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I struggled to right myself, to run. I made it two fumbling steps before his weight barreled into me, taking me down to the hard marble floor.
“Bitch,” he snarled. “You almost broke my fucking nose. You’ll pay for that, dirty little whore.”
I felt something hard pressing against my ass where Andrés’ shirt had ridden up, leaving me exposed. I screamed and scrambled against the marble, my hands slipping uselessly against the smooth surface.
Dirty little whore.
Dirty little girl.
You want me to touch your secret place again, don’t you, dirty little girl?
Dirty. Wrong.
Pure, icy terror seized my lungs as I heard his zipper lowering, heard the dreaded sound of his fist pumping his shaft.
I didn’t want this. I didn’t. It was dirty and wrong. It felt good for a little while when he touched my secret place, but then it hurt.
I beat my fists against the marble as I thrashed and screamed. All my training left my head as my mind receded to a long-forgotten, long-buried place.
I don’t want this.
I don’t want this, Uncle Robert. Please…
I couldn’t breathe. I gasped for air, but nothing filled my lungs. He was on top of me, his breath hot on my neck as he pinned my tiny body down…
His weight was lifted off me, and a furious roar reverberated through my skull. I curled my knees up to my chest and hugged them tight, trying to protect myself in the only way I knew how. I heard a horrible, wet sound; a man screaming; bone crunching; silence.
“Samantha.” Red-painted hands reached for me, and I flinched away, curling more tightly into myself.
“Cosita, it’s okay. You’re safe now.”
“Andrés?” My voice was soft and strangely high, like a child. Past and present mingled, toxic fear clouding my brain. “I don’t want him to touch my… I don’t want this. I don’t… I don’t…” I started hyperventilating, my chest convulsing as hysteria overwhelmed me.
Strong arms closed around me, but they didn’t frighten me. They were warm, powerful enough to protect me.
I turned my face into his chest and sobbed, my fingers fisting in his shirt as I struggled to get closer. A soothing stream of Spanish rumbled over me. Even though I couldn’t understand the words, I focused on the lilting cadence, allowing it to fill my mind and blot out all the awful things.
But now that the memories had finally been unearthed, I couldn’t bury them again. They played out in my head in horrible, vivid detail. Every muffled cry, every shameful gasp. The wrenching pain between my legs as Uncle Robert violated my small body.
Big hands stroked my back, my hair, my cheeks. They were warm. Familiar. I leaned into them, seeking more heat. I was so cold, frigid down to my bones. My entire body shook, except for my fingers, which were fisted so tightly in his shirt that my knuckles were white.
I didn’t want to remember. I didn’t want…
“Where is your uncle now?” he asked in English. His soothing voice roughened, and his arms were tight around me.
“What?” I asked, struggling to move from memory to reality.
“You said…” He trailed off on a growl. “You mentioned Uncle Robert. Where can I find him?”
I shuddered at his name. “Why?”
“I’m going to kill him for you, Samantha,” he swore, his hand firming on my head where he’d been stroking my hair. I realized I wasn’t the only one shaking. Andrés’ strong body practically vibrated with barely-restrained violence.
“He’s dead,” I said hollowly, remembering the day I’d watched his casket
being lowered into the ground. I’d been fifteen then, when his alcoholism had sent him to an early grave. Six years after my parents had left me alone with him so they could go on a week-long vacation. They hadn’t known about his drinking at the time. They hadn’t known about him. About what he wanted to do to me.
“I cried at his funeral,” I whispered, anguished. “I didn’t know why I was so upset. I fucking cried over him.”
