Page 16 of Morena

II.

By the time I slipped through the front door, the clock had already surrendered the day to evening. Seven o’clock. The house smelled like stale liquor, the stench curling into my nose before I even set down my bag.

Dad was drinking again.

But it wasn’t just the sour smell that told me what I already knew. It was a shattered bottle glittering across the floor, a chair that lay sideways with one leg snapped. I knew it was one of those nights.

He wasn’t just drunk; he took his rage out on Mom again.

I heard it, a muffled sob from the bedroom. My stomach twisted. When I pushed the door open, I found her.

Mom.

She was curled tight on the bed, her body covered in bruises, her face streaked with tears. She looked so small, so breakable, that my chest cracked open. The tears burned up fast, spilling down my face before I could think. I slid onto the bed beside her, pulling her into my arms.

It was all I could give her.

She didn’t speak, just cried into the silence, letting her grief soak the sheets.

For a moment, we both lay in silence, but soon that silence was broken when the phone started to ring. A sharp, ugly sound that cut through. She didn’t move, but I did. I dragged myself away, wiped my face with the back of my sleeve, and walked into the kitchen.

The white phone hung from the wall, one of those old bricks that was hard to hold.

I picked it up and whispered, “Hello?”

My sister’s voice crackled through. “Can someone pick me up? I’m at the park near Marchana.”

“Yeah,” I said, my voice hoarse. “I’ll come.”

She laughed, careless. “Can you tell Dad? Or...” she laughed again, “I don’t want to be seen with you.”

“Dad isn’t here,” I said flatly. “It’s me or no one.”

“Fine,” she sighed, and the line went dead.

I stayed there for a moment, clutching the receiver, the dial tone humming in my ear.

Outside, the city had been swallowing girls alive one by one.

Kidnapped, gone, their faces were taped on every lamppost on our street.

Stories of a serial killer named El Trece haunted this town.

We had promised Mom that we would be home before eight and that we would never be alone.

But promises don’t matter when the alternative is a body bag.

I pulled on my denim jacket and stepped back from the house, leaving Mom to her silence. The streets seemed darker than usual. I cut through the alley, hurrying toward the park. That’s when I felt someone’s eyes on my back.

Someone was watching, and footsteps were falling too close.

I quickened my pace.

“Hey! Hey, why are you running?”

I spun at the voice. Francisco.

My relief came out sharp, sarcastic. “Maybe because I saw it was you.” I rolled my eyes and turned away.

He jogged up beside me, grinning. “Let me walk with you. It’s dangerous out here at night. This place is like candy land for that murderer.”

“What are the chances you’re not the murderer?” I asked, brow raised.

He laughed. “I’m not smart enough.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” I muttered, brushing past him.

When we reached the park, my sister spotted us. She didn’t even glance at me. She ran straight into his arms, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You came for me!”

I rolled my eyes, but Francisco noticed. Smirking, he pulled her tight against his chest.

1 “?Qué pasa, pequenita?” he murmured.

She giggled. “ 2 Nada. Just chilling.”

I rolled my eyes again

“What’s your problem?” my sister shoved my shoulder, her friends snickering behind her like vultures.

“Isn’t he a little old for you?” I shot back, gripping her arm. “We’re going home.”

“No, we’re not.” She yanked free, her chin tilted high. “You are.”

“Fine,” I said calmly. “I hope the killer catches your ass.”

She laughed. “I heard I’m not his type.”

Her friends joined her with their sharp giggles. And she wasn’t wrong. Whoever the murderer was, his victims were always the same— 3 morenas. Girls like me.

I folded my arms tight across my chest, pushed past them, and walked ahead. Behind me, I heard Francisco say something low to her. She didn’t like it, but she still trailed reluctantly at his side.

We walked home in silence. I could see our three shadows stretched across the cracked ground, moving in sync but worlds apart. By the time we reached Montichana, a chill crawled along my spine. It was one of those off feelings warning me that something was coming.

And something did.

The old monastery stood above us, its stone walls connected to the funeral home by one single balcony. That’s where I saw her.

A woman dangled upside down from her left ankle, tied to the wooden railing with three knots.

The first thing I saw was her eyes, clouding, losing the last traces of life.

Her black hair spilled down her face, and her naked body was carved into with thirteen deep cuts, each one screaming even though her mouth couldn’t anymore.

For a heartbeat, the world stopped breathing.

My sister’s scream shattered the silence.

Francisco grabbed her, holding her shaking body against his chest. But I didn’t move.

My blood stood in place, locked. My lips parted, but no sound came.

I couldn’t tear my gaze away. Her lifeless eyes seemed to find mine, and in the quiet, I could almost hear her screaming.

I swallowed hard, forcing the lump down my throat, and then I ran. But not toward home. My legs carried me to Carmen. Because Carmen was home for me.

Francisco pulled my sister with him in the opposite direction, probably to his house. For once, I didn’t care. She was my sister, yes, but I couldn’t take care of her when I didn’t even know how to keep myself whole.

I pounded on Carmen’s door, fists trembling. When it opened, she stood there in one of her silk nightdresses. I fell into her arms without a word, clutching her tight, and at last, my tears came, spilling hot against her shoulder.

She closed the door behind us and held me.

