11. Sofia
11
SOFIA
I was frozen in fear. Moving away from Ramon wasn’t possible. All I could do to get through the trauma of what happened was hold on to my baby, to my son, to the most precious gift in the world.
Stuck in this strange stasis of numbness, I let my brain shut off. It was a defense mechanism. I knew that. I was rooted in this fugue of fear, afraid to budge from this tense, knotted position of curling my arms around my son.
I sniffed, smelling the scent of his shampoo, the hint of dirt from his playing outside earlier. The more I focused and grounded on that, the less I could let my brain process that I smelled the tang of blood in my home, then the bleach.
I held on tight, feeling the softness of Ramon’s hair under my cheek and the light weight of his small body pressed up against mine. If I concentrated on the tactile security I felt from him, I could tune out the fresh memories of those men hitting me, clawing for my pants.
Stubbornly, I closed my eyes and relished the simple, unthreatening darkness behind my lids. With that blank canvas of nothing to perceive, I could work harder on the process of ignoring the visions of blood coating the floor.
And I breathed, in and out, steadily, letting the pattern of respiration sound clear in my ears. I listened to Ramon’s breaths, too, comforted that he was near. I marked the beat of his heart, strong and near as I hugged him. Letting those noises soothe me chased away the chance that I could follow Diego’s movements in the house. Scrapes and drags of bodies taken outside, then the swish of the spray bottle. More wiping squeaks as he cleaned the floor.
Sticking to what could ground me and keep me from sobbing so hard, I tucked in against my son and firmly refused to face the reality that my home was no longer safe.
I had been attacked here, in this supposed safe haven I’d worked so hard to have for my son. I had almost been raped here, in this so-called privacy I’d tried to defend for myself. Unlike how I had been kidnapped at the hospital, this was a transgression on my turf, in a place where I should’ve been able to feel safe and secure.
It wasn’t right.
It wasn’t fair.
I was tired of how many times the world would need to remind me that nothing about life was fair. I sucked in a choppy breath, and Ramon rubbed my back.
“It’s okay, Mama.”
No! It wasn’t. It wasn’t even close to okay.
“I’m okay.”
I exhaled steadily, taking that to heart. He was. Ramon, my baby, was here with me and safe. He was alive, not hurt. He was home, not kidnapped.
“You’re okay.”
I refused to believe that. Traumatized all over again, I wasn’t sure when I’d ever come close to feeling normal or strong again.
“Diego’s okay, too.”
Oh, God. I feared how much worse he’d fared, fighting like that. Guilt pricked me at how weak and selfish I was to cower in fear and get stuck in shock like this, but I couldn’t help it. I was a survivor of too many terrible things to be able to open my heart and put him first. I couldn’t do anything until I slowly crawled out of this pit of despair and numbing fear.
“I’m what?” Diego asked, just coming back into the house.
The door shut behind him, and as I opened my eyes to face him as he twisted the lock, I took in his appearance. A stark, serious frown claimed the mild confusion he wore before. Somber. Stern. He looked mighty but beaten as he walked further into the room and met my gaze.
His dark brown eyes burned with concern as he scanned me, then Ramon. “I’m what?”
I couldn’t reply, still too shaken and bewildered to be capable of speech. He strode closer so I could fully see the new red marks on his skin where he’d been hit. I noticed the bleed leaking from the stitches I’d sewn on his arm.
“We’re okay,” Ramon said as I eased him off my lap.
In that, he was right. We were all alive. I could manage a couple of slaps. Ramon hadn’t been hit. But Diego… Brave, strong, protective Diego…
“We’re safe from those men ever coming here again,” Diego replied calmly.
“Ramon.” I stood, unsteady on my feet and dizzy from shooting upright so quickly. My son held on to me, but I shooed him away. “It’s late. And it’s…” I shivered, experiencing another jolt of shock as I surveyed the damage done out here. “It’s a mess out here. Please go to bed so I can help Diego with that bleeding cut. It’ll take a while to clean all this up, and it’s better if you go to bed.”
“I can help,” he said, frowning at me.
