The doctor and nurses asked me what happened, but my father kept reiterating that he'd simply come home and found me at the bottom of the stairs. He told them I was clumsy, always running into things, bumping into walls, showing up with scratches and scrapes with no explanation.
They didn't seem to believe him, though. They kept looking at me to say something, anything that would allow them to help.
But how could I? He was a powerful senator. And even if I said something, would they believe me?
I had been his punching bag for years. He'd hurt me so many times that I rarely felt the pain anymore. If I opened my mouth, if I told them what he'd done, what would they be able to do? And how far would my father go to keep his secret?
I didn't know the answer to those questions, but I did know Simon Herrera would do anything to protect his image, and he was capable of grave violence.
I didn't want anyone else to experience what I had, so I simply nodded along, saying I'd been running through the house and tripped down the stairs.
Oddly, my response had given me some reprieve. My father removed me from school, forcing me to learn at home with a tutor, and for a while, the beatings lessened.
Outside of public appearances, he mostly acted like I didn’t exist. It was like he'd gotten the confirmation he needed, that I had accepted what I was to him—his doll. A pawn to morph and marionette into whatever he required that day.
That hurt the little pride I had, but there was no other alternative. I couldn't escape from him, not yet, but I would one day. I just had to survive to that point.
By sixteen, I'd become an expert in acting.
In front of others, I smiled, waved, danced at soirees where some men leered at me like a hungry lion dying for a taste. I kept my grades up, excelled at everything my father ordered me to, and sang my father’s praises to the masses.
But at night, when it was dark, and I was by myself, I'd let everything fade away except my anger and hatred.
I resented everything my father stood for: the law, politics, government. Sometimes, I was jealous of my mother for dying while I survived only to live a miserable life.
I was certain my father had abused her too. In every photo her blonde hair was in a sophisticated updo. She was always thin, dressed immaculately. The epitome of the ideal wife.
Articles depicted my mother as the perfect hostess at parties and galas, and the first person my father thanked at award speeches. And in every picture, she always had a wide smile on her face—the same one I had been faking for years.
Sometimes I wondered what would have happened if my mother had survived. If my father had been abusing her, much like I suspected he was, would she have escaped with me? Would she have saved me?
I wanted to believe at least one of my parents cared about me. It was the only comfort I had… until I found my mother's diary.
In it, she’d detailed everything. How she’d been forced to marry my father, and that he'd abused her every single day of her life.
From broken ribs to marital rape to constant threats upon her life, she'd gone through it all. My mother’s appearance was always flawless, her behavior impeccable, because if she weren't, she would face unimaginable pain and terror.
She’d never had a moment of peace, and any hope she'd carried in her heart of finally getting it had been drained out of her. In that way, we were the same.
But in a little pocket, hidden at the back of her diary, was a detailed plan on how she would kill herself alongside a letter for me. My mother couldn't bring herself to do it while pregnant, but the moment she gave birth, she swore she'd take her own life. And she did.
In her letter, she apologized for giving birth to me, saying she never wanted to bring me into a world with that bastard as my father, but she had no choice.He had her watched nearly twenty-four hours a day.
A baby would make the media see him as a family man. Exactly what he needed for his campaign, and he wouldn’t let anyone stand in the way of that—especially my mother.
She hoped that one day I would find a way out. That someone would save me, or I'd find the strength to save myself. She apologized for being weak, for not persevering for me, for being selfish.
I refused to read the rest, because shewasselfish.
I understood she didn't have a choice, but I couldn't forgive her. She'd left me with my father. And knew her death would put me in the same situation she had been. Yet she still went through with the pregnancy and her suicide.
Did she know how that would affect me? Did she know I would be called a killer?
Did she care?
I'd been mocked, hurt, constantly reminded that I was lower than scum by my father, and I'd believed it. It was my fault, I killed her. I shouldn't be alive.
But she framed me.
