Page 17 of Morena

III.

Lucia and Carmen were in the kitchen holding hands.

I didn’t even know all three of them were close friends, because Mom never mentioned Lucia before, only Carmen.

And everything happened at Carmen’s house.

People came, people left. She paid for the whole funeral the next day.

No one even heard a thing from my father.

My sister played such a great part in grieving; she was always on Francisco’s chest, even though no tears made his shirt wet.

I spent most of the time upstairs, shut in, because I couldn’t stand to see anyone. Everyone faked it so much, so well. They were all grieving, but no one did anything to help.

Every time I closed my eyes, I wondered when she died.

Was it while I was leaving, or before I even lay down next to her?

If I thought deeper, all I saw were that girl’s dead eyes, which made me wonder what my mother’s eyes had been like when she died.

What was the last thing she saw? How I never got to say goodbye.

It’s always that last goodbye that hurts the most. It hurt me that I said nothing to her, that I just left through the door.

So I whispered into a pillow as I hugged it to my chest, “Mom, you were loved, and I am sorry. I am sorry you had to take every punch so we wouldn’t hurt.

I am sorry you had to die alone. I am sorry I wasn’t there.

But if I had been there, if you had let me say goodbye, I would tell you that you will go to a better place.

If there is a heaven, you are there, with wings, flying away.

I would ask you to look after me, because I would be too broken to live after you left us.

And I would say that if I ever have someone to love, like you loved me, I would name her Dolores, like your name was. ”

I wiped my tears as I heard footsteps. There was one knock at the door before Francisco entered and closed it behind him. He handed me a cookie and a cup of tea from Carmen, and said the words I had heard so many times today:

“Time will heal. You will feel better.”

I didn’t even turn.

But then he said, “You won’t feel better.”

He sat on the bed.

“No one will bring her back, and I don’t know exactly how you feel, but I know you are strong. If you are as strong a woman as I think you are, you will get through this.”

I sniffed. 1 “Gracias, Paco.”

He smiled. “Does this mean we are friends?”

“Maybe,” I said, wiping my tears away.

“I’ll leave you now, but it’s okay to cry, you know.” He pressed his palm to my cheek.

I nodded. “I know.”

He got up and walked out the door, leaving me alone in the room. I rolled to the opposite side, and as I opened my eyes, something moved in the shadows. My heart began to pound, and the room went cold. I rolled onto my back and closed my eyes again.

When I opened them, a face hovered above mine. The girl El Trece had killed hung there, as though gravity had forgotten her. Her hair was covering her face. But once her eyes found mine, I screamed so loud I heard footsteps running up.

She whispered, “You are next.”

I lifted and curled at the edge of my bed, holding my knees to my chest, staring at the front door, and waiting for someone to come, pinching my skin.

This isn’t a dream.

Carmen and Lucia both came in and sat on each side of the bed. Carmen looked at me like she already knew, and pulled me close to her chest while Lucia’s hand rested on my thigh.

“You will be okay, mi vida, 2 you will be okay,“ Carmen said.

“I am afraid,” I whispered into her shirt.

“I know,” she said. “You can sleep in my room tonight.”

I just nodded and held her hand, trembling. I didn’t know what was going on, and I didn’t want to know. All I knew was that maybe the ghost was right, maybe it was my time, maybe all this pain should end with me.

Carmen lifted me and guided me across the hallway to her bedroom. After we entered, the first thing I saw was Carlos sitting at the window.

I sat on the bed, and Carmen kissed my forehead. As she left the room and closed the door, I walked to the window and looked at Carlos.

“Hi,” he said, looking at me. “You look like you want to run away.”

I nodded and wiped my tears away.

“Jump,” he said, jumping onto a dumpster below him and then to the ground.

3 “?Estás loco?” I shouted.

He shook his head and pointed below. There was another dumpster that would break my fall.

“I will catch you,” he said with a chuckle.

He did not have to tell me twice, so I just lowered myself out the window and let my body drop. My bare feet hit the rim of the dumpster.

“See,” he said, “you’re alive.”

I rolled my eyes at him. “Barely.”

He lifted me from the ground and carried me in his arms. “You are not walking barefoot.”

“Oh,” I said, “qué romántico.”

He opened the car door for me in his red cabriolet and lowered me into the front seat. Then he got in and turned on the engine.

