Sinner
A s I contemplate my next move, the woman steps outside with a bin of laundry to hang. God provides. I wait until her back is turned, then creep up behind her, my heart pounding in time with each step. When I’m close enough, I place a hand over her mouth, feeling her breath quicken under my palm. I lean into her ear, my voice low and calm, “Hi.”
She tenses, her body going rigid against mine, and I can feel the fear radiating off her. Good. Fear keeps people obedient.
“We’re going to have a little chat,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper, laced with the promise of what’s to come. “Move your head if you understand.” She nods, her body trembling, every muscle tight as a wire. She knows she’s caught, knows there’s no escape.
I guide her toward the backdoor, unprepared but trusting in divine providence. The Lord always provides a way. As soon as we step inside, I see it—a knife, just laying on the kitchen counter, almost as if placed there for me. Thank you, Lord. I silently give thanks, my fingers curling around the handle. I press the knife to her neck, feeling her pulse jump under the cold steel, and remove my hand from her lips.
“Shh,” I whisper, “say anything and you will bleed out before he can get to you. Nod if you understand.” She nods. But there’s no mercy here. Not for her. Not for any of them.
“This is the devil's house,” I whisper, my voice steady as I press the knife a little harder. “A place of unholiness. Sin has festered here, hidden beneath a mask of righteousness. ”
She whimpers, a soft, pathetic sound, but I ignore it. She’s just like the rest of them—complicit in the corruption, too weak to stand against it. And she will be punished like the rest of them.
“The Prophet speaks of absolution,” I continue, my voice cold. “But what does he know of true judgment? What do any of you know of God’s wrath?”
She shakes her head slightly, tears gathering in her eyes. “Please,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “I’ll do anything....”
Of course she will. They always beg when they realize there’s no escape. But it’s too late for that. She will die tonight.
“Adultery. That's a sin,” I reply, my voice firm. “Punishable by death.”
Her body goes taut, a shudder ripping through her as she realizes there's no bargaining here. This is divine retribution, and there's no mercy in it.
I shove her forward, forcing her toward what I assume is the pantry. “Open it,” I command, my voice sharp. She stumbles, her hands trembling as they reach for the door. When it swings open, the sight of a hunting closet greets me—filled with knives, ropes, and other tools of their twisted faith. The Lord truly provides.
“Grab the ropes,” I order. She hesitates for just a moment before obeying, her fingers fumbling as she clutches the tan cords. I watch her closely, reminding myself that she’s part of this sickness. Just like the others. She'll pay for her sins, just like her husband.
“I can please you in any way,” she whispers, her voice cracking in a desperate, last-ditch attempt to save herself. She’s offering herself as a sacrifice, trying to buy her way out with her body.
“That's a sin,” I remind her, my grip tightening on the knife. “And it won't save you.” She flinches, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps. But before she can say anything else, I hear footsteps—heavy, deliberate .
“Emma,” a man's voice calls out, causing her to tense further. He’s coming. Perfect timing.
I push her forward again, the blade pressing harder against her neck, a thin line of blood seeping from the pressure. “Walk,” I whisper, and she obeys, her steps shaky as we head toward the sound of the footsteps.
As we enter the room, the man stops dead in his tracks, his eyes widening in shock when he sees us. I meet his gaze, my expression cold and unyielding.
“We need to talk,” I say calmly, the knife still pressed against her neck. “Let’s sit down.”
He nods slowly, leading us into the room where he violated Marisol, where he dared to touch what’s mine. Rage boils within me, but I swallow it down. Not yet. I need to stay in control.
“Sit,” I command, and he obeys, his eyes flicking between me and his wife, fear etched into his face. I press the knife a little deeper into her skin, drawing more blood, causing her to wince. She’s afraid. Good. She should be.
“I can give you money, sex, women… young women if that’s your thing,” he says, desperation creeping into his voice. Pathetic.
I smirk. “I'm not interested in anything but Victor Morales.”
His nose flares in anger, but he tries to hide it. “The Prophet?”
I nod slowly. He swallows hard, realizing the situation is slipping further out of his control.
“Let her go first,” he pleads, trying to negotiate. But I shake my head, not letting him get the upper hand.
“Emma,” I say, addressing his wife for the first time, “tie him up for me. ”
She hesitates, her eyes darting between us, but then she moves forward, her hands still shaking as she begins to tie him up. She’s surprisingly good at it, securing the knots tightly. How many women did she practice these knots on? The thought disgusts me.
“Emma, what are you doing?” he demands, his voice filled with betrayal.
“Surviving,” she whispers, her eyes never meeting his.
“You whore,” he spits at her, venom dripping from his words.
“Watch your tongue,” I warn, my voice deadly as I press the blade against her neck once more, a reminder that she’s still under my control. She stiffens, her body trembling as I pull her to her feet once she's done.
