The sermon finally ends. People rise. The church, once silent, hums with murmured conversations. Niceties. Platitudes.

I almost scoff, but even that would hurt. I stand with my family as they greet person after person. I make the appropriate sounds of approval, ensuring my presence is noted, but I speak as little as possible. The singing has taken everything out of me. I taste blood in my mouth; my lip wound has reopened.

The reverend approaches my father, smiling. “Such a pleasure to have you here.”

“I would not be anywhere else,” my father replies smoothly. The same pleasantries. The same falsehoods.