??
Very funny.
I type back.
THREE
JUDAS
Iheard Mom and Dad talk about me; it was mostly Mom shouting at Dad for letting me ride the bike again.
She doesn’t get it. He doesn’t either.
But he stands on my side only because I have a cock in my pants. Boys have to stick together.
They both think it’s just a hobby, something I do to show off to the girls at school, but they don’t know what it means to me. No one gets it.
Ever since I got here, they’ve treated me like a broken toy they need to fix. They planned my future all the way to thirty, mapping it out like I am not even here. Maybe that’s what parents do.
But when you are haunted by nightmares that keep you awake at night, by demons no one can tear out of your soul, by a past that already scars you for life, control is the only thing that matters.
And I never had it.
Everyone sees me differently. The girls at school see me as a boy they have to fix because they can’t fix their own lives. Theboys see me as a walking monster with two different eyes, calling me names just because I can’t talk. The adults pity me.
So the bike is the only control I have.
When I ride it, when I move with it, my thoughts go blank. The only things that exist are the road and the speed. No names, no faces, no stupid decisions everyone expects me to make. It’s just me.
One mistake can be fatal. The only mistake I ever want to make is never coming back. They think I have everything, but I see this house as a cage. When I ride, I feel free, like there are no limits and no expectations.
I don’t ride to get somewhere. I ride to leave everything else behind.
They will never get that.
I exhale and move toward the balcony. I gaze at the beach. Since it’s night, the moon is brighter than it should be. I smell the salty air as a soft wind blows from the south. Autumn here feels almost like late summer, with a lot of wind and some rain.
I turn around and lean on the railing, looking into my room. I tilt my head to the right and see her walking through her room.
Carmen De la Cruz, and from today onwards, Carmen Harrington.
My little sister.
I like her.
Iknowher.
She is a breath of fresh air. Not fake like everyone else around me. When she found out I couldn’t speak, she didn’t change her voice or look at me like a charity case. She stayed the same sharp little asshole she was from the second she arrived in this house.
I heard them talking about her, too. About how she lost her family two years ago, facing either foster care until she turned eighteen, or ending up homeless, or someone adopting her. Andof course, my parents were the ones who stepped in. No one else wanted a problem.
I admire them. I truly do. But they don’t fucking think, what if she is a cold-blooded killer?
I watch her walk toward her room, her phone in her hand, videos playing about how to sign. She passes her nightstand and leans in too close, causing her toe to slam into the corner and making her fall forward. Her mouth opens, and Spanish words pour out. I can read it clearly on her lips.
She drops to the floor, clutching her foot, teeth sunk into a scream she didn’t allow to escape.
I laugh.