For a moment, I thought I saw something move upstairs. Someone else was here. Maybe I had been wrong all along. Maybe she didn’t love her husband as much as I believed. Maybe she had already moved on.

But I didn’t care. Not tonight.

4 “Mi vida, ?qué pasó?” she whispered, pulling back just enough to search my face.

“El Trece,” I choked out, pulling her closer, burying myself in her arms as if she could shield me from the horror that followed me to her door.

She just held me for a long minute, then gently guided me to the kitchen. The kettle clattered softly as she set water to boil.

She slowly walked to the hallway, I couldn’t hear her footsteps, and lifted the phone. She dialed the police and reported another body found. I watched her lips move, but the words didn’t reach me. My mind was elsewhere, trapped on that balcony, staring at glassy eyes and broken flesh.

Why her? Why like that? What was the point of killing her, of displaying her like that? Who could do such a thing?

The questions twisted inside me, and each one cut deeper because I had no answers. I hated it. The helplessness. The silence. The not-knowing. I hated the feeling.

Carmen came back, placing a steaming cup into my hands. The scent of chamomile rose in soft waves, already slowly calming me down.

“Let’s go upstairs,” she said gently. “You can sleep here tonight. I’ll call your parents.”

“But…” My voice cracked. I wanted to protest, but she nudged me toward the staircase.

“I’ll take care of it,” she insisted.

My body was so tired already that I had to stay. In her room, I curled into the bed, pulling the blankets tight as if they could hold me together. My thoughts turned dark, haunting me.

I had left my sister with Francisco. I had left my mother broken and alone.

The shame was suffocating. I hated myself for it. But deep down, I knew the truth—what good could I have done? I was barely holding myself up.

The bedroom door stayed cracked open, and through that sliver of space, the night carried voices to me. Steps. Then Carmen’s familiar tone.

5 “Lucía, no te vas, mi amor.”

“I have to, mi amor,” Lucía whispered back. “My boys are waiting, and I just saw Francisco bring a girl home.”

Their words tangled together, followed by the wet hush of a kiss. Footsteps trailed off, the night parting to let one of them go.

6 “Te amo, amor. See you tomorrow night, ?sí?”

“Claro,” 7 Carmen answered, her voice breaking.

Her steps faded back to her bedroom, leaving me in silence.

And suddenly, I understood. That was why Carmen lived alone, why no man was by her side. She already had someone. But Lucía was married, forbidden. A love forbidden by law and people, but still alive, still burning.

A smile tugged at my lips. Carmen was happy. In love. She had lost once, and somehow found again.

I wanted that. I wanted to believe I could let go of my own pain, just as she had, and find something worth holding onto.

But all I could do was dream.

I closed my eyes, the whisper of their kiss still hanging in the air, and sleep finally took me.

It was around six when Carmen woke me. Her hands were trembling, and her face was wet from tears. I sat up slowly, still confused in a state of half-dream. She took my hand, pressed her lips to it, and whispered with a voice that broke my world apart:

“Your mamá, mi vida… she died last night.”

The words didn’t fit. They couldn’t.

“No.” My throat seized, the tears burning before they even fell. “No, she was okay... she was okay...” My body shook, my head refusing to believe. “She can’t... she can’t...”

The scream ripped out of me. I stumbled from the bed, shoving Carmen aside in blind panic. My bare feet slapped against the wooden stairs, and my hands slammed against the front door, which burst open, and I ran. I ran home.

But she was already gone.

The house was crowded with neighbors, carrying plates of food as if casseroles could replace a heartbeat.

My father sat slumped with another bottle of whiskey in his fist, his knuckles still bruised from the blows from last night.

My sister was crying in the corner with her friends, but the moment she saw me, her grief twisted to rage.

“It’s all your fault!” she screamed, tearing herself free to shove me hard against the doorway. “Where were you, huh? Where were you while she was dying?”

Her words cut.

I stared at my father, at those bruised hands, and no sound came from me but the rasp of my breath.

“You left her to die,” my sister spat. “I wish it were you instead.”

And the cruelest part was, I wished that too.

I turned away, numb, and slid down against the wall outside. I had never been my mother’s favorite. That bond had always been my sister’s. But still, I knew her pain, lived it through her eyes. I had seen the bruises, heard the insults, felt the silence that was louder each day.

She was my mamá too. And he had broken her until she couldn’t bear it anymore.

She gave her life away one beating at a time, and I had known, deep inside,that one day she wouldn’t survive. And still I hadn’t stopped it.

People like to say time heals. But how can time heal a wound that never closed in the first place? I was already bleeding, and now the cut went too deep.

“Mi vida,” Carmen whispered, her arms sliding under mine, lifting me before I collapsed completely.

She held me like she always did, like a second mother.

“You’ll come live with me,” she murmured into my hair. “Both of you will.”

I nodded, too broken to speak. I couldn’t look at my father again, not when all I saw was the man who killed her, now sitting with crocodile tears and playing the grieving husband.

Carmen was right when she told me there’s a thin line between love and hate. People we love can turn quickly into people we hate.

1. What's up, little one?

2. Nothing

3. Women with dark features

4. My life, what happened?

5. Lucia, don't go, my love.

6. I love you, love.

7. Of course.