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To scream and rage at the terrible thing I'd done tonight. Not fucking celebrate.
"Gusanita!" Little worm. My father's nickname for my mother. "What are you doing?"
My hatred hit me with full force. I wanted to shove a gun in his mouth and watch him swallow a bullet. To wrap my fingers around his throat and see his lips turn blue. To take a video of the light as it left his eyes. He deserved that and more.
There was no responding answer so he yelled louder. "When you bringing that fucking food, woman?" Despite his earlier dismissal, he loved her cooking. "We're fucking starving."
Heaving, chest filled with rage, remembering cleaning vomit from nana's mouth with water from the tap as I put a glass to my lips. Gulping, gulping it down.
Swallowing down my fury with fresh, filtered water. Shoved it all down into my belly, letting it seethe and spread with the blood filling my veins.
I had no control over my father––he understood me more than I liked, knew how to get what he wanted from me. The picture on my phone from earlier was proof of that.
"Woman!" His voice grew deeper, anger edging into it.
My mom was still staring at the wall, grease popping from the pans on the stove.
"Mom."
She jerked into motion, calling out. "I'm coming."
She filled the plates, scooping salsa and topping it with fresh cheese, sliced onions, and cilantro. "You did it, then." She was talking to me.
"Yes."
Her lips curled upwards as she opened the cupboard, reaching into the back to grab a small bottle. "I knew you would."
Stabbing, twisting.
I met her gaze, a darkness washing over me. "He told me to."
"You could've said no."
"You know why I couldn't."
"There are always ways." Staring into my eyes, she sprinkled a brownish liquid onto a plate she'd separated from the rest. A special treat, just for my father.
He might flaunt his whores around my mother now, but when she was in a rebellious mood, she'd find a way to get what she wanted.
After dinner, my father wouldn't be busy fucking his whore. Instead, he'd be camped out in the bathroom, trying to vomit and shit at the same time.
And you?" I tilted my head towards the backroom. "You stay with him. You don't find a way to leave."
"Good catholic women don't get divorced," she hissed, picking up several platters, balancing them on her arms and hands.
"I know," I responded, bitterness filling my voice, "instead you go to church at least once a week with bruises and a black eye. And the good, helpful priest stares down at you, a complacent smile on his face, offering you holy communion, because you're such a good catholic, neither one of you saying a word about the husband you don't divorce."
"Look at you, on your high horse." Her eyes flashed. "Now you're no different than your father. At least I don't betray my best friend by killing his only relative."
I looked away, swallowing down my response, because she was right. I wasn't any better. Not anymore.
"And Tatiana?" she continued, "You'll make sure she never finds out, won't you? Won't ever know the truth about who you really are." She shook her head as she headed towards the back room, her hands filled with several plates. "You can't ever let her know, because you're rotten to the core, apple. And no woman who ever really knows you will ever love you."
THREE
Present day
I’d always wondered how I would feel when death came for Knight: the grim reaper, by my own hand.
