Page 67 of Sinister

“How can you say that?” I ask, horrified. “How can you believe that?”

“It’s kind of you to care, Petra,” he says, his voice softening. “You don’t know how much it means to me. That you would be angry on my behalf.”

He looks away for a moment, then back at me.

“I’ve made peace with my past. Maybe it was as awful as you say. But no matter how terrible it was . . . it made me who I am. And everything that happened, all of it, brought me to this moment. To you.”

He turns fully now, facing me. My mouth parts, but no words come. I stare at him, stunned, heart racing.

“What are you saying?” I whisper.

“You don’t know, do you?” he murmurs, reaching out for me. “How much . . .” He doesn’t finish the sentence. His hand falters midair before he pulls back, shaking his head to himself. “I was fourteen when I came face-to-face with a demon for the first time.”

He turns again to the painting, as if he can’t bear to look at me while recounting these traumatic experiences.

“First time . . .”

“It seems I have shocked you,” he chuckles. “It’s no exaggeration to say that my time at the orphanage shaped who I am. I was a pariah—made fun of, avoided. As a child, I didn’t understand why. But as time passed and their behavior worsened, I began to doubt myself.

“If I truly was a sin, a blight upon the world . . . why did I even exist? Why go on suffering, and make others suffer just by being near them? I could see it, even as a child—they believed my presence brought misfortune. So one day, I decided to end it all.”

I gasp aloud. “You don’t mean . . . ?”

He presses his lips together. “Yes. That’s exactly what I mean.”

“But that’s a . . .” I trail off.

“A sin.” He lets out a dry laugh. “Yes. I decided that since they named me Sin, I might as well become one.”

He moves to a second painting, smaller but equally as striking. It shows a single, solitary column rising from a landscape of ruin—silent, detached, watching it all unfold. Weathered by time, yet unmoving. Still standing. Still strong.

“My room was on the fourth floor. An attic, really. It had been turned into a bedroom because none of the other children would share a room with me. In some ways, that was a blessing; I didn’t have to sleep in a crowded dorm. One morning, after enduring more of their ugly words, I opened the window. I stepped onto the sill . . . and I jumped.”

My breath catches. The sound startles him.

“My, my, Petra,” he says with a faint smile. “From your expression, one would think you actually care for me.”

“Stop,” I say, voice trembling. “Don’t make light of it. You actually jumped? You tried to kill yourself?”

“I did,” he says simply. “I jumped. And I fell onto the pavement of the main road below.”

“But you’re . . . alive. You seem whole.”

He smiles sadly. “Now, yes. But not then. When I landed, I hit my head hard. My legs were twisted beneath me. My bones were pushing through the skin. I couldn’t move. I was bleeding out on the street, but I was conscious. I was aware of everything.”

He draws a breath.

“People saw me. Passersby. Some even stopped to look. But no one helped. People from the orphanage saw me, too. And they turned away.”

“They what?” I whisper, horrified.

“From their perspective, I wasn’t dead. But I was dying. And helping me, calling a physician to try to save me, would have cost money they didn’t have. Or didn’t want to spend. So they left me there. They waited for me to die.”

“But you didn’t,” I say softly.

“No. I didn’t. Night fell again. The lights at the orphanage went out, and I was still lying there. I heard the sounds of carriages, of people walking past. Some sneered. Some whispered. But none stopped. Not until he did.”

“He . . . you mean the demon?”