Page 27 of Daddy's Sinner

Once I have composed myself, I clean up, dress myself and step back into the world, a man renewed and ready to face another day. The act of penance and pleasure, the balance between sin and absolution, has become an integral part of my life. But that peace lasts very little as I make my way towards the church and find a group of people gathered over something.

The crucified body of a woman… no, the crucified body of Zia. Naked, with the word “whore” written in blood on her body. Crucified in the middle of town, right in front of my church. A message perhaps—but from whom.

I stand motionless, frozen by the sight of Zia’s lifeless body. My heart pounds in my chest as I recognize the same whip marks I’d inflicted upon myself adorning her bruised skin. The crowd’s murmurs grow louder, their anger and disgust palpable.

The reality of Zia’s death washes over me, and a familiar wave of guilt and shame surges through me. I know her death is not an accident, but rather a direct message for me. This is a consequence of my actions, and I cannot escape it. I swallow the bile climbing up my throat as I walk towards her body, her beautiful face bruised. For fuck’s sake, up close I can see the bruises of the greedy hands that I assume took advantage of her.

Kneeling before Zia’s body, I feel a new emotion washing over me—fear. It isn’t simply fear of my actions or the consequences they brought, but fear of the person I am about to become. I would need to turn to darkness… to my demons, if I were to cleanse this town. Fire fights fire. I might have only known her briefly, but she didn’t deserve this. I remove my black button-down shirt and drape it over her naked body, leaving me in just my white undershirt.

My hands tremble as I touch Zia’s cold skin, feeling the weight of the disgust and judgment of those around me. But I don’t care that they didn’t know the charming and happy woman I met. I bow my head and speak. “Let us pray for the soul of Zia, who has left us too soon. Let uspray for justice. Let us pray for the wisdom to discern right from wrong.” But the people refuse. Instead, they call her a whore and throw stones at both her body and mine. Blood rushes to my ears, and I clench my jaw, forcing my mouth shut. I feel the pain of each stone echo my own guilt and shame as they strike both of us. Fuck them all.

I begin to carefully lower her, ignoring the barbed wire digging into my hands, slicing through my skin. The pain is sharp, but I don’t care. The crowd remains still, watching. The rocks stop, but their voices continue, a low, unsettling murmur.

With one hand free, I manage to untangle the wires binding her, holding her legs steady as her cold skin presses against my sweat-soaked arms. I hiss in pain as the last wire finally comes loose, and my ears ring as anger surges through me.

In one swift motion, I scoop her lifeless body into my arms and start towards the church, the crowd trailing close behind, their whispers and gossip a constant hum. Damn them all.

Once inside, I lay her gently in front of the altar and kneel beside her, my heart heavy. She didn’t deserve this… none of it.

My eyes blur as I look at her body—really look at it. At the finger marks on her hips, the scrapes on her knees, the cuts on her lips, the dried blood between her thighs. My fists clench involuntarily at my side. I can feel the rage boiling inside me, threatening to consume every fiber of my being. The thoughts of her suffering flood my mind as I stand there, helpless and burdened with guilt.

Voices continue to murmur and whisper in the church, passing judgment on her, but I pay them no mind. Again, fuck them all... My attention is fixated solely on Zia as I memorize each wound throughout her lifeless body. From the distance, I can hear the sounds of sirens echoing through the church, and I sigh as I begin to pray for her soul.

“Her brother is a man of God. He will be heartbroken but thankful his sinful sister is now gone,” an elderly woman whispers to her companion.

The urge to snap her frail neck rises within me, but instead, I glare at her and speak through gritted teeth, “She was a human being. Love thy neighbor.”

My nostrils flare as I repeat the words, almost like a mantra: “Love thy neighbor.” The weight of Zia’s death presses on me, but I know I can't act. Not yet, but I will find whoever did this and deliver penance, sending their putrid souls straight to hell.

The murmurs from the crowd grate on my nerves.

“GET OUT,” I shout. “EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU, GET OUT.”

The crowd recoils, their faces a mix of shock and fear. But I don’t care. All I see is red, anger burning bright within me. The church empties, leaving me alone with Zia’s body. I gently pull back her lifeless eyelids and stare into the hollow remnants of what were once vibrant eyes. I imagine the fear that consumed her in her final moments.

They will all pay. I will make them suffer the way Zia did, bring them to their knees, and force them to feel the pain they inflicted. I didn't care that I'd just met her; she mattered, and I'm sure she wasn't the first nor will be the last.

I whisper a silent prayer over her body, promising to avenge her. When the police arrive, I cooperate, though I know deep down they won’t find the truth.

To them, Zia was just another whore—another discarded life. My fist clenches as I picture her terrified, brutalized, and murdered. None of it she deserved.

Outside, the sun hangs high, and the town bustles with life, oblivious, moving on as if Zia never existed. If I had a heart, it would ache for herand the countless others silenced by this cursed place. The sting of the whip on my back feels like nothing compared to what Zia endured.

This town, where the church stands as a beacon of hope and forgiveness, is drowning in hypocrisy and judgment. I can't let Zia's death be forgotten. I will rid this place of the evil that thrives within it.

Dove

The town is buzzing, whispers on every corner about the dead Jezebel. The name makes my heart skip a beat—Zia. I know her. She used to be one of us, a member of the church, promised to her brother as his future bride. But Zia was different, born a sinner, they said. She turned her back on the duties expected of her, the first woman ever to run away from our church. And now, after all this time, she reappears, dead. There’s no doubt in my mind that this is the church’s doing—a punishment for her defiance. Her sin wasn’t mine to cleanse, but her husband’s, the one she shamed and humiliated when she ran off with that biker.

As I stroll toward the bookstore, the gossip swirls around me, each word fueling my growing agitation. The chatter grates on my nerves, aconstant reminder of the consequences of rebellion. I push open the bookstore door, grateful for the sanctuary it offers from the relentless prattle. The familiar scent of old paper and coffee wraps around me as I step into the dimly lit interior, it's quite a balm to my frayed nerves.

I drift through the shelves, my fingers brushing the spines of the books as my mind drifts to darker places. I’m drawn to stories of twisted romances, men who stalk their women, tales filled with secrets and betrayal. Not that I’d ever act on these fantasies, but they offer a momentary escape from the suffocating reality outside. As I let my fingers trace the embossed titles, I can’t help but wonder—what if I were to run away? What would they do to me?A shiver runs down my spine as the thought crosses my mind, but I quickly push it away.

Zia was just a wife, but I’m something more. I am the rebirth of Lilith, consecrated to the Prophet. One day, I will bear his children. The very thought makes bile rise in my throat, and I force myself to focus on the books in front of me. My gaze lands on a thick, leather-bound tome—“Taming Her,” a forbidden romance between cousins. The pages are black, each one filled with scandalous illustrations and even more scandalous words. It’s the perfect distraction.

Consumed by the book, I don’t notice the figure that has quietly entered the bookstore. I’m too engrossed in the foul words, the pretty pictures, until a voice speaks from behind me, sending a shiver down my spine.

“Interesting choice of book,” the voice is smooth, low, and unmistakable. I turn sharply, my breath catching when I see him—Alex. He stands there, dark eyes boring into mine with a knowing glint. Dressed in a black button-down shirt and black pants that fit him like a glove, his dark brown hair perfectly combed back, as though he stepped out of one of the very fantasies I’d been reading about. He’s calm considering what happened earlier today which makes me even more curious about him. Why is this outsider not getting the fuck out of this town.

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