Page 21 of Sinister

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.