Taina
BLOOD OWED
There’s nothing like a hard day’s work tormenting a monster.
Today’s agenda was leaving the same panties he tore from my body in the passenger seat of one of his cars.
It was easy enough to evade the security cameras, having seen them be installed outside his home.
A low crawl, a metal strip resembling a ruler, with my balaclava covering my face.
Not that I needed it. He knows it’s me.
I turn the engine over in my car that I’d parked a few streets over, satisfied with fulfilling the day’s agenda. An exhale escapes through parted lips, audible in the quiet car. There aren’t many moments when I feel utterly alone, and I relish in this moment’s peace.
The enveloping embrace of safety only reaches for me when in solitude. I yank off my mask and shove it in my hoodie pocket.
And I think back on the man who made me this way.
He hasn’t been spending as much time here as he typically does, and I wonder what horrors now reside in this space. If he’s inflicting them on others at a new location. Are those victims not special enough for him to take home ?
I can recall my own horrors like they’re seared into my brain, branding me in a way I never knew could exist.
His home where they likely had to scrub my blood away that stained their basement floor.
That borrowed blood sings to me, bringing me back to this cursed space, as if the darkness of it is calling me.
Ven , nena . Blood spilled is blood owed.
And as I pull away, I try not to listen to its sinister siren call, the blood remaining in my body pumping from adrenaline as I grit my teeth.
Patience is a pain in the ass.
I think of seeing my parents at the dinner table tonight, listening to their questions about therapy or what else I managed to do since I blasted my goddamn future to bits.
For them, my presence in their home was meant to be temporary.
But when I refused to “go back to normal,” it became clear to them that they’d be stuck with me.
And what keeps them from throwing my ass out?
I’m trying to figure that out.
In the meantime, I may as well grab a pint of Chunky Monkey to eat for dinner.
Seeing a gas station on my right, I pull in and turn my car off.
It’s gotten hotter, and I think I’ll stick out too much if I wear my hoodies, so despite hating showing my figure, I pull it off and toss it onto the passenger seat.
The moment I walk in, the air is cooler, causing the hair on my arms to stand on end.
I duck my head a little, wishing I’d left my shapeless hoodie on. I leave the house in compression clothes so my parents think I’m going to the gym. I’m not sure where they think I go afterward, but at least I put on a show for them.
I’m about to head toward the ice cream when the door jangles behind me .
I smell him before I see him, and it brings one word to mind: expensive.
Having been around money my entire life, I know what it smells like.
I peer back, expecting an old man with a Rolex on his wrist.
While I got the Rolex right, there’s nothing old about this man.
No, if there’s one word for him, it’d be “significant.” His build—tall with bulky arms—and the way he freely stares at me, a smile stretching over his lips, transforming what appeared to be a frown into an adorable grin.
He’s wearing a black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing the sprinkle of dark hair adorning his thick, tan forearms. His slacks fit perfectly, like they were tailored rather than purchased in the big and tall section where this motherfucker belongs.
Oh hell no. Not this, too.
As if my life couldn’t get messier.
My pulse picks up, and I start feeling a little too hot for my liking.
I need to get the fuck away from this guy who probably thinks I’m a normal woman who hasn’t taken a few lives.
As I head back to the freezer, I swear his eyes track my every movement.
His stare feels like a snake slithering up my body until it wraps around my throat and squeezes.
Is that why I find it hard to breathe? Every time I sneak a glance over, my lips nearly kissing my shoulder, he’s still standing there, his angular jaw clenching and releasing as he chews something. Gum?
People still chew gum?
Part of me wants to walk around aimlessly until he leaves, but I can’t. I know my parents are waiting on me for dinner. Because where else can they badger me with questions if not at our mandatory nightly gathering ?
With a straightened spine, I head to the register, two cartons of ice cream in my hands.
His eyes track me; I can feel them even as I try to ignore him.
But he doesn’t say anything as I approach.
Nor as the items are rung up. The sound of the register is all I hear around the heartbeat thumping in my ears.
“Have a good day,” the man behind the counter says.
I frown, knowing I haven’t paid yet. “Excuse me?” I ask, finally speaking.
“It’s taken care of,” the gum chewer informs me, still smiling that fucking smile of his. Beautiful teeth, short, stubbly facial hair that decorates a strong jaw, and sparkling brown eyes all assault me, and I want to yell at him to turn down the fucking beautiful. It’s wasted on me.
This is not good.
I don’t give a fuck about attractive men and their disgusting proclivities. He’s probably just like the goddamn monster; two peas in a pod.
In one of his massive hands, he holds a popular energy drink, and it gives me the perfect amount of “ick” to find my voice again.
“Oh,” is all I can say, because I’m not sure if buying my $6 ice cream is supposed to impress me. Twelve whole dollars.
Don’t forget the tax.
“I’ll have to try that one,” he tells me, tipping his head toward tonight’s dessert.
“I’m more of a vanilla guy myself.” His dark-brown curls touch his face with the subtle movement, and before I can wonder how soft the strands are, he’s shoving his hands into it, pushing the locks away from his face again.
This is how this man gets pussy. Pathetic.
“I’ll store that under useless information from a stranger,” I mutter, saluting him with one of the cartons. “Good day.”
If my abruptness bothers him, he doesn’t show it, his smile never wavering, his jaw still working .
I don’t look back, but I know that maldito puto is still staring until I get in my car.
Plenty of gazes skate over me every single day. I work hard to make sure I blend in.
But the thought of his stare caressing the contours of my cheeks, drenching itself in the golden grass of my irises, tangling in the inky coils that sit high on my head, makes me feel naked. Seen.
And I don’t fucking like it.
I race home to avoid any more interaction with strangers. Once I park in the driveway, I grab my ice cream and hoodie and head to the front door.
I’m surprised when I unlock the door and my mother is standing there.
Not like she just happened to be walking upstairs and happened to bump into me. She’s standing there with her arms crossed, her mouth set.
“You missed therapy today.”
Cono.
I sigh as I hold my melting ice cream in my hands, trying to maintain my grip as my hands freeze, and my hoodie slips from my hold. I watch as it hits the floor, and Mami sucks her teeth before bending to pick it up.
You’d never know she’s a well-respected news anchor.
She straightens and is about to drape it over the arm I hold out, but I notice it just as she does.
My black knit balaclava slides to the floor, and we both stare it for a moment. The silence prickles on as the standoff continues.
Because what the fuck can I say?
She bends over again to pick it up and holds it toward my face, her eyes bulging.
“What the hell kind of vigilante shit are you up to, Taina Gisele de la Matta?!”
My mouth aches to tell her that since no one gave a shit enough to find justice for me, that I’m finding my own. She’d slap me clean across my face.
Instead, I stare at her. She knows she’s the only thing keeping me from homelessness. It’s the only reason we play family in this God-forsaken home.
“Whatever you’re doing, stop it,” she spits out, yanking me back my arm. “Drop it and move on.”
But if it were that simple, I already would’ve, mother .