The car moved and he said something, but at first I did not register his words. I couldn’t. All I could think about was escaping, leaving this town. Still, I knew I couldn’t leave my sister behind, no matter how badly she acted.

We drove five minutes outside town and stopped on a hill that overlooked the town. When the car stopped, he opened my door and stepped out.

I didn’t get out. He sat down on the grass and looked at me.

“What are you doing, Carlos?” I asked, smiling.

“Looking at you,” he said, grinning, then he came closer.

“What are you doing, Carlos?” I asked again as his hand hovered above my skin. He just smiled and moved closer.

He didn’t say a word. He just grabbed my wrists and shoved me to the ground. I scrambled back, crawling, but the sound of his zipper split the silence. I knew what was coming. I pushed onto my knees, ready to run, but he was faster. His hand clamped around my ankle and yanked me closer.

He rolled me onto my stomach and pinned me down. No matter how much I resisted, he didn’t care. My nails raked his arms, my groans tore from my throat, but it was like he didn’t feel any of it. He was possessed, as if this was what he had wanted from the first moment.

“You want it,” he growled, mouth dragging against my neck.

“No.” My voice cracked. I shoved at his chest. “No!”

But my jeans were already being forced down. His hand slid lower, fingers pressing down on my clit, where I didn’t want him, rubbing first, then pushing inside me.

My body reacted, wetness spreading where I wanted nothing but emptiness. My own body is betraying me. How could it? How could it side with him?

Tears spilled down my cheeks. I squeezed my thighs shut, but he pried me open, his grip bruising.

“So wet for me,” he whispered.

For him? For him? Him?

No.

My body was a cage I couldn’t escape. Hatred burned through me. Hatred for him, hatred for this flesh that refused to obey, hatred for the weakness closing in.

He tugged harder, dragging my jeans lower, and I turned my face away, refusing to see him. That was when I saw it: a rock half-buried in the ground.

My fingers stretched. Found it. Cold, rough, sharp in my palm.

With every shred of strength left, I swung. The edge of the stone cracked against the left side of his head, sinking into his left eye.

Blood ran fast.

4 “?Puta!” he screamed, clutching his face. “You dug out my eye!”

But I said nothing. I just got up and ran, leaving him behind. With everything left in me, I ran. Down the hill, the trail stretched back toward town. I had only my underwear and a shirt on, but I didn’t care. I just wanted this night to end.

I wanted to go to the police, to tell them what happened. But who would believe me? They already didn’t like me. People always believe the rich over the poor. There was no point. So I ran to the only place I felt safe.

Carmen’s house.

I burst through the door, ran upstairs, and threw myself into the guest bedroom. I pulled the blanket over my head and buried my face in the pillow, my scream muffled until it was only mine.

Why? Mom, why?

Why is all of this happening to me?

They say God only gives you as much as you can take. But why punish me? I never did anything wrong. All my life, I bowed my head, stayed obedient, tried to be good. But the ones who bow always get the worst. And I was one of them.

I wanted it all to end. Every last piece of it.

I rushed to the bathroom. My hands tore through the cabinet until I found a razor. I sat down on the toilet lid and stared at my arm. I had done it before, only to feel pain, to steady myself. But this time the thought was different.

Pain quieted my mind. Shattered as it was, with every piece screaming its own story, drowning me until I couldn’t breathe.

But when the razor kissed my skin, when that sharp burn bloomed, everything went silent.

I focused only on the cut. At first, the blood came in a thin line, then heavier, until it spilled more freely.

This time, the thought was, what if I let it keep going? What if pain were endless? What if I let it consume me completely? Would I fall into silence forever, or into some other afterlife?

I didn’t know. I had no answer.

All I knew was that I felt dirty. My skin crawled. I wanted to scrub every inch of myself away. But before that, I wanted to try. Maybe this time it would work.

I pressed the razor deeper, dragging it across. The burn started slow, then faster, blood dripping harder now, running in red trails. I didn’t stop.

But my mind didn’t stop either. Nothing stopped.

Tears blurred everything, spilling as fast as the blood. I had never felt more alone. I was drowning in it.

I had never felt so utterly, completely alone.

1. Thank you.

2. my life

3. Are you crazy?

4. Bitch!