Page 11 of Trapped

I had been forced to memorize the poem in the seventh grade, and the words followed me into the darkest of nights. They comfort me when my nightmares replay. When I would cry out to the darkness to take me. I whispered the words over and over until sleep would find me. I am the caged bird trapped in the cemetery of my lost dreams with nothing left to live for.

“WHERE IS HE?” I scream out. My voice is hoarse, and I know better than to expect a reply. I knew something was wrong the moment I woke up, and Silas wasn’t next to me. I was desperate to find him roaming the halls through all the chaos.

Everyone is staring at me. I move to the front lobby and see Josefina calming another woman. When I walk toward her, she stiffens.

“Did you know?” she asks. I shake my head.

“D-did I know what?” I say, looking around, trying to make sense of the commotion in the lobby. Josefina steps toward me.

“Did you know your father was going to set them up?” she says, lowering her tone. I shake my head and look around. I felt it first in the pit of my stomach, then I felt it in the aching of my heart.

I rush up the stairs to my father’s office, where I can hear my uncles shouting.

“What did you do?!” I scream. I know what my father is capable of. I know I am just a piece to be manipulated in his game.

“Get this bitch out of my face.” His eyes are cold and empty, the way they always are. Everyone in the room freezes around us. I spent one night with my husband. One night. I step to my father and shout again.

“Where is he?” My voice shakes, but just like Josefina, I stand tall. His fist crashes into the side of my face. I fall to the floor from the impact. Pain making its way to my jaw.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Patricio says as he rushes toward me.

“Tell the bitch to stay out of my way.” My father drops down in front of me and glares at me. “You’re a fucking Consuelo. Step in line or get the fuck out of the way.”

The memory is a small reminder of the things I have suffered at my father’s hands. My mother never loved him, and because of that, she never loved me. When she tried to escape him, she was killed. The moment I found out Silas was dead, I took a step back into that lonely cage. When I found out I was pregnant, I wasn’t even angry. I always saw it as a miracle that one night would lead me to a piece of Silas that I would keep forever. Only forever never came.

I carried my daughter for nine months and held her in my arms for ten minutes before I had to discuss her future.My future. One that would exist with her, but also without her. It was the only way I could ensure her safety. I was willing to sit on the sidelines of her life if it meant that she would be given every opportunity to succeed. I would love her from afar. I would sing in the cage because there was hope that she would fly.

César excuses himself to use the restroom. I pull out my new phone to check on the twins. On my lock screen appears a new message from an unknown number.

Unknown: If he touches you, it will be the last time he touches anything.

I look around the bar to see who could be watching me and reach to my outer right thigh where I keep Selena, my gold and black 9mm. When I see nothing out of the ordinary, I message the number back.

Thalia: Your threats are amusing. Fuck off.

As a Consuelo, I am used to random threats. Most can be traced to some sorry piece of shit who needs money. I have no time for petty threats by some punk who found my numberthrough a Google search. I had been receiving real threats from someone trying to expose my child. This threat is at the bottom of the barrel of my concerns. When I see César return, I quickly drop the phone into my purse.

“Did you want to get dessert?” he asks.

“Yes.” I give him a coy smile and lean in. “But I was thinking we could go to your place for that.”

There are catfish, and then there is this. A man who checks all the boxes, but has no idea how to use the most important organ on his body. I’m lying on a single mattress in a garage while César rams into me from on top. Maybe it’s the lack of air conditioning, or the way his sweat is dripping onto me, but I’d rather be stranded on an abandoned island than stuck here in missionary with him.

Thank God I used my vibrator this morning. They always say to eat before you go anywhere, just in case you don’t like the food once you get there. Same concept with hook ups. I’m accustomed to finding disappointment. I knew the moment I realized his idea of foreplay was slobbering on my neck for twenty minutes while fondling my pussy outside my pants. I knew the dick would be mid. He doesn’t let a minute go by without saying something cringy.

“Ah. Fuck yes, baby girl.”

Thrust.

“You naughty little kitten.”

Thrust.

And the throw up award goes to,“Are you almost done, angel?”

I love dirty talk as much as the next kinky bitch out there, but a bunch of random pet names between thrusts is not dirty talk. It also fucks with my attention deficit disorder and my ability to cum. Am I a kitten or an angel? Or am I a naughty angel kitten baby?

No, the best dirty talkers are more strategic than this. They are the type of men that are calculated in the way they alternate from calling you a dirty slut to a good girl. The type of men I am starting to think only exist in the dark romance section of Barnes and Noble.

---