It’s a woman.
Short, thin, with long dark brown hair.
Beautiful.
This has to be Vicente’s mother.
I’m not sure how to feel. Part of me thinks that because she’s his mother, she must be like all mothers and feel for the suffering I’m in. She must be on my side, want to help me. She has a daughter herself.
The other part of me knows she married Javier. That they’ve been married for twenty-odd years. That you can’t marry someone like that and not be corrupt yourself. If there was any good in her, she gave that up the day she said “I do.”
I eye her with caution as she walks toward me with the bag in her hands, stopping a few feet away from me.
But I don’t sit up.
I don’t say anything.
Instead I pinch my eyes shut and attempt to drown in my pain.
There’s a way out of this, if I play my cards right.
The woman, Luisa, says softly, “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help. Vicente’s orders.”
Now the tears that are flowing out of my eyes are real.
Vicente.
The connection between us isn’t gone.
It flickers, giving me power.
To keep going.
“I’m in so much pain,” I cry out. “Your husband, he did this to me. My leg. Just like my mother’s. He wanted me to suffer.”
I open my eyes to look at her reaction.
I can tell she didn’t know what he did.
She looks absolutely horrified, her hand at her mouth, her eyes wide.
But she shuts it down pretty quickly.
Her expression becomes like stone as she composes herself, barely glancing at me.
She feels shame.
She’s trying to hide it, but she does feel it. I can tell.
So that’s something I have to exploit.
“I have some things that may help,” she says, clearing her throat. She reaches into her bag as she crouches beside me. She pulls out antibacterial cream, a banana, a one-litre bottle of water, bandages, pajama pants, a t-shirt, a light sweater, a vial of pills, toilet paper, two more vials of pills.
I watch the display of items. There’s nothing I can use as a weapon.
I’ll have to use myself.
“Please don’t let him hurt me again,” I cry out through a sob. It feels silly to even say this like it’s not the truth, because it is. Moments ago I felt like I was already dead. But having her here, hearing of Vicente, has awoken something in me. My resolve to get out of here.
The chance that I can.
I start to shake. “I think I might be going into shock. I can’t feel anything. My heart keeps slowing.” I turn away from her, my hair falling over my face. I know I must look like absolute filth in La Mueca’s dirty dress shirt and nothing else. “I’m dying.”
“Hush now,” she says. “You’ll be fine.”
But even her voice is wavering.
She’s not sure.
And the guilt that I might not make it through—that her husband did this—that guilt is starting to lower her defenses.
I continue crying pitifully while gathering up strength from deep inside.
She seems to be the type to fight dirty and I have no wish to do anything like that. Despite everything, I can’t even hate this woman, because she gave birth to Vicente. But I will also do anything to live and that includes hurting her.
Vicente will understand.
And even if he doesn’t, I won’t feel any guilt in trying to stay alive.
I cry.
I sob.
I wait.
Seeming vulnerable.
Pressing my fingers into the cement.
Coiling.
I can feel her come closer.
Lean over me.
Lays a hand on my shoulder, gently.
There.
I take in a deep breath.
Push up off my hands.
Whip my head around as my knee bends up to my elbow, leg goes out, foot catches Luisa right in the ribs.
It slams into her.
She cries out in surprise, then pain, as I follow through with the kick until she’s knocked over on her side, clutching her side, trying to breathe.
I get to my feet, my hands going to the contents of the bag where she’d placed her keys after she emptied the contents.
She tries to grab me with a shriek, her fingers tearing into my ankle where the acid burned me.
The scream dies in my throat. Stars erupt behind my eyes. I push through the urge to vomit, to keep from falling over, fainting from the pain.
I use that pain to ground myself and turn, twisting around until she has to let go, the side of my other foot colliding with her cheekbone, causing her to fall to the ground again with a spray of blood.
I can’t feel bad. I can only hope it’s bought me enough time.
I run for the door with the key, opening it with shaking hands. My leg throbs, my heart is bumping against my rib cage, carried by adrenaline. Luisa is behind me, coughing, spitting up blood.
I look over my shoulder to see her holding her head, keeled over, just as the lock finally gives.
The door opens.
It’s heavy.
I push it through and then I’m in dark corridor with one fluorescent light at the end, illuminating a staircase. I run down the hall with a staggering limp, past a few doors, all closed, I’m sure all holding rooms just like the one I was in. A house of horrors.
I’m surprised this place isn’t guarded.
But my thoughts come too soon.
Javier steps down from the last stair.
Freezes when he sees me.
I freeze too, ready to turn around and run, maybe find another way.
But he’s fast.
He reaches out and grabs me by the hair, practically ripping it out from the roots as he spins me around and slams me against the wall. My cheek explodes as he shoves me in harder, his nails in my scalp while his other hand twists my arm behind my back.
“Is this what you want?” he growls at me, pressing himself against me from behind until I’m sandwiched between him and the wall. “To keep testing me?”
He yanks on my hair again, pain screaming from my scalp, then slams my head back against the wall until my vision starts to go soft and grey. A low, pathetic whimper escapes my lips.
