Previously: Lucia’s new confidence drew warmth from the barrio, but it also drew attention. Expectations shifted, and when Alex walked her home, Lucia understood how quickly the life she was creating for herself could be pulled back into the life everyone expected.

New to the Serial? Start Here | Need the previous chapter? Chapter 8: New Friend

Lucia

We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea… we are going back from whence we came.

~President John F. Kennedy

Every ride with Matteo ended at Torrey Pines State Beach. He lowered the top, allowing the ocean to claim them, the salt-kissed breeze mixing with their laughter. When the wind swept through her hair, his finger tucked it behind her ears, a firm touch she missed even before it moved away. Her body tightened as though it remembered something she wished it wouldn’t. The rocky cliffs and sandy beach curved around them in an intimate embrace.

The excitement of his invitation vanished before she exhaled. A ride was not the same as spending a day at the beach. The California coastline pushed through her thoughts, sharp and cold, catching her off guard. Her chest tightened, a phantom weight dragging her down before her feet touched the sand. The taste of salt shifted into the burn of chlorine. Her body answered the memory before she could.

Abuela, and later Johnny, always pulled her out coughing, struggling to clear her airway, only for her uncle to throw her back in at the first chance he had.

Each rescue left her colder, trembling harder, her body learning that danger began with proximity. If she let anyone too close, she feared the old pattern would emerge, where people, like a riptide, pulled her under. Yet Matteo had inched closer over the last year.

She tried to shake off the memory, but the echo of her helplessness sat heavy on her chest. Safe among the rows of books, steadied by the order, she looked up to find Matteo watching her. Her mouth went dry, voice catching low in her throat. He would step back, the way people did once she revealed she wasn’t whatever version of her they preferred.

“I need to tell you something… you won’t like it.”

When he saw her biting her thumb, he set his book down, shoulders tensed. His voice remained light. “What could that possibly be?”

“I don’t know how to swim.” Her confession spilled out in an uneven burst. “I don’t even like being near the water.” She braced herself for frustration, or worse, the quiet disappointment that left her outside looking in on so many of her relationships.

His shoulders loosened, his grin spreading across his face. “All I want is to spend time with you on a beautiful beach.”

Lucia wanted to believe him, but he never stopped talking about his love of the ocean. “I don’t even have a swimsuit.”

“I have five sisters,” he said, dismissing her excuse. “And several nieces your size. I’ll borrow one.”

Her pulse pushed hard beneath her skin. The child who had sunk beneath the water begged her to step back before it could happen to her again. “Okay. We can go after my shift at the bookstore.”

Her thoughts kept circling to her promise to Matteo until she reached her classroom.

“I saved you a spot.” Sheri waved her over as though they were the greatest of friends. Her bubbly, irrepressible energy was hard to ignore, but Lucia didn’t know if it was real or performative. “Was that Matteo Johnson I saw you talking to? How do you know him?”

“What?” She blinked, confused. “Huh?”

“Matteo Johnson?” Sheri repeated, bouncing with excitement.

“We were just walking in the same direction,” Lucia said, hoping she sounded casual. Sheri shared her passion for history and always sought her out. It was time to accept her friendship. No one else was lining up for the position.

“He’s so hot. Like, not-from-this world hot.”

They both giggled, quickly covered their mouths, and looked around. Their connection was unexpected. The giggle lingered in her chest, simple and fun, almost like she really was nineteen.

“Did you finish the assigned reading? I had to pull an all-nighter.”

Lucia had never pulled an all-nighter. Her schoolwork was a pleasure she struggled to put away. Wanting to meet Sheri’s easy warmth halfway, she moved her notes toward her.

“Can I check mine against yours?”

Why was she asking about something clearly offered? Lucia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Her face warmed, and her thoughts were spiraling. Had she sounded cold? Uninterested? Maybe she should apologize. Her mind began cataloguing every tiny inflection, every shift of the face, as proof she’d somehow messed up again.

Sheri looked up and smiled. “Your notes are amazing.”

“Thanks.”

“You should sell them to other students, 25 dollars per class. Nice side money.”

Thinking Sheri was joking, Lucia grinned. Maybe friendship always felt awkward before it felt safe.

Thank you for reading Beneath the Weight of Water.

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10: Her Sin on 6/20/26

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Start from the Beginning

Author’s note

This chapter turns on the body remembering what the mind tries to outrun.

When I was young, one of the most traumatizing experiences of my life came from the person I trusted most. My father tried to teach my sister and me how to swim by throwing us into the deep end of a pool. My sister dog-paddled to the edge. I sank to the bottom.

What I remember most is not panic. I remember sitting beneath the water, surrounded by silence, mourning the loss of the man I had trusted to keep me safe.

That kind of betrayal does not stay in one moment. It follows you into every relationship where trust is required. It teaches the body that love can throw you into danger and still call it care.

Lucia’s fear of water is not only fear of drowning. It is fear of surrendering control to someone who may not understand what they are holding.

Trauma does not let go cleanly. Even when you learn to live beside it.

If Lucia agreeing to the beach feels less like a date and more like a test of trust, subscribe to receive the next chapter in your inbox.

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Copyright © 2026 Angelica Thorne

For permission requests, contact angelicathorne@icloud.com.

Mrs. Linda named the danger Matteo could not ignore and asked him to take care of Lucia. Before Lucia could talk herself out of accepting help, Matteo promised more than a ride home. But promises had failed him before, and by nightfall, the weight of this one pressed on him.

New to the Serial? Start Here | