Today, the lightning wouldn't strike me. First, the police would investigate the case, watch the scum, and only then would chaos hit.
That's what I thought while washing my face in the bathroom, staring in horror at the face distorted by crying, my reddened nose, and swollen eyes.
I looked awful, and in an hour, I was supposed to head to Léna's nook for ice cream with Tom.
Ilke was safe. She would lie that she was under house arrest and wouldn't meet that scum.
What had I been mourning for hours? I think it was my soul's innocence. I believed in true love, maybe someone outside it who suffers for love. An outsider, like I was when Tom was chatting with that other girl.
I'm fifteen. No one prepared me for the fact that sneaky scum exist in the world.
I was mourning my soul's innocence.
Was I selfish to be glad that today the lightning wouldn't strike and that I'd meet Tom? Most certainly.
I was terribly mistaken. The police acted the same day.
Tom messaged that something came up, and he couldn't come for ice cream. I knew what happened. I understood.
We'd go for ice cream another time. Who knows when. Maybe never.
My whole afternoon was suddenly free. Not just free, but empty. Two hours passed. Then my phone went crazy.
"Are you okay?"
"Are you okay?"
"Are you okay?"
Messages poured in.
The pedophile network's exposure had already hit the news. Everyone was checking their friends and chatting about it.
One hundred fifty minors were pimped out from the city to rich pedophile assholes. Some of the lover boys came from the girls' indirect social circles. The victims were minors. Some of the perpetrators were minors too. Anonymity protected them.
We only got the names of the rich, pedophile bastards.
One hundred fifty minors. Any of my acquaintances, besides Ilke, could be among the quietly suffering anonymous victims. They constantly needed fresh targets.
Then they spoke of the anonymous hero. The anonymous reporter who helped expose this horror.
Karl—my brother—was the city's anonymous hero.
Later, I mustered the courage and messaged Ilke:
"Are you okay?"
Everyone was asking everyone that. The anonymous hero—my brother—remained undisclosed.
No reply came for a long time. He was at the police station with his parents.
Then she answered.
"No. A psychologist talked to me at the police station, gave me half a sedative… I'm not crying, but when I think about why that scum blackmailed me, what the ultimate goal was… okay, now I'm crying, Helga."
What should I say? I would've hugged her in person. But online?
Ilke kept typing.
"It turned out that what he blackmailed me with wasn't even a banned substance. The scum stole a mild sedative from his grandmother and forced me to take it. Sure, I was a little dazed by it. I've never done drugs, never taken a sedative. I didn't know what effect a sedative or banned substance would have."
Ilke was still typing, rapid-fire sentences, broken and complex. She was so upset she didn't notice that the fast typing made her mix up or swap words and letters.
I read quietly. I'd have to answer eventually. Nothing seemed good enough… I read Ilke, and my soul ached.
Karl stood in my doorway, watching. Ilke deserved a little happiness too. This once, I didn't care about my brother's request or what he would think of what I was doing.
I took a photo of Karl leaning against my door in shorts and a T-shirt. He didn't look like a hero.
I sent the photo to Ilke. I wrote only this:
"Here's the anonymous reporter, the unknown hero who went to the police because he cared about your safety."
A long silence followed. Meanwhile, I told Karl I was chatting with Ilke.
"If she wants to talk to me, I'm here. If she doesn't suggest it herself, don't push it."
That was all my brother asked.
Ilke started a video call. I accepted. Karl stepped beside me.
They smiled at each other. I decided it was better to brew myself some tea in the kitchen and let them talk.