7. Petra #2
“You do not belong to our congregation. Outsiders are not allowed here,” I repeat, steeling myself, though I can feel my heart racing. Is it terror? Yes, that must be it. If I am found alone with a man inside the church, a beating would be the least of my punishments.
He will kill me.
“Please,” I say again, my voice breaking.
He frowns. “What if I want to be part of your congregation? What would I need to do to join?”
I stammer, “You . . . you cannot.”
“And why is that? Shouldn’t people of God welcome the curious with open arms?”
“Curious?” I scoff at the word. He’s called me that before. And look what curiosity has brought me.
“Yes, curious,” he repeats with a small smile. “I am curious about this religion of yours.”
“You are no more curious about my religion than I am the Queen of England,” I tell him sternly.
He chuckles. “Why wouldn’t I be? Is it not an interesting place?”
“No, it is not. And you are not curious. You are here to mock me, aren’t you?”
“Mock you?” At this, he seems offended. “Why would I mock you?”
“Because you speak of curiosity, and that curiosity—” my voice falters— “brought me nothing but suffering.”
His gaze hardens. His posture shifts. No longer the relaxed, amused man from before, he leans forward, his expression dark.
“What do you mean by that?” His voice is slow, deliberate.
“I don’t have to tell you. Please, leave.”
“No. You will tell me,” he commands. “You got caught, didn’t you?”
I try to laugh, but it comes out hollow.
“You got caught,” he repeats, more certain this time, “and it’s my fault, isn’t it? If you hadn’t had that book . . . if you hadn’t been caught with it—”
He suddenly stands and closes the small distance between us. The damp cloth slips from my fingers as I step back, intimidated by the fire in his eyes. Concern.
Why?
Why is he concerned about me? Why would a stranger care? I don’t understand. Not after he was the one who gave me the book, knowing how forbidden it was, knowing what would happen if I was caught with it.
He stops just short of me, his hand reaching out as if to touch my veil. Then, he catches himself and lowers it.
“What happened?” he demands. “What did he do to you?
He hit you, didn’t he?” His hand rises again, his thumb hovering near my face. “Where did he hit you?”
I shake my head. “I don’t understand you. Why are you here? Why are you talking to me? If you know what is going to happen to me, if you know I will be punished, then why are you here? Why are you putting me in danger?” I cry out.
My voice is raw, my throat burning with every word. I cannot hide it anymore. My voice breaks completely, and tears spill down my cheeks, dripping onto my lips, stinging my reopened wounds. I wince at the pain.
“What’s wrong?” he asks quickly, stepping forward. This time, he wastes no time closing the distance. He is just one step away.
I can feel his presence, his warmth—too close. And to my great shame, I don’t step away. Why? I cannot say.
Perhaps it is the concern in his voice. Perhaps it is because, no matter how much I suffer at home, no one has ever looked at me with even a shred of compassion. Even as I lay bleeding in my own house, my brother only glanced at me and said, “Next time, I won’t stop him.”
“Where does it hurt?” the stranger asks, his hand inching closer to my veil.
I swat it aside. “Stop. Get away from me. Leave.”
He doesn’t move.
“You have no idea what will happen if we’re caught together,” I hiss.
“We won’t be caught. No one knows I’m here.”
“No one will know,” I scoff. “Just like they didn’t know about the book.” I glare at him.
“I told you not to get caught, didn’t I?” he says, but this time there’s no smugness in his voice. This time, he looks guilty.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have given me the book in the first place.”
“Why did you take it?” he counters.
“I . . .” I stammer. That is a question I’ve asked myself countless times. Why did I take it?
“Because you were curious,” he says. “Because you want to know. You want more than this.” He gestures to the church. “You’re not meant for this life, Petra.”
My breath catches. “How do you know my name? How do you know anything about me? What gives you the right to say anything about me?”
“Because I’ve been watching you.”
I freeze. “You—what?”
His lips curve into a sad smile. “I’ve been watching you for months. From afar, yet so close.”
I shake my head, stepping back. “What are you saying?”
I collide with the wall.
I’m trapped.
There’s nowhere to run.
Can I scream? My gaze darts around the empty church. My voice would echo, but no one would hear. No one is around at this hour. Even if there were someone, they would blame me, wouldn’t they? They would say I invited it.
My hands on the wall, I slide away from him, waiting for the perfect moment to run.
“Stop,” he commands.
And I do.
My body trembles with fear, but I hold myself still, eyes locked on him.
“I will not hurt you,” he says.
“That’s not reassuring,” I sneer.
“I give you my word, Petra. I will not harm you.”
“Why? Why are you doing this? I don’t understand.”
“Will you let me help you?” His voice is soft, comforting.
“Help me?” I ask incredulously.
“You’re in pain,” he states.
My breath catches, but I steel myself.
“You’re the reason for that,” I retort. “Please let me go. You’re too close. We’re alone. You could do whatever you want, and I wouldn’t be able to stop you.”
“And yet, I give you my word that I won’t.” Holding something in his hand, he extends it toward me. “Will you please let me help you?”
I look down at the small jar he holds out.
“What is this?”
“An ointment. It will help with your injuries.”
I stare at the tin jar and gulp down uncomfortably. How many times have I wished for something like that?
My congregation is against medicine and anything that might interfere with the human body as God created it. If you are meant to die, you will die. It is a thing to rejoice, for you will go to the heavenly realm and take your seat next to God.
“Take it,” he urges. “Please.”
I let out a dry laugh. “You must know this is forbidden, too.”
“What should be forbidden is for someone to hurt you; to lay a hand on you.” His voice is harsh, an undercurrent of violence behind his calm countenance.
I stiffen, my body once more on alert.
He lets out a sigh. “You don’t have to take it home with you. I would not want you to get in trouble again.”
I look from his face to the small jar. It’s tempting. But I’ve already seen what temptation does to me—it only brings more pain.
Yet there is another question that plagues my mind.
“How did you know I would be hurt?” I ask suspiciously.
“I did not.”
“Then why carry this with you?”
He presses his lips together. “I was aware of the possibility, though I hoped it would not be the case. I know what your kind does to its women,” he spits out in disgust.
“My kind?” My brows go up. “If my kind is so repulsive to you, then please leave me alone.”
“I did not word that right. I apologize.”
“Apology not accepted.”
The ghost of a smile appears on his lips. “I suppose I deserved that.” He lets out a dry chuckle.
This man . . . He is strange.
“You do not have to accept my apology, or even like me.” He pauses. “For now,” he adds. “But please take this. It will take away some of the pain and prevent infection. Apply it to any open wound.”
Laughter bubbles in my throat. “And what about the wounds inside?” My words are weighted, heavy with meaning.
His expression darkens. “I wish I could help with those, too. Maybe someday I will . . .”
He speaks in code, and I am far too weak and in pain to try to understand him.
I bring my gaze back to the jar, my resolve wavering.
After what feels like forever, I reach out and take the ointment, careful so even my gloved hands don’t touch his.
“Good,” he murmurs.
I place the tin jar in the pocket of my dress. “And what do you want in exchange for this?”
His gaze meets mine, unwavering.
“What do I want?” he repeats, his voice almost a caress. He steps closer. Then shakes his head and steps back. Without another word, he turns and leaves.
When he is almost at the door, the echo of his voice travels to me, low, decisive.
“We will meet again, Petra. Perhaps then I will tell you what I want.”
I stumble forward, confused. “W-what? Why? When?”
The door opens, and he steps out. But not without leaving me with more cryptic words.
“Wait for my sign.”