“Everything that happens to you is because of you,” he hisses in my ear, breath smelling like alcohol. “You’re making this infinitely harder than it needs to be, but that’s what girls like you do, isn’t it? Always making a man’s life harder.” He twists his fist in my hair until I cry out. “You should be begging for your life, Violet McQueen.”
I find a thread of strength running through me.
Grab it.
Javier is going to do what he can to keep the upper hand, using the pain of pulling my hair and the force of his body against mine to keep me in place.
I’ve been in a situation like this before.
In training.
A lifetime ago.
Against fighters I knew how to fight.
In an open arena at the martial arts school.
With people who play fair.
Nothing here is normal, nothing here is fair.
But the wall that keeps me here is the stability I need to use to fight back.
“I will never beg to you,” I snap at him.
Then…
I jerk my body back, bring my legs up until my feet are pressed flat against the wall and then shove backward into him, getting just enough space to slide to the left along the wall and spin myself free.
He comes at me right away, fire in his eyes, and I know I won’t get far if I run.
I immediately drop down, what he least expects, and get into a low crouch, my good leg swinging out in an arc that catches him at the ankles, knocking him off balance.
He falls backward and I’m off like a shot, ignoring the pain in my body, going up the stairs two at a time unti
l I’ve reached the main level of the house.
I look down the hallway and see a screen door beyond the tiles of what looks to be the kitchen. I can practically taste the freedom.
Behind me I can hear Javier on the stairs, swearing, yelling my name.
But I keep going toward that light, toward the palm trees and the fresh air and the hint of blue sky.
I know that I’ll have to deal with a million other things, people, once I’m outside. I might even be shot on sight. But this escape means everything to me.
I’m almost there.
A couple of feet.
My feet hitting the tiles.
But from behind a wall, La Mueca appears.
Standing right between me and the door.
“No!” I scream, already turning to find another way out.
I get two steps, slipping on the tiles in my bare feet.
La Mueca has me.
His arms wrapped tight around mine from behind, holding me up high enough so that my feet can’t touch the ground.
I’m kicking wildly, growling like a captured animal, throwing my head back, trying to headbutt him.
But La Mueca is tall, strong. He keeps me in place with ease, squeezing more and more like I’m in the death throes of a boa constrictor. I kick nothing but air and occasionally my heel strikes his thigh but it’s not enough to do anything at all.
I’m trapped.
A steer tethered in place, awaiting its fate.
Javier comes storming toward me as if in slow motion.
He’s a one-man abattoir, bringing out a knife from his pocket.
His eyes are so wild, I know he’s not even in control of himself. It was the same look he had when he threw the acid on me.
Without control, this man has no boundaries.
I’ve never been so afraid.
He might just slit my throat right here.
“You little bitch,” Javier sneers at me raising the knife. “Barrera, hold her head still.”
La Mueca hesitates, then lowers me to the ground. I don’t stop struggling, even as his large hand spans over my head, fingers pressed against my forehead and holding me in place.
Javier holds the knife in front of me and I’m not sure if he’s going to cut my face in half, from between the eyes, over the bridge of my nose, over my lips. If he’ll peel the skin away like an orange. I’ve heard of worse things.
I expect worse things.
I stare right into his eyes, fear taken over me, and I know that’s all he sees.
I hope it’s what he wanted.
“I don’t want you to ever forget who did this to you,” he says, the grip tightening over the knife handle. “It was all Vicente.”
He brings his hand down and slashes the blade across my cheek at an angle, cutting me open.
I scream like a banshee.
He does it again.
Another slash.
Meeting at the bottom near my jaw.
He just carved a V into my face.
Tears spill from my eyes, mixing with the hot blood that drips down onto my chest, staining La Mueca’s shirt.
Javier’s eyes follow.
With another flick of the knife he slices through the front of the shirt, cutting it wide open, nearly getting my skin, my chest and breasts partially exposed.
“You will look at yourself every day until you die and know who did this to you.”
He raises the knife, poised to slash me again, this time across my chest.
“Javier!” Luisa’s shrill voice fills the house.
My heart pulses in my cheek, rapid, out of control, spurting blood.
The pain is unreal.
The fear is everything.
“Don’t you dare, Javier, don’t you dare!” Luisa yells.
Suddenly she’s right behind him, hands on his arms, trying to pull him away. Her face is bruised, busted up, but otherwise looks okay.
She definitely doesn’t look as bad as I do.
“This doesn’t concern you, Luisa,” he says to her without looking, trying to shrug her off. “If she didn’t escape from you and your bleeding heart, she wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“Javier, stop it.”
I watch the anger roll through his face, aging him in seconds.
He turns to face her and only then sees the damage I did during my escape.
I brace myself.
“Who did that to you?” he says, indignant.
Luisa eyes me but doesn’t say anything. “It doesn’t matter. You need to stop. You’re acting insane, fucking mad. You need to step away, go to your office, just…get a fucking hold of yourself.”