“I won’t hesitate to kill you,” I say, my gaze locked onto him, unwavering. “In fact, I would relish it. And considering your wife practically offered her lovely pussy to me on a silver platter, I doubt she’d mourn you much.” His eyes widen in outrage, his face flushing dark with a mix of anger and shame.
“You’re a liar!” He hisses through gritted teeth, but his bravado is paper-thin.
I laugh softly, a humorless sound that echoes through the room. “Am I?” I taunt.
His eyes darts to Emma, a pathetic attempt to communicate some unspoken plea. “Don’t look at her,” I bark, and he flinches, his gaze snapping back to me. Good.
“What… What do you want with Victor Morales?” He stammers, fear creeping into his eyes. His earlier bravado is slipping, and I’m slowly peeling back the layers to reveal the pathetic man underneath.
“Information,” I reply simply, the knife in my hand gliding teasingly along Emma’s collarbone .
“What kind of information?” His voice shakes, betraying the fear he’s trying so hard to conceal.
“Everything you know about him. His church, his followers, his habits, his riches. The same church he ministers to, the same one he uses to exploit the weak under the guise of spiritual guidance.” “What… what do you mean?” He stammers, feigning innocence, but the flicker of fear in his eyes betrays him. He knows exactly what I mean, and it’s all too familiar to him.
A twisted grin crosses my face as I watch him squirm. “His followers, his wealth, his secrets. I want to know every dirty little secret this so-called prophet has hidden.”
His face pales, and he swallows hard. “I… I don’t know anything,” he insists, but his eyes dart to the side—a telltale sign of a lie. I expected as much. He won’t just give me the information willingly.
“Wrong answer,” I say, pressing the knife harder against Emma’s neck, a single drop of blood trickling down her pale skin. Scarlet against porcelain. The sight gives him pause, his eyes locking with mine, fear and pleading swirling in his gaze.
“Tell me everything,” I command, my voice cold, leaving no room for misinterpretation. "If you won’t confess for your own salvation, do it for hers."
He falters, his fa?ade crumbling as the reality of his situation sinks in. This is not a man used to being controlled or vulnerable. He’s used to holding power, using it for his own perverse desires. But the tables have turned, and he’s starting to understand—his world is collapsing around him.
“I… I…” He stutters again, his confident demeanor reduced to a pitiful whimper. His gaze wavers between me and Emma, the knife pressed just deep enough to draw more blood, and I hope he understands that I wouldn’t hesitate to kill her. In my eyes, she’s just as guilty. She mothers thes e girls, bringing them into the church. Emma is a sinner, a demon like her husband, and tonight, they will both find peace.
“Alright… alright!” he exclaims, his face turning sickly white. His eyes are wide with terror, the once mighty man now a pitiful sight. “What do you… what do you want to know?”
I let out a low, humorless chuckle, tilting my head slightly to the side. “Everything about the false prophet and his cult.”
“It’s not a cult, it’s… it’s the truth,” he stammers, swallowing hard, the muscles in his throat bobbing with fear.
“True or not, you’ve been leading your sheep astray,” I say, my voice icy cold. I lean in closer so that he can see the defiance and determination in my eyes.
“Faith… God’s will…” he whimpers in feeble protest, but his words ring hollow, even to him. He sees nothing but merciless resolve in my gaze, and a shiver courses through him.
I silence him with just a look, pressing the knife ever so slightly deeper into Emma’s neck. This time, I dig the metal into her skin, the warmth of her blood coating my fingers, a sharp gasp escaping her lips. His attention snaps back to his wife, terror flooding his eyes anew. The fear in them satisfies me, fueling my resolve. I’ve finally broken through that impenetrable arrogance. “Start talking,” I demand. “Or she bleeds out right here.”
He swallows hard, his gaze never leaving the blood now trickling freely down Emma’s neck. He could be defiant, could try to maintain the facade he’s lived under for so long. But when it comes down to it, when faced with losing the one person who’s as twisted as he is… he falters.
“Victor has a compound deep in the mountains, his house right near the entrance. Most of the girls there are mothers to his children or members of the church. Emma is one of his offspring, and Marisol… Marisol is the re incarnation of Lilith. Temptation. She is his chosen bride, and together they will create the new Eden. They are the reincarnation of Adam and Lilith.” His voice breaks on the last word, a sob wracking his body as he reveals each horrific truth. His eyes plead with me in silent desperation, but my stare is as cold and merciless as the distant stars above.
“And you all believe that?” I ask, disgust dripping from my voice.
“We do,” he says, his voice filled with conviction, as if the words are the only truth he knows. The strength of his belief is almost impressive, despite its monstrous nature. “We are disciples of Victor’s truth, destined to… to forge a new world…”
“Destined to exploit and abuse innocent lives, you mean,” I cut in brusquely, my voice flat and unyielding. “Is that it?”
“God has a plan…” he trails off weakly, grinding his teeth together as he struggles to maintain his composure. His eyes dart back to Emma, fear flickering in their depths. “Emma… Emma cannot have children, and those women… They offer us a chance at that. That is God’s will—for us to procreate, to spread His gospel. Victor has only opened our eyes to it.”
