“They wanted babies. I’m pregnant, but that was it. They raped us for a child.” I sob.
Blake pales at my admission. She looks stricken, her breath hitching in her chest, and for the first time, I see something akin to horror cross her features. “I… I’m sorry,” she stammers, and words pour from my lips.
“We were raped over and over until I got pregnant, and even then, he didn’t stop. He didn’t stop… he was never going to stop,” I continue to sob into my hands as I recall the events. Blake’s eyes widened, her expression grave. Her voice is a whisper when she finally speaks again. “I can’t pretend to understand what you’ve gone through,” she says. “All I can promise is that we are doing everything we can to deliver justice not only to you but to others.”
She gives us a nod before she stands up, and as she creaks open the door, her silhouette seems to stretch and darken. When she is gone, the room is shrouded in an uncomfortable silence. Iz reaches out, his fingers grazing my arm gently in an attempt to console me. I flinch away instinctively before realizing I’m flinching from my lifeline, the only shred of normalcy I can cling to in this hellish whirlpool of past horrors.
“It’s okay,” he says softly, retreating his hand but remaining nearby, a comforting presence in the heavy silence. “We’re not there anymore.”
He’s right, we are free.
Harry is dead, and Priscilla will spend the rest of her life locked away. There is no more basement, no more chains, no more Harry. Yet the ghost of his touch seems to linger, a nauseating memory that sends shivers crawling up my spine. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold myself together as I feel my world slip between my fingers. I let my body fall onto the bed with my head on the pillow and break down.
Iz watches as I fall apart, torn between a desire to offer comfort and a fear of causing further distress. He moves to the edge of the room, his own pain etched deep in the lines of his face. His eyes are a hazy mix of pain and compassion, unable to bear witness to my agony but reluctant to turn away. I can feel his intense gaze as I try to stifle my sobs, pulling the thin sheets closer around me as if they can shield me from the cold emptiness that just won’t leave.
“I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.
Sylvia Plath
Chapter Thirty Two
Isaac
“Mami, mira. Look at me,” I huff out, perching myself up on the very top of the slide. A single blue butterfly flutters by my mother, the wind lifting her short strands. My mommy used to have long brown hair, but she got sick one time. Then her hair got so short it looked like mine… It’s growing again. She looks happy. Better yet, she can play with me again. “Be careful,” Mommy says. With one hand, she waves at me from the bottom of the slide, and the other holds the sunflowers I pluck every time we pass by the fields of them. I’m not supposed to, and I’m not sure why I started to.
I just can’t help it.
Sunflowers are pretty like my mommy. They look like sunshine, and that’s what she is. I grab the rail that sits on the top of the slide and swing myself to give myself some speed. I count to three before I let go, closing my eyes as I slide down the black tunnel. My screams echo through the space, and my heart skips in my chest from the excitement. The light breaks in, and there she is, my sunlight. My mommy. “Did you see?” She peppers me with soft kisses. “I did. Youare so brave.”
My eyes flutter open, slowly adjusting to the dim light of the hospital room. It’s not often that I dream of my mother. It’s too painful. It’s something I unpacked and put away years ago. The memory continues to play out in my head, bringing my pulse to a steady and calm rhythm. I close my eyes, holding on to the warm and caring voice that echoes in my mind, my mother's voice. “You are so brave.”
Am I?
No…
I can’t be… not when I feel so weak.
Before I can spiral deeper into my head, a soft, warm body melts into me, and I pull her deeper into me. Not in a sexual way but in a protective way, hoping that even in her dreams she could anchor herself to me. My hand rests on her stomach, under the blanket and her shirt, on the spot I’ll watch swell as time passes by and protect it with everything I have. If that’s what she chooses to do. I turn my head to the side, careful not to yawn in her face. At some point between the crying and the silence, or maybe the exhaustion… we both fell asleep.
She’s pregnant….
The thought resurfaces, along with the conflicted and extremely complicated emotions. I hate that, once again, she’s forced to make a difficult decision. I would give anything for this to be something good, something decided on…. something completely ours, but even this is tarnished by that basement. A small hint of light filters through the blinds, and there’s a peaceful quiet in the space despite the constant hums and beeps from the machines that spill from the hall. I bask in the softness of her body as she gently snores. Trying to not wake her, I remain as still as a corpse, even though my arm is growing numb. As uncomfortable as that is, I remain transfixed on the slow and uneven breaths she takes. Memorizing the rhythm of it, my fingers instinctively move towards her back, trying to curl the ends of her hair around my finger. Only to remember her long hair is long gone, and now it rests right on her shoulders, falling over my forearm like a silky blanket.
I lay my cheek on top of her head, taking a deep breath of air. Inhaling the rich scent of her, letting myself believe just for a second that things will be better. They have to be, I have to believe that for her sake.For mine….
A soft knock breaks the spiral of thoughts and daydreams. My gaze moves towards the heavy door, as if it cracks half an inch before anyone answers, my father’s voice whispers into the room.My pops. Why is he here?
“Iz…. Mijo, wake up.” His tone is low but urgent and serious, and the sound causes my pulse to spike and my stomach to churn. Without a word, I gently move Ronnie off my arm, immediately missing the weight of her. My nerves come to life, little insects that crawl beneath my skin. The feeling is uncomfortable, and for a second, I wish I could go back to sleep and escape this reality. To live in a dreamland where only she and I exist. Where none of this happened, and we can both be free. In a place where I can protect her…
Ronnie stirs when I get out of bed, her body seeking mine, but she doesn’t wake; she only rolls onto her stomach, letting out a small snore as she hikes up her leg. My feet drag me towards the door that looms before me, making me nauseous at the sight of it. Dread curls around my spine, snaking up my body until it tightens around my throat, causing my pulse to spike at an alarming rate by the time I reach the door. But before I can open it, my dad steps inside, and behind him, Mariana, my stepmom. Ronnie’s mom and the woman who looks at me with the hope that I can bring her baby girl back to her. However, it’s not them that I focus on but the look they wear, worried and startled. My father gives me a barely there nod, his eyes flick between his wife and Ronnie’s sleeping form, his voice barely above a whisper.
“FBI wants a word with you,” he murmurs. “Just you.”
I swallow hard, my throat dried and in need of hydration. Just me… the words echo in my brain, my stomach turns, and I think I might be sick from the uncertainty. That can’t mean anything good. I glance back at Veronica once more, who is sound asleep, mouth slightly open, and her face buried deep into the pillow. A small smile tugs at my lips before forcing my gaze away at the sound of my father's voice. “They are outside.”
With a dip of my chin, I acknowledge his words and step out into the hallway.Whoosh. Whoosh.My heart pounds in my ears. My palms are sweaty and clammy. The fluorescent lights sting my eyes, and it takes a moment to adjust to the business of it all. It’s fucking cold, too bright, and smells like bleach and sickness. My stomach drops when Agent Blake comes into view, standing near the nursing station with a file tucked under her arm, lips set into a thin line. There’s no room to question that whatever she wants to tell me, it’s serious, and that has my muscles going taut. A cord ready to snap at any minute.
“Mr. Vargas,” she says quietly. “Thank you for stepping out.”
