Chapter 27 #2
After washing the blood off my body and covering up in a fuzzy dark robe, I sit on the edge of the tub, Santos turning my hand over as he inspects the cut.
“It’s not too deep. You should probably get stitches so it doesn’t ruin your perfect skin.”
Butterflies erupt in my stomach at the thought that he thinks any part of me could be perfect. “I don’t mind.”
He looks at me as surprised. “It’ll probably scar.”
I nod. “I know. It’ll be a good reminder.”
“Of what?” he asks.
“That I’m alive.”
We remain locked in a silent exchange, our eyes never straying from the other’s as I will him to hear everything I’m unable to say.
His emerald gaze is hard at first, but it quickly softens, understanding filling them.
With the most careful touch, he traces over the jagged line on my palm, the skin angry and pink.
“You have everything. Why wouldn’t you want to be alive, V?”
“You called me V,” I say instead of answering his damning question.
“Yeah?”
“You called me V. You’ve always called me Valentina.”
His hand quivers, and I fear he’s going to release his grip. Instead, he closes my palm in his. “Why wouldn’t you want to be alive, V? Does it have anything to do with the tattoo on your back?”
Dread consumes me, my tongue turning to lead in my mouth, my blood turning to ice in my veins. I yank away from his grasp, his words burning me more than his touch ever could.
“How dare you?” I hiss. It’s the only thing I can think to say—the only words I can form that aren’t the painful truth. A truth I’ve spent my entire life running from, hidden beneath the mask of ice I’ve created around my heart.
“Valentina—”
I shake my head, sliding away from him. I don’t trust myself now—I feel flayed open in more ways than one. I’m terrified more than just blood will spill from me tonight.
Blood, I can survive. The truth? It’s more than I can endure.
He reaches out again but doesn’t touch me. I watch him watch me, his face twisting into something unreadable—not pity, but something similar. Grief?
“Don’t make me relive it,” I state, crossing my arms across my chest to ward off the sudden chill. My hand stings, and I focus all my energy into feeling the burn.
“Panic attacks. My little brother, Jos…my little brother used to get them after he was in a bad car accident. I knew he was having an attack when he’d touch his lips.
He’d get this far off look on his face and touch his lips like this.
” He traces the tips of his fingers over the ridges of his mouth.
I remain silent, even as the damn inside me begins to crack, filling my head with a roar.
“He’d beg me to help him feel. I’d pinch his arm or tickle his feet, anything to make the numbness fade.
After a while, he stopped asking me to do that for him.
” A forlorn look crosses the hard lines of his face, sweeping away his normally playful demeanor and replacing it with something sad and lonely.
“I sometimes wonder if he still had the attacks, and he just got better at hiding them. I stopped asking him if he was okay, and he stopped asking me for help.”
“I not sure they ever go away.” I don’t know where the admission comes from, but the second it leaves my lips, I feel their weight lift from my chest. “I had my first one when I was fifteen. I got better at hiding them because, after a while, everyone just thought I was being dramatic.”
He tentatively reaches for me again, waiting.
Instead of fighting him like I know I should, I slip my fingers into his.
I can’t tell if it’s the look of understanding on his face or the fact that he’s enough of a stranger in my life that he might be the one person who won’t judge me for my past, but I ache to open up and tell him everything.
“Closer.” He pats the edge of the tub next to him, and I slowly scoot toward him.
As I do, I try to pull my hand from his, but he only interlaces our fingers.
I stare at the pattern our two bodies make.
My hand’s thin and dainty, with perfectly sharp black nails and soft skin.
His hand’s large and rough, with jagged nails covered in dirt and skin worn by work and blistered by the sun.
I trace my opposite pointer finger over them—rough, soft, big, small, good, bad.
“I got the tattoo when I was eighteen.”
His hand tightens around mine, and I lift my gaze to his. I expect pity. What I find is so much more.
“Medusa.”
I purse my lips, staring at the fire burning anew in his gaze. Why’s he so angry about a tattoo?
“Why Medusa, V?”
I shrug, nonchalant as I say, “it’s just a symbol for strength and empowerment. For surviving hurtful things.”