I scoff, unable to suppress the bitter laughter that bubbles up. “God’s will? Sounds more like a convenient excuse for your perversion,” I sneer, each word laced with disdain. His gaze stubbornly meets mine, the fervor in his eyes as unyielding as steel. My grip tightens unconsciously on the knife, and in one swift movement, Emma’s throat spills open.
The crimson tide of her life surges forth, stark against her pale skin. Her eyes widen in shock, hands flying to her neck in disbelief, desperate to stop the relentless flow. She collapses onto her knees, a gurgled gasp escaping her lips. The man before me shrieks, his faith crumbling as he watches the life drain from the woman he calls wife .
“No!” he shouts, lunging toward Emma. He falls beside her, crying over her lifeless body. “What have you done?” he cries, his voice thick with anguish.
“Justice,” I reply, my voice colder than the void of space, each syllable striking him like a blow. “What you call God’s will, I call justice.”
He shakes his head frantically, trying to touch Emma as her life ebbs away. “This is not justice!” he wails, tears streaming down his face, splattering onto Emma’s lifeless form. His gaze shifts from her face to mine, a storm of despair and rage swirling in his eyes.
“You’ve killed her… you’ve killed her for nothing!”
“Nothing?” I retort, my voice echoing through the chamber. “This is a reckoning—the rightful punishment for your sins.”
“You’re no better than us. You’re a monster!” he spits, the words meant to wound. I shrug.
“Perhaps, but I don’t rape. “I don’t hurt young girls,” I whisper, my tone as cold as the knife that just ended her life. Using my foot, I nudge him, forcing him to face me. “How old is your breeder?” I ask.
“My what?” he stammers, confusion flickering in his eyes.
I sigh, patience wearing thin. “The young women you pigs breed like animals. How old is she?”
“Four…fourteen,” he whispers, the confession slipping out as I descend the knife into his groin. The scream that tears from his mouth echoes through the chamber, a symphony of vengeance to my ears.
“Fourteen,” I repeat, the word sour on my tongue. Pig . I want to spit it out, to purge it from my mouth. But I keep it inside, holding onto the taste of his sin. “How many maidens? ”
I watch as he writhes on the floor, blood oozing from the wound. He coughs, spitting out something between a sob and a scream. “How many?” I repeat, disgust tingling in my voice. His eyes flicker to mine, a momentary flash of defiance in his gaze before he looks away. I grab his chin, forcing him to meet my stare. “How many?” I demand the words laced with venom.
“I…I don’t know,” he stammers, his voice barely a whisper. I twist the knife before pulling it out. I heard enough. Judgment is passed.
“You get no peace, no penance,” I say, my voice a growl. “Fire is your punishment.”
“Fire!” he screams, his voice trembling with fear and shock. His eyes darted around the room, searching for a way out. But there’s nowhere to escape. The only exit is through me, and I have no intention of letting him go. His cries start to echo in my ears as I walk toward his bar. I begin smashing the bottles of expensive alcohol on the floor, making sure every corner is soaked. The sharp smell of liquor penetrates the room, suffocating the heavy scent of blood.
He’s muttering under his breath, pleading, “God’s plan… This can’t be the end… Victor will save us… He promised salvation…”
I hear him, but his words are meaningless to me now. I grab a bottle with a significant amount of liquor left and approach him. His face is now as pale as the moonlight filtering through the small window above us.
“Drink.” I press the bottle to his lips, and he does, gulping down the liquid like it’s a final sacrament. I dump the rest of the alcohol on him, soaking his clothes, then drench the corpse of his wife beside him. Tossing the bottle to the side, I pull out the matchbox and remove the matchstick.
“The fire will consume you,” I say, my voice echoing ominously in the room. I strike the match, holding the tiny flame between us. His eyes fix on it, wide with terror and despair. He trembles, his whole body shaking violently. He opens his mouth, perhaps to beg, to plead for mercy he denied so many others. But before words can leave his lips, I throw the lit match onto him.
Instantly, the flames catch. They dance across his skin, red and orange tongues licking hungrily at his flesh. He screams again, a sound of pure agony that cuts through the silence of the room like a razor blade, but I am deaf to his pleas. His pain does not move me, not after all he has done. I watch as the fire consumes him. The sight is gruesome yet peaceful. The fire begins to spread through the room, and if I want to make it out alive, this is my time to escape. But I stay a moment longer, letting the heat of the flames warm my face, watching him writhe and twist as justice is finally served.
The fire burns bright, casting eerie shadows over the room, the crackling noises and his dying screams composing a symphony of retribution. The screams finally die down, replaced by an eerie stillness that only emphasizes the crackling of burning wood and flesh. With one last glance at the grotesque sight, I make my way to the back door and run out. I only stop to pick up the brown paper bag that contained the books I purchased earlier. Then I continue my run until I’m back in the cheap motel room I continue to rent.