When the metal door closed behind me and the sun hit my face, I felt my lungs burning. Ten years. Ten years breathing borrowed air. I walked to the bench without looking back.
—Your time is up, Damiá Reyes —I muttered.
Part 2…
The house was in Ecatepec, at the end of a damp and dreary street where skinny dogs slept next to the tires of broken-down cars. The facade was peeling.
The rusty gate. The smell hit me before I even entered: dampness, greasy mustiness, and something sour, like spoiled food.
It wasn’t a house. It was a trap.
The you are the one who is the one.
Sofia was sitting in a corner, hugging a doll without a head. Her clothes were too small, her knees were scraped, her hair was tangled. When she looked up, I felt my heart break. She had Lidia’s eyes. But not the light.
—Hello, my love —I said, kneeling down—. Come with me.
He didn’t run to hug me. He backed away.
And behind me dreamed a bitter voice.
—Look at nothing else. The princess decided to return.
I turned around. There was Doña Ofelia, the mother-in-law. Short, heavy, wearing a flowered dress and with a gaze capable of turning milk sour.
“Where were you, you useless idiot?” he spat. “You probably went crying to your crazy sister.”
I didn’t say anything.
Then Breda appeared, Damiá’s sister, and behind her her son, a spoiled brat who saw Sofia and snatched the doll from her hands.
“That thing is mine,” he said, and slammed it against the wall.
Sofia burst into tears. The boy raised his foot to kick her.
He did not reach it.
I held his ankle in the air.
The room froze.
“If you touch it again,” I said calmly, “you’ll remember me for the rest of your life.”
Breda lunged at me, furious.
—Let it go, you stupid girl!
He tried to slap me. I stopped his wrist before it reached my face and squeezed it enough to make him groan.
—Raise your son better —I murmured—. You still have time to make sure he doesn’t grow up like the men of this house.
Doña Ofelia hit me with a feather duster stick. Once. Twice. Three times.
I didn’t move.
I snatched the stick from his hand and broke it in two. He just shot. The crack sounded like a gunshot.
“That’s it,” I said, dropping the pieces to the floor. “From today on, there are rules here. And the first one is that nobody ever lays a hand on that pineapple again.”
That night, Sofia made hot soup so that no one would question her. Doña Ofelia and Breda whispered behind closed doors. The nephew did not approach again. I sat Sofia on my legs and let her fall asleep leaning against my chest.
Then Damian arrived.
I heard the motorcycle first, then the door slamming, then his voice full of alcohol.
—Where is my grape?
He staggered, his eyes wild and the cheap rage of a coward who is only brave with women and children. He looked at Sofia, then at me.
—What are you doing sitting down? Have you already forgotten your place?
He grabbed a glass and smashed it against the wall. Sofia woke up crying.
“¡Cállala!” he shouted.
I stood up with a calmness that disconcerted him.
—It’s a pineapple —I told him—. Don’t yell at her like that again.
He raised his hand to hit me.
I caught her in mid-air.
Vi eп sus shis ojos el iпstaпste exacta eп qυe eпteпdió qυe algo пo estaba salieпdo como esperaba.
—Sυéltame —mascυlló.
Leave a Comment