I sat on the ground beside the old man, making it clear that I had no ill intentions and wasn't there to support the candidate he despised. I remained silent, offering him my quiet presence as a gesture of solidarity.
After a while, the silence broke when the old man suddenly spoke.
"I used to be a loyal devotee of Pastor Jun," he said abruptly, his voice carrying a mix of anger and sorrow.
He paused, as if gathering the strength to continue, before he began recounting his story.
"I was so loyal, so devoted to him. I believed in him wholeheartedly. Whatever he asked me to do, I did without hesitation, and I served our little church with an open heart. We were almost the same age, but I held him in such high regard because of the way he delivered the word of God. I thought he was a righteous man, a man of unwavering faith."
The old man's voice cracked slightly as he continued.
"But everything changed the day my daughter came to pick me up from the church. Patricia—my beloved Patricia. She was beautiful, with flawless skin and a kind heart. She worked so hard in her studies, determined to pull us out of poverty. She was everything a father could ever hope for in a child."
He paused again, his hands trembling slightly.
"When Pastor Jun saw her, it was as if he was struck by lightning. He stared at her in a way that made me uneasy, his gaze far from pure. At first, I tried to dismiss it, telling myself I was just imagining things. But soon, I learned the truth—the man I had admired and followed for so long was nothing but a devil hiding behind the guise of a holy man."
The weight of his words hung in the air, and I could feel the depth of his pain. His anger wasn't just directed at the posters or the campaign—it was rooted in a profound betrayal that had shattered his faith and trust.
Intrigued by the old man's story, I chose to remain silent, letting him recount everything at his own pace. It was clear from his demeanor that the next part of his story was heavy, something that weighed deeply on his heart. After taking a moment to compose himself, he continued.
"The pastor suddenly became very interested in my daughter," he began. "The next morning, he asked me if I had a beautiful daughter, commenting on how kind and sweet she seemed. I simply smiled, thinking nothing of it at first, but he kept asking more questions—her name, what grade she was in, even her age. Patricia was only 17 at the time, but the way Pastor Jun kept prying made me uneasy. He even insisted that I invite my daughter to our church to worship."
"I thought nothing was wrong with Patricia coming to the church, but something about his persistence made me feel uncomfortable," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "Weeks passed, and I continued supporting Pastor Jun and our church. But his questions about Patricia never stopped. He kept asking, over and over, when she would come to the service."
"One night, I got home late because I had taken a side job as a carpenter in another barangay to earn extra money for my family. When I arrived, I was surprised to find that Patricia wasn't home. I searched every corner of our house and even went to our neighbors to ask if they had seen her, but no one knew where she was. That night, I felt like I was losing my mind. I couldn't stop thinking about her."
He paused again, his hands shaking as he tried to steady his breathing.
"Then it hit me—the church. And Pastor Jun. I prayed I was wrong. I begged in my heart that I was mistaken. I didn't want to believe that someone I had respected so deeply could do anything to harm my daughter."
"I rushed to the church, walking straight to the entrance with no plan, just a desperate hope that Patricia was safe. When I arrived, I saw several large men standing outside. They weren't familiar to me, and their presence felt off, like they didn't belong to the church. They radiated an aura that sent a chill down my spine."
"I tried to ignore them and head straight inside, but they stopped me. 'You can't go in right now,' one of them said with a threatening tone. I explained to them that I was a member of the church and needed to see Pastor Jun. But they refused, saying the pastor was busy with something important and couldn't be disturbed. Their words made my heart sink."
"I told them I needed to go inside, that I had to find my daughter. I insisted, but they wouldn't let me through. Then, out of nowhere, I heard a loud scream from inside the church. A scream so full of fear and pain that it pierced my very soul."
The old man's voice cracked as he recounted this part, his face contorted with anger and grief. His hands clenched tightly, and for a moment, he couldn't continue. The weight of what he was reliving was almost unbearable.
The old man continued his story, his voice shaking as he spoke.
"The voice screaming for help—it was familiar. I knew that voice like the back of my hand. No one could convince me otherwise. It was my daughter, Patricia. My poor, helpless Patricia."
He paused, his tears streaming freely now, his body trembling with both grief and rage. I could see the overwhelming pain in his face as he relived that horrific moment.
I gently told him, "You don't have to continue if it's too painful for you. I understand." But he shook his head, as though determined to get the words out, even if it hurt.
"That's all I can say," he finally admitted, his voice breaking. "Because that night, the men who stopped me outside the church… they did something to me. I don't know what it was, but I lost consciousness. When I woke up, I was back at my house, bruised and battered, and Patricia was gone."
He took a deep, shuddering breath before continuing. "I've tried everything—reporting to the police, pleading with anyone who might help me—but it's useless. Pastor Jun has connections in the police force. He's untouchable. There's no evidence that points to him as the one responsible for my daughter's disappearance. Nothing."
His voice grew bitter. "And now, that same man, the one I once admired, the one I suspect took my daughter, is running for mayor. A man like him doesn't deserve power. He doesn't deserve respect. He's a devil hiding behind a mask of righteousness."
The old man fell silent, his shoulders slumping as though the weight of his pain was too much to bear. The story he had shared left a deep impression on me—anger at the injustice, sorrow for his loss, and the sickening realization that the system he was fighting against was just as corrupt as the man he once trusted.