Javier shakes his head in disbelief and then looks back to me. “You did this to my wife?” he asks slowly, voice dripping with venom.
I can only stare at him wide-eyed, mouth open, trying to breathe, each movement making my skin tear with fresh bursts of pain.
“Javier!” Luisa says, grabbing him again, holding his hand back, her nails digging into his tanned skin. “If you do this, you’re not the man I love. Your son already hates you Javier. Don’t make me hate you too.”
That seems to get through to him. A wash of trepidation comes over his brow as he weighs his options.
He will always relinquish to his wife.
So fucking strange that this man could love anything.
He closes his eyes and breathes in deep, nostrils flaring. “I would rather die than have that, my love,” he says to her quietly.
Then he steps back, away from me.
I should find relief in it.
I don’t.
Especially when he looks at La Mueca and says, “Deal with her. Now.”
He turns away, taking Luisa by the elbow and leading her out the screen door, to the bright world outside.
Now it’s just me and La Mueca.
His grip around me hasn’t loosened.
I wonder what dealing with me will consist of.
“I told you to be a good girl, senorita,” he says slowly with great deliberation. His voice is low, husky. “This is what happens when you are bad. You need to stop this, do you understand?”
I make a gurgling sound, unable to talk.
“Come on, I’ll take you back.”
He carries me all the way down the hall, down the stairs, back to the room. I’m limp in his arms. There’s no point fighting him. Javier I could take because I had surprise on my side. That’s the only reason why. Otherwise, I would be doomed. Luisa was pretty easy, again aided by surprise. Neither expected me to know how to fight.
But La Mueca probably expects it, seeing how I escaped, the damage to Luisa’s face, and even if he didn’t, there’s no way I would stand a chance against him.
Besides, I’m growing tired. More so because I know that this isn’t over. Not by a longshot. The moment we go into that room, he will deal with me.
The door closes behind us.
He places me on the ground and I have to lean against the wall to stay upright.
He watches me for a moment, just a foot away, staring down at me deep in thought.
“Luisa left you some things to fix you up. I’m guessing she never got a chance to use them before you escaped.”
I blink at him. Watch as he walks across the room to the tote bag. He slowly gathers everything up, placing it back inside the bag and then hangs the strap on the back of the chair.
“Come here, sit,” he says, nodding at the chair.
I don’t move. I’m not sure I can move. My face burns as badly as my leg did, the blood still flowing down my cheek.
“I’m not asking,” he says. Points to the chair. “Sit.”
I still don’t move.
If I’m trying his patience though, he doesn’t show it.
He walks over to me with purpose and it takes everything not to cower with fear.
But he grabs my arm, fingers wrapped around my bicep, firm but not rough, and leads me over to the chair.
He looks me over
and then starts pulling the sleeves of his shirt out of my arms, until I’m totally naked again.
“It was good while it lasted,” he says, scrunching the shirt up and bringing out the bottle of water. He pours some of the water onto the clean parts of the shirt, then starts to press it against my skin.
I stand there, bare, frozen, as he wipes down my chest, my neck, even my arms. He works methodically, biting his lip, until all traces of the blood are wiped away. He glances briefly at my cheek and then to my eyes. He holds me in his gaze for a moment and it’s almost as if something startles him. Like he’s remembering something.
Then it fades. “That should be better.” He turns and brings the white t shirt and grey pajama bottoms out of the bag. “Arms up.”
I want to tell him I can dress myself but I don’t dare open my mouth. It finally feels like the blood has slowed. My teeth are pressed so hard together, afraid to move an inch.
So I put up my arms and he slowly lowers the shirt over them, stretching the neckline extra-wide to get it over my head without touching my face, pulling it down slowly over my breasts.
Next come the pajamas. One foot in and then the other.
I wouldn’t say the way his hands skirt over my thighs, my ass, my hips, are brotherly. There is something mildly sexual about it, and it’s not just that I’m hyper-aware. He’s taking his time running his hands over me, even his breathing slows, becomes more ragged.
If anything, it makes me close my eyes. It makes me think of Vicente. The ache inside me is so acute, it almost breaks me. To have his warm palms touching my flesh, his gaze, his words, his smell giving me comfort. I would do anything.
La Mueca is a handsome man with his height, his slinky bedroom eyes and perpetual pout. But I know I can’t be bought by his random tenderness. I know what he is, who he works for. I know that in the game of good-cop, bad-cop, I can’t be tricked. No one is good here. Not even me.
“There,” he says, pulling himself away from me. “Now sit. Please.”
I do so because he added the please. I expect I’ll be restrained.
But I’m not. Instead he takes the tube of antibacterial cream and puts it on a piece of dressing. “This will hurt,” he says, holding it near my cheek.
I brace myself. He pressed it against my cheek and I cry out sharply, my body rigid in the chair. I hold onto the edge for dear life, my hands turning white from pressure.
I’m trying not to cry and my breathing is hard and shallow as I contort from the pain, flinching, trying desperately to escape.