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I stormed from the church. My steps faltered when I saw the pickup truck parked at the curb. Stone rounded the front, his face clouded when he looked at me.
“I just told off God, and I don’t want to say something to you I’ll regret too.” I brushed past him. I could not get in the confines of that truck with the way I felt—like I was about to explode.
He caught me by the wrist. I froze.
Glass shattered somewhere close.I abandoned my milk and scurried to the pantry, cowering in the back corner behind a bag of rice.
Holding my breath, I listened. Silence.
Uno. Dos. Tres. Cuatro. Cinco. Seis.
I counted in my head until I reached one thousand. More silence followed once I finished.
Slowly, I unfolded my arms from around my knees. No one was supposed to be home tonight. That’s why I’d dared to leave my room.
Before I moved again, I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could hear like the elephants Mama used to tell me about. The only noise was the sound of my breathing. Maybe it was nothing.
I crawled through the darkness across the stone floor. The tiles were cool and hard against my hands and knees. I bumped my head on a shelf and winced, not from pain, but because of the booming sound that echoed afterward.
Remaining still, I counted to thirty in my head. I couldn’t hear any noise outside, so I pressed forward toward the small sliver of light shining under the doorway.
With a trembling hand, I reached up and wrapped my fingers around the cool metal doorknob. I hesitated. I could stay here, safe for now.
He’s not here.
The reminder did nothing to settle my nerves. Even if he wasn’t home tonight, he would return. But I couldn’t sleep without my blanket, and I’d left that in my room.
Slowly, I turned the knob. The door hinges creaked as I pushed it open. I peered out the crack. The kitchen was empty, my glass of milk sweating on the countertop.
I’m alone. I’m okay.
I stepped out of the pantry, carefully closing the door.
As I turned, vice-like fingers circled my wrist. “You weren’t hiding from Papa, were you, Camila?”
The signature scent of scotch and cigars filled my nose. Bile rose up my throat, but I swallowed it down and turned to face him.
His eyes were bloodshot from drink, and there was madness behind his dark pools.
“No, Papa,” I whispered.
His fingers tightened; there would be a mark tomorrow, a reminder I didn’t want. “Always mine.”
“No, no, no.”I shook my head violently. He’d raped me on the kitchen floor and then taken me to his room, where he’d kept me for two days while he drank and continued to defile me.
Stone dropped my wrist, but my breath was short. I couldn’t get enough air in my lungs. Couldn’t remember where I was.
When I opened my eyes, I saw I was in front of the church. But inside my mind I was back at the compound, a prisoner in my home. It wasn’t Stone with me, but my father, and I was thirteen again, not sure which emotion was more prominent, rage or fear.
“Muriella.”
I heard Stone, saw him standing in front of me, but I was lost in a place of terror, uncertain if I could find my way out.
“Muriella.” He spoke more forcefully this time, reminding me that I was Muriella, not Camila anymore. The strength of my name on his tongue brought me closer to reality. “May I touch you?”
I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head. “No. Please. No.” I didn’t want his touch ruined for me, because at that moment I could only feel my father’s hands.
“Talk to me. Tell me what’s happening,” he coaxed. He tried to sound calm and under control for my sake, but there was no mistaking the agony in his voice.
