The list of sinners

...Celia...

Supposedly, it used to be easier to walk these streets, feeling the warmth of new acquaintances embracing me. But now, every corner, every alley feels like a possible trap waiting to ensnare an unsuspecting victim. The laughter that once echoed through the air has been replaced by a fearful silence, broken only by the whispers of fear circulating everywhere. People have become vigilant, observing each other with heightened awareness.

At night, my room becomes a fortress, barricaded with planks and bolts. The countdown is nearing its end while people hold their breath as if unwilling to show signs of being alive. Everyone follows the darkness left behind by the murders. Two lives, snuffed out with a brutality now familiar, had left nothing behind but a trail of questions and shattered peace. Who could be this deeply disturbed serial killer? Was this cold-blooded murderer, lurking in the shadows, a face already known, concealing their dark nature behind a thin veil of normalcy and sanctity?

It was a Sunday, late May. As I folded the dry clothes I had collected a while ago, I heard a noise coming from below the stairs. Hands holding a blouse swayed in the air, ears alert for any following noise. I couldn't hear anything more. Curiosity and a wave of unease piqued my interest, forcing me to pause folding and investigate the source of this noise.

I stepped out of the house, descending the stairs that made noise with my slippers. As I reached the first floor, the sight that greeted me shattered the tranquility of that day off. Mr. Roxher was collapsed on the ground, his face contorted with anguish. Tears streamed down the channels created by the wrinkles of age. For a moment, it felt like my heart sank. I hastened towards him, concern etched on my face.

"Mr. Rodger !" I called out. "Mr. Rodger, what happened? Are you okay?"

Mr. Rodger raised his tear-filled eyes, allowing me to see his sorrow. Every time he tried to speak, his voice was drowned in despair.

"My daughter... my dear daughter," he managed to utter amidst sobs.

There were no more words needed to understand Mr. Rodger's tragic state. I gently placed a comforting hand on his trembling shoulder.

"Let's go inside, Mr. Rodger," I said, helping him to rise.

I assisted him, taking his tired arm that continued to shake, placing it over my shoulder. With slow steps, we entered where I seated him on the nearest couch. Silence engulfed the moment, and the only thing echoing were the accompanied breaths. My heart ached to witness someone so shattered by the loss of a loved one.

"Here, have some water, first," I offered, bringing the glass to his parched and tear-stained lips.

"Thank you," he said, not taking his eyes off the cream-colored carpet.

"Mr. Rodger, I know it's not the time for this, but what happened to your daughter?" I asked, my voice filled with fear.

"They called me from the department... they... they killed her last night," he said, choked with sobs.

As I heard those words, tears filled my eyes. His daughter had faced an untimely death. I could see how this news had weighed heavily on Mr. Rodger's fragile shoulders. I could feel the weight of a father's grief after losing his blood. My heart ached for him. It was as if for a moment, I saw myself in him mourning for my mother.

"Jenny... my Jenny," he said, covering his face with his hands.

"Jenny?!" I exclaimed.

Jenny. That name struck a chord in my memory. I found myself back to the day I arrived in this unfamiliar city. I felt disoriented, lost amidst the tall buildings. But then, there she appeared: Jenny.

"Mr. Rodger, do you have a picture of your daughter?" I asked curiously.

"Of course I do, how could I not," he said, attempting to rise.

I reached out to help, but he stopped me. With heavy and slow steps, he picked up an album. Approaching the couch, he began to flip through it. I came closer to distinguish the portrait of the person framed within.

"It's her... it's Jenny," I said, shocked.

"What?"

"It's Jenny," I said.

In every photo, I see Jenny smiling at the camera, looking completely happy. But as I look at these images, I can't help but feel the weight of her loss grabbing my attention. Indeed, I didn't have many memories with Jenny, but now I questioned myself why I never called her one day. Why didn't she call me? Or did the fact that I was living with her divorced dad was a hindrance? Now there is nothing left except the photos that show fragments of her now interrupted life.

"Do you know my daughter?" he asked surprised.
"But how?"

"She was the first person who helped me when I arrived here... she... she showed me the house where I would stay." I said, feeling the regret covering my heart like a shadow.

Mr. Rodger, through tears, continued to touch her face in the photos of the album.

"Why didn't Jenny live with you?" I asked.

"My wife and I divorced a few years ago." he said.
"The main reason we separated was the lack of emotional connection. My wife blamed me for starting to distance myself from her, and so we couldn't find ways to bridge that gap. No betrayal, no conflicts. Just a growing feeling of distance between us."

"Did you try to regain what you once had?" I asked.
"You gave up and that's it?"

"We tried." he continued. "We participated in couples therapy. We tried to communicate better, but despite everything, we couldn't reignite the spark we had. Over time, I realized that instead of destroying it further, the best action we could take was to separate and seek happiness elsewhere."

I could understand very well the impact that a tragedy had on a person's life, accompanied by the fact that the father had not seen his daughter for so long. Overwhelmed by the dampness of my cheeks, I knelt before Mr. Rodger and took his trembling hands.

"I'm truly sorry for everything you've been through in your life, Mr. Rodger, believe me, I know this pain," I said, remembering my losses where among them was the pain of Donovan's rejection. I lost my mother and my best friend.

"I... I'm so sorry," he said, letting new tears roll down his cheeks.

"Thank you," I said, giving him a smile through tears.

Death has a unique way of plunging us into a sea of mourning emotions. In these moments, all I could do was offer a comforting presence, a listening ear, and a supportive shoulder, because the healing process is a deeply personal journey that takes time.

"For anything, don't hesitate to ask me," I said.
"I'll help you with anything."

Mr. Rodger looked at me with eyes touched by the sensitivity and kindness that I expressed in his most difficult hours.

"Thank you, Celia," he said, touched. "May you be blessed, girl."