He doesn’t say anything. Does he not believe me?
I wouldn’t be surprised—no one ever does.
Breathing deeply, I focus back on our interlocked fingers, admiring the simple gesture.
It’s simple in every culture—the first step in every pre-teen relationship.
And yet, this is the first time I’ve ever done it.
No one’s ever held my hand. Not as a form of comfort or affection. Never.
He’s not declaring his love and devotion to me. He’s not even saying he likes me. He’s simply here, listening to me, holding my hand.
“It was my own fault. I never said no.” I breathe the words, barely more than a whisper, and his fingers constrict around mine.
I take in his stricken expression, like I just told him his entire family was killed by the boogie man or something, and it’s more than I can bear. I try to pull away from him. I should make him let me go—I should demand he leave me alone.
But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the way he’s clinging to me—as if he’s drawing as much strength from me as I might from him.
“Don’t pity me.” My voice wobbles. “I was weak. I let them hurt me. I never said no. It’s my own fault.”
“Valentina, I—”
I shake my head. “Please don’t pity me. I can’t—I’ve never. It’s not worth repeating. No one wants to know, and I don’t blame them.”
“You’re wrong.” His voice sounds like he’s gargled rocks.
I shrug. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.
” And it’s the truth. Every memory, each as crystal clear as if I was reliving them, is piled onto the next—seemingly with no beginning or end to the torture.
I exist in a never ending loop of the evil in my head, running through my veins, atop my skin.
Each memory’s there, here, everywhere. They’re the only things that fill my memory, like a permanent black fog, taking up space for any others.
“Anywhere.” His fingers tighten in an encouraging gesture.
I want to tell him, something. Anything. Everything.
Licking my lips, I close my eyes and squeeze his hand to keep from falling so far into the memories, I can never crawl back out again.
“I was fifteen.”
His breath is sharp. “What was his name? Do you remember?”
I blink open, staring at him. Finally, I say, “Which one? I remember everything about them—the way they smell, the feel of their hands holding me down, the sound of their grunts.”
Santo’s eyes widen. “How many?”
“Three the first time. Too many to count after that. Six years is a long time to keep track.” It’s a lie, one of the few that comes easily. I remember every single man my father offered me to as a way to get what he wanted.
I was the perfect pawn—the undeniable key to any deal. Whatever my father wanted, he got, and I paid for it.
“Valentina. You’re saying you were raped by three men at fifteen? And then continued to be raped until you were twenty-one?” He sounds a mix of incredulous and murderous.
My brows pinch together as I look away from his face. “Well, it wasn’t rape. Like I said, I never said no, so it can’t be rape.”
“What are you talking about?” He’s angry, and I try to pull my hand away. I don’t need his anger, not now.
“Let me go,” I insist.
His face softens, but he doesn’t let go of my hand. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to scare you—”
“I’m not scared of anything,” I hiss.
He takes a deep breath. “I don’t know why not. I’m scared of plenty of things.”
“It’s weak. And Reyeses don’t have weaknesses.” I repeat the phrase that’s been the framework of my entire existence.
Santos just stares at me like he can’t believe what I’m saying.
“I get it. You don’t believe me. No one does.”
“I believe you,” he says, his voice filled with a convection that instantly makes me trust him. “But it was rape, V. I’m sorry—I hate that that happened to you, but you were fifteen, and it was three adult men. Not saying no isn’t consent, child or otherwise.”
“That’s not what my father said.”
His jaw goes slack. “Yo—your father?”
I nod. “It was his associates.”
“Your father traded you for wealth.”
“I guess.” Discomfort begins to curl in my stomach, making bile crawl up my throat. The memories are beginning to blotch out my reality, pulling me beneath the dark, frozen surface. “I don’t—I can’t talk about—”
Instead of pushing me or simply releasing me, Santos pulls my head to his chest. I freeze, shocked at first by the gesture, but I quickly melt against him, the racing drum of his heart beneath my ear filling my head.
I close my eyes and wrap my arms around his waist, allowing myself to seek comfort in him.
Just for a single, forbidden moment.