“No. This isn’t your job. This is…” I shook my head. “I don’t want to worry about your being out here and cutting yourself on anything while I help Diego.”
I couldn’t believe I got that many words out, so scattered with my thoughts and still struggling with a mantra of worries pinging in my head.
“Okay, Mama.” Ramon didn’t argue, but he looked at me as though he was concerned about me, as if he wanted to again offer to have a “first watch” over our home. He glanced at Diego before walking toward his room. “ Are you okay, Diego?”
“Yes, Ramon. Go on. I’ll help your mother clear this up.”
“No.” I whipped my head around to face him. “No. I need to tend to your cut and check that you haven’t worsened anything. You’re still recovering and… and…”
He nodded, holding his hands up to calm me as my voice got panicky. “All right.”
I followed Ramon to his room where he slipped into his pajamas and got into bed. Despite how scared he had to feel, he was yawning already.
Probably the adrenaline crash. After the shock.
He was drifting off as I tucked him in, but I waited an extra moment to kiss his brow twice, fighting hard not to cry on him again.
He’s okay. He’s alive and right here. He hasn’t been taken anywhere and he never will be.
It wasn’t easy to let him out of my sight. But I backed away slowly, urged by the need to check on Diego.
He wasn’t in the bathroom, where I thought he would’ve gone since I told him that I wanted to clean up his wounds. Instead, he picked up the coffee table and began to push the debris of broken things into a pile on the floor.
“Diego. You’re still…” I shook my head, taking his hand to guide him to the bathroom.
Those strong hands had killed. Those fingers had touched the weapons that killed those men who threatened me and my son. This man was my hero. Gratitude swelled, bringing a fresh wave of tears to burn and leak down my cheeks as I wetted a cloth and cleaned the blood from the row of neat stitches I’d put on the gash on his arm.
The rush of emotions swarmed again, and I sniffled, trying to stop the tears. Crying wasn’t how I survived. Even in my darkest days and worst moments, I didn’t cry. Something broke me today, though, and I just couldn’t snap out of it and be strong like the woman I knew I could be. Brave. Stern. Pragmatic.
My fingers shook and trembled as I tried to clear the blood from his cut. Lifting the small scissors to the frayed and opened thread seemed risky with how unsteady my grip was. My nerves were frayed. Shot and frazzled. I couldn’t think straight, much less focus with the precision and attention to detail that I had to consider when I used a needle on someone.
After I dropped the scissors and picked them up three times over, Diego sighed. Shifting from his stance against the bathroom vanity counter, he turned to face me. Instead of propping his butt against the ledge of the small, cracked, and stained counter that was so outdated it was embarrassing, he turned to face me. No longer giving me access to the arm I wanted to restitch, he put his hand over mine and held on to my unsteady fingers.
“Sofia.”
I cried harder, yet still silently. He said my name with such reverence, such calm, gentle patience, that it was too tender of a moment for me to accept and not break down even more.
This man, this stranger, had saved me today. The enormity of all that happened was simply too much to process.
“Sofia,” he repeated, sterner and with more authority as he held my hand. “You need to stop. You’re in shock and you need to snap out of it.”
I wanted to. I knew I had to break this control over me. It was a mental thing. It was physical. It was a combination of defense mechanisms that I couldn’t override. Even though he was right, I didn’t know how to snap out of this shock.
“Sofia,” he said again, sterner.
I squeezed my eyes shut as he stepped into my space. The firm pressure of his thumb and finger under my chin had me acquiescing to his silent demand that I lift my face to him and address him.
“Sofia.” This time was all command. “Look at me.”
I opened my eyes, blinking at the blurriness my tears left behind.
“Calm down,” he urged.
I breathed harder and faster, as if he’d spoken with the magic of reverse psychology.
“You need to stop. Just breathe through it and?—”
I can’t. I shook my head again, closing my eyes and dipping my chin again.
I didn’t manage it. I wanted to avoid the tenderness and authority I saw on his face.
But he wasn’t in the mood for that.
He slid his hand a little, cupping my face to hold me where he wanted me.
Then he lowered his head and crushed his lips to mine.