A fine, energetic rain was thickly covering the sleepy surroundings of the small town of Touchland with waves. At the end of the street, on the very edge of the settlement, clutching a revolver, with the remaining three cartridges, Whitney stood waiting for help. Her hair was, stuck together and stuck to her face like seaweed, slimy and wet.
For some reason, Whitney remembered the Lutheran church, where her mother brought her and her sister at the age of seven. That day it rained a similar, long, unpleasant rain. The woman needed to solve several court cases on her debts, and a familiar priest, Father Bastian, offered his help in looking after the girls.
The story of the daughters, that the gray-haired, church minister undressed in front of them, the mother took warily. Still. Not really, believing. Father Bastian was listed in a very good account with the parishioners, and this could have a negative impact on everyone involved in the story. Of course, the man himself denied everything said about him. Rumors are known to be faster than the wind. Soon after, Mom took Whitney and her sister out of school, moving to a neighboring state.
A couple of years later, Whitney read in the newspaper that Bastian's father was caught in bed with the child of one of his parishioners. "The monster was sentenced to thirteen years in prison," the article read, ostentatiously sticking out the words. This news didn't touch the girl a little, now she didn't care. Only mom, wore a mask of thoughtfulness from that day much more often.
Whitney quickly forgave the offense for distrust, but she could not build a previous relationship with her mother either.
The skin, chilled with moisture, trembled. Whitney lost count of the minutes, not realizing how long she had been leaning against an old, wet tree. Her legs were already aching from exertion, and the closing of her eyes betrayed fatigue. She looked around, and once again made sure that the street was silently empty.