Saint and Sinner

Elena I woke to the sharp tug of my blanket. My mom’s hands gripped the edges, pulling it away as if it were some lifeline. "Elena, wake up," she whispered, her voice trembling. She sounded scared, terrified even and that alone shook me awake more than anything else could. Groggy, I rubbed my eyes. "Mom? What are you doing?" I mumbled, still half-asleep. She didn’t answer. Instead, she yanked me out of bed, her grip firm but trembling as she pulled me down the hallway. It was fast, too fast, like something was chasing us. "Mom, stop!" I protested, my voice cracking. I dug my heels into the carpet, trying to slow her down. "What’s going on?" But she didn’t stop. Not until we reached the front door, and that’s when I heard it , the engines rumbling outside. Not one, but several. My stomach twisted as I watched her freeze, her breath catching in her throat. "We’re out of time," she whispered, more to herself than me. Out of time? For what? "Mom—" Before I could finish, she spun me around, dragging me toward the living room. Her hands shook, her movements frantic, like she couldn’t work fast enough. Something was wrong. So, so wrong. That’s when she turned to the mirror. The giant, ornate one with the antique frame that had been there for as long as I could remember. I thought she was losing it,until she pushed it. It creaked open. I blinked. A hidden door? Behind the mirror? How had I never known? "Get in," she said, her voice sharp and desperate. "What?" I stepped back, shaking my head. "No! Mom, what the hell is going on?" "Please, Elena!" She grabbed my shoulders and turned me to face her. Her eyes glistened, brimming with tears that hadn’t yet fallen. "You have to stay here. Just stay hidden. Your father is coming. I love you so much." My heart sank. This couldn’t be real. This wasn’t happening. But it was. Her hands pushed me toward the hidden compartment, and suddenly I was moving, stumbling forward. "Mom!" I tried to argue, to fight, to stop this madness. But her face said it all. Whatever was happening,whatever she was trying to protect me from,it was already here. The moment my mother shoved me into the hidden compartment, I froze, my breath caught in my chest. Her tear-streaked face was the last thing I saw before the door shut, plunging me into darkness. "Mom!" I screamed, banging my fists against the mirror-door. It didn’t budge. "Open the door!" But my cries were useless. The walls around me muffled the sound, trapping me in a silence that felt suffocating. My fists ached from pounding, but I couldn’t stop. Panic surged through me, hot and uncontrollable. Then I realized, I could see her. Through the mirror. It wasn’t just a door; it was one-way glass. She stood there, frozen, her hands clasped together as heavy footsteps echoed up the stairs. My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might burst. I wanted to scream, to do something, anything, but all I could do was watch. And then he appeared. Tall, sharp, and terrifyingly calm. His jade-green eyes glinted like they held secrets I didn’t want to know. There was dried blood streaked across his cheek like some twisted badge of honor. He looked… casual. Rolled-up sleeves, calm demeanor. But the menace in his presence? It filled the entire room. My mother’s breath hitched. She didn’t even try to hide her fear. "Surprised?" His voice was low, almost mocking. "You shouldn’t be," he added with a smirk that made my stomach churn. "I’m not," my mother replied, her voice trembling but firm. "I knew you’d come." "Did you?" He tilted his head, studying her like a predator sizing up prey. My mother’s voice cracked as she tried to explain. "Non l'ho fatto… quello che hai sentito non è vero." (I didn’t do it… What you heard isn’t true.) He silenced her with a sharp glare. "I didn’t ask you to speak, did I?" Then, he stepped closer. Too close. He reached out, his fingers brushing her hair. I wanted to vomit. She flinched but didn’t move. "It’s a shame," he murmured, almost tenderly. "Questa bellezza svanirà." (This beauty is going to fade.) I screamed again, slamming my fists against the glass as hard as I could. But they couldn’t hear me. She couldn’t hear me. And then, without warning, he pulled out a gun. "No!" The word tore from my throat, raw and desperate. My fists were bloody from pounding, but I didn’t care. "Mom! Stop him!" Her eyes met mine through the glass. She knew I was there. She knew I was watching. A single tear slipped down her cheek, and she nodded. A silent promise. Everything will be okay. But it wouldn’t. The gunshot shattered everything. I couldn’t breathe. My body collapsed against the glass as I watched her fall to the floor. Her eyes still open, still looking at me were lifeless. Blood pooled beneath her, vivid and wrong against the carpet. "No, no, no." The words spilled out of me, over and over. My hands pressed against the glass, shaking so hard I couldn’t stop them. The man turned, his jade eyes narrowing as he looked at the mirror. For a second, I thought he saw me. I swore he saw me. But then he walked away, his footsteps fading until the room was silent again. Two days. That’s how long I stayed there. I don’t know how I survived. I didn’t eat. I didn’t drink. I couldn’t stop staring at her. My mom. Her lifeless body. Her eyes wouldn’t close; they just kept staring back, as if she were still trying to protect me even in death. My lips cracked from dehydration, my body weak and trembling, but I couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away. Then I heard it. Footsteps. I barely had the strength to lift my head, but I knew. It was him. Not the monster. My dad. "Elena…" His voice broke as he said my name. The mirror creaked open, and I fell forward, my body collapsing into his arms. I wanted to move, to crawl to her, to be with her. But my legs wouldn’t work. My arms flailed weakly, fingers clawing at the floor. "Mom," I whispered, my voice cracking. "Mom…" His arms tightened around me, holding me like I might shatter if he let go. "I’m sorry," he said, his voice raw and heavy with guilt. "I should’ve been here sooner. I was stuck… I tried…" I pointed to her. My hand shook violently, but I couldn’t stop. I wanted him to see her. To fix her. "I know," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I know." And then he said it. "Rafael. He came for her." My stomach dropped. "Rafael?" My voice was barely a whisper. "Why? Who is he?" My dad grabbed my shoulders, forcing me to look at him. His eyes burned with grief and something else anger. "He…”