7. Petra
PETRA
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.
As people begin to leave, my father suddenly turns to the reverend.
“Do you need any extra help cleaning up?” he asks.
The reverend raises a brow. “I believe I have a few volunteers for this week.”
My father clicks his tongue. “I think we can make an exception this time.”
The reverend hesitates but does not refuse. “What do you have in mind?”
I take a slow breath, steadying myself, just as my name is called.
“Petra.”
The reverend blinks in surprise. “Your daughter? But it is a large church—”
“She has expressed interest in helping more than usual,” my father interjects, voice like velvet. “I believe we should allow her. Wouldn’t you agree?”
The reverend shifts uncomfortably. “Of course. But surely one of my volunteers—”
“No,” my father cuts him off, and a shudder runs through me. “She can do it alone.”
“But it will take her hours.”
“She can do it alone,” he emphasizes, voice hard.
The reverend, mindful of my father’s influence and generosity, relents. “Very well. Miss Petra will be responsible for cleaning the church this Sunday.”
My father smiles, satisfied.
Ah. It wasn’t enough for him to beat me. Now, he takes pleasure in knowing that with my sore body, I will toil for hours. Another punishment. Another lesson.
He turns to me. “Do not shame our family, Petra. You will do a good job. You will clean every single part of the church. Isn’t that right?”
“Of course, Father,” I say stiffly.
“Good.”
The reverend leads me to the cleaning supplies—a few tattered cloths, a bucket of murky water, a bar of soap.
“There is more soap if you need it,” he says. “And you know where the well is for fresh water.”
“Yes, Reverend.”
Satisfied, he finally leaves.
Alone in the vast, empty space, I stare at the polished seats, the gleaming icons, the endless religious memorabilia. I stare at it all and ask myself: What now? But the question is pointless.
I add soap to the bucket and carry it to the center of the room. Kneeling, I dip a cloth into the water and begin scrubbing. The recent rain has left muddy footprints streaked across the wooden floors, each one a reminder of the many who passed through the church’s doors.
There is so much to do. Now I understand why my father refused to let the reverend assign other volunteers. This will take me the entire day. And then, when I arrive home too late, he will punish me again. I take a deep breath and scrub. I scrub and scrub.
Hours pass. Time loses meaning. All I know is that my aching bones are now throbbing, my body teetering on the edge of exhaustion.
My nails have become brittle, and the noxious soap—probably the cheapest they could find, since no one here bothers to make their own anymore—seeps under them, burning my raw skin.
The booming industry in the nearby towns has flooded us with chemical-laden products, this soap included.
I feel its sting, the slow damage it inflicts, yet I keep cleaning.
I hurry, finishing the floor before moving on to the benches. Thankfully, those require little effort, but the podium—this is where the real dirt lies. Mud and grime, left untouched for far too long, despite the church supposedly being cleaned every week.
Taking a deep breath, I dump the murky water, refill the bucket, add more soap, and begin again. My mind drifts as I scrub, wondering what punishment awaits me. Will it be verbal—preferable, though still humiliating—or will he reopen my wounds? He has a talent for that.
Footsteps echo through the church. Startled, I scramble to my feet. My breath catches. Is it the reverend, checking on my progress? Or worse—my father, telling me my work isn’t good enough, ordering me to start over?
I brace myself as a shadowed figure moves down the aisle.
But it is neither.
The sight of a stranger unsettles me. Quickly, I pull my veil into place, ensuring my face is covered. “Who’s there?” I call from behind the podium.
A man steps into view. His suit is immaculate—far too fine for someone from our congregation. The fabric is crisp, untouched by wear. My religion preaches humility; even those with wealth must wear their clothes until they are threadbare. This man does not belong here.
I instinctively step back. “Who are you? Why are you here? It’s dark outside. No one comes to the church at this hour.”
No response. My pulse quickens. I dare to peek over the reverend’s stand, trying to see him more clearly.
And then I do.
He stands in the middle of the church, staring at me.
His eyes—light blue, piercing even in the dim lighting—are unmistakable.
I know those eyes.
I press my lips together. I have seen them before. And the last time I did, it led to the worst punishment I have ever endured.
“Why are you here?” I demand sharply.
The corner of his lips lifts slightly as he studies me, his gaze sweeping over my disheveled appearance, my stained gown. Then his eyes shift, locking onto my veil as if his gaze could burn through it.
“Hello, Petra.”
“Please leave,” I tell him. “You’re not allowed to be here.”
He steps forward and casually takes a seat on the front bench, leaning back and resting his hand against his temple. All the while, his eyes stay locked on me.
“I’m not allowed here because?”