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“I never wanted to be someone else,” Alejandro said, sinking into a foldable, velvet seat. “Well, not at first. One thing just led to another. It just made sense. Acting came easy to me, because I always pretended to be something I wasn’t as a child.”
“We’ve all done that at some point.” I replied, but it didn’t seem to resonate.
“Do you know what it’s like to be eight years old and have the whole world see you as powerless?” he asked. “It’s such a hopeless and little feeling to have, thinking nothing can save you from it, and for the longest time that’s true, but then, suddenly you’re someone else, like St. George on a stage wielding a sword. In that moment you have power, you have purpose, you have safety; safety in a way that real life could never provide, because in a play you already know how the story ends. You get to save the princess; you get to defeat the monster that terrorized your life, and the lives of those around you. And in turn you are praised, because you’re not just a kid, you’re someone else, someone better, a person who can do the things you never could before. That’s an intoxicating type of attention, because it only reinforced the delusion that it was better than being me,” he said. “Truthfully, acting wasn’t a dream of mine, it was just the beginning of a long line of distractions and, in many ways, a means for survival.”
“I knew you didn’t like acting anymore… but I never could have guessed that—”
“That acting was just me running away again?” He laughed to himself, his broken smile as white as it was dismayed. “Like I always do when things get tough? Like I did with you? It’s no secret that I can’t bear the responsibility of anything that goes wrong. I have fought to avoid the consequences of my actions for as long as I could, because being blamed for everything wrong was always my purpose with Miguel.”
Alejandro wrung his silver band around his finger, displaying a new tick of nervousness I hadn’t seen before. Normally he would have pulled out a cigarette, cooling his poise with a long, sweet drag, but since he didn’t, I reached out and calmed his hand with mine. He wasn’t just quiet, he was contemplative, choosing each word carefully.
“I’ve never talked about this…” he said, leaning into my hair. “I don’t do this, Gemma. I don’t ask for help. I don’t share this side with anyone.”
“I know.” I eased in, showing the relatable branch of circumstance that somehow bonded us together. It was sad, it was tragic, but it was ours. “Living with pain is like carrying a piece of broken glass. I know this, because I carry one too, but no matter how similar they may be, no two pieces are ever really the same.”
“It doesn’t feel good,” he added quietly. “It’s hard to share when you think someone won’t understand that what’s inside is too unique to be told.”
“Yes. It’s scary and real. And how others define bravery is just an illusion. You don’t need to open up in order to be brave, because your willingness to try is already enough. I admire it because it’s something I still struggle to do.”
“But you have… I’ve seen it. You were vulnerable when I asked you to be, and I’m not sure how to do the same. I don’t know how to start.”
“Start anywhere. This is your story, Alejandro, and for once, you can tell it how you want.”
The children below laughed again. We watched for a moment, shielded in the shadows, hidden in the darkness where we seemed to find our strength.
I shut my eyes, trying to imagine the world that Alejandro wanted to share, whose roots and weight could pull him back into a familiar, sticky, black dream.
“The moment I realized I existed—my first memory ever—came in the middle of an ordinary night,” he hesitated, letting out a collected sigh. “It was strange. Before that moment it was just darkness, and then suddenly, it was like I was plugged in. I opened my eyes, and I knewjustenough about where I was to be instantly afraid. Maybe I was two, a little older? I suppose I liked cowboys, because I had them on my pajamas, both knowing this and realizing it all at once, waking up alone, as my mother screamed for her life.”
Alejandro stared straight ahead, ignoring how attentively I watched as he rubbed his thighs. I knew what nightmares were made of, but what he said next scared me the most.
“I could never forget it. I’ll hear that noise in my head till the day I die. The scream. The spit. The sound of a wet sob. It’s not like anything you can imagine, until you hear it for yourself, and when you do, the only thing you can possibly assume is that someone is being killed. That was my first thought, my first memory, that my mother—whoever she was, wherever she was—was going to die. Then, it all happened so fast, as if I had no control over my body, running into the kitchen, stopping near the hall. I was too young to see it, but I don’t think I could ever be old enough either—watching my mother on the floor, motionless, begging a man to stop. I couldn’t even stare as she shook her head at me, because all I saw and all I heard was Miguel, and his voice, Gemma,his fuckingvoice scared me, but not as much as the sound of his fist against her cheek. He was just hitting her, over and over again; and it’s not like how it is in the movies. It sounds heavy, like a bat beating against a bag of sand—dull and wet—her stomach large, filled with what I knew was my baby brother inside. I wasn't supposed to be there, and I certainly wasn't supposed to get sick, to vomit on myself, to have Miguel notice me and yank me by the jaw...” Alejandro motioned with his hand, hooking his thumb and finger into a vice. “He pulled me to my mother, and you know what he said?”
I couldn’t even nod as I clung to Alejandro’s arm, stopping myself from sliding into my chair. I was terrified, witnessing the moment as if I was there by his side; little and afraid. I shook my head against him.
“That it was my fault. I was the fucking reason my own mother had welts on her eyes and cheeks. He dared me not to cry, and warned, if I did, he’d hit her harder. So I held it in, my breath included. And why? Was it because he came home drunk? Because he was an abusive monster who deserved to die? Yes, but what the fuck does that even mean or matter, because in reality he didn’t like being told what to do or that he was the problem. It was all because of me. I stopped him from being loud; I spoke when I wasn’t supposed to; I left the lights on, or the juice out, I played with my toys too excitedly, or stayed up too late. Alma would try and stop him from hitting me, not that it always worked. But he would hurt her—not because he was a piece of shit, not because he was a drunk—but because ofme.”
“Alejandro…” my words got caught in a disbelief that I couldn’t express, losing any possible way to make him feel better.
“I shouldn’t be telling you this.”
“Why not? These are your experiences—”
“But you’re a survivor too, Gemma. It’s not fair to talk about this… to bring you back here. It can’t feel good. It’s one of the reasons I couldn’t let you in.”
“Don’t worry about me,” I pleaded.
“I’m not worried, I’m just cautious. I wanted so badly for it to be over with, to avoid how it used to make me feel. I suppose once he got on T.V., once he said what he said… I worried you’d be next to believe it because I certainly did.”
“It’s ok. I know things are complicated, I know things are—”
“Muddied?” Alejandro cut me off. “The truth is less about what happened and more about how I feel. And trust me, I have felt the effects of Miguel forsolong, that it’s all I know… and now, all I can do is fight to remember how it used to be with Alma,” he remained focused.
Regardless of how endearing the memories of his mother may have been, he seemed to have been immune to their effects, as if any smile reserved had already been used.
“And what was that like?” I begged for some light in his life, some soothing side that could ease his expression, but it didn’t.
“There was never a moment I wanted to leave her side. She’s the reason we’re here today.” He looked up, admiring the chipped paint of the old domed theatre. “I would help her any chance I got. Joining her in the fields at work, picking onions, potatoes, but my favorite was always the cherries. It’s the only good memory I have, a time where my brother and I would be outside… away from Miguel, in the rare moments where I could pretend to be anyone else, as long as it wasn’t me. Assuming an identity was kind of my thing, much more important than you may even know.”
