Page 152 of When Lies Unfold

Countless times, men who’ve almost bled to death before being brought to me die on the cold, stainless-steel table. This is even after I do everything I can with the little I have to work with. It’s only me and the medical equipment.

No blood bank for transfusions.

No one to assist me.

No one else to shoulder the blame when one of those bastards dies.

No one else to endure the beatings when they inevitably come.

Initially, he simply backhands me. His fancy ring leaves behind tiny craters in my skin, gifting me with a permanent reminder of the monster I was forced to marry.

Once I grow hardened to that, he becomes more creative with his punishment methods.

Year after year, my nightmare progresses. My parents are of no help. After all, they used me to get rich off this nightmarish joke of a marriage. My grandmother lives a humble life, so she certainly isn’t in a position to help me escape.

The only silver lining is that my abuelita makes Hidalgo uneasy. She’s proud of her indigenous background and often mentions how she practices certain “ceremonies.”

Where my grandmother is committed to her belief about fate and believes that she has a gift for being intuitive, she doesn’t have anything to do with the dark arts like Hidalgo assumes. However, she’s dropped enough hints and made implications that make him uneasy enough to allow me supervised time with her on certain occasions.

“Your life isn’t over, nieta.” She whispers this reminder at each of our visits. “Your fate is on the horizon. I sense it.”

I dismiss her words, because I can’t bear to recall the last time I felt like I stepped onto the path fate intended for me. It was far too magical of a moment, which makes it that much more painful to leave behind.

So, I suffer through each day, promising myself that I’ll find a way to escape Hidalgo and the prison he keeps me in—whether I escape and flee to another country or I escape him by suicide.

The death of my abuelita brings a more potent doom, though, because she’s been the only one I had on the “outside.” With her gone, Hidalgo’s wrath only intensifies.

PRESENT

Santy presses his lips to my hairline, his tender kiss at odds with the tension radiating through his body. “You don’t have to say more.”

“It’s okay. I’ve never told anyone else.” I turn my head slightly to plant a light kiss to his chest. “There’s some relief in finally voicing it.” And it’s true—it’s cathartic, in a way.

His voice is low, gravelly. “It’s good to get shit off your chest, sometimes.”

“It is.”

My attention settles on my hand that lies on Santy’s chest, those beautiful, inked butterflies disguising the horrors my body endured.

Then I curl myself tighter along his side, drawing from his innate strength, before I continue.

Colombia

PAST

When Hidalgo accuses me of flirting with some of the injured assholes I’m forced to treat is when I suffer beneath my own scalpel in his hands.

On and on it goes, until his tipping point.

Until one fateful night in November…when he tries to fuck me and fails.

He comes to my bedroom in the middle of the night, startling me awake by shoving my nightgown up to my armpits and tearing off my panties. With a knife to my throat, he forces himself between my thighs and attempts to shove his dick inside me.

Except he can’t stay hard enough to do much of anything.

I lie in stunned silence, staring up at the darkened bedroom ceiling, waiting for it to be over. Mentally, I go to that same place where everything grows hazy and the sounds around me turn to static. Where I cease to feel pain. Where I’m numb to it all.

Once he finally gives up, relief swamps me. Of course, he tears himself away and backhands me across the face. But I welcome this over him raping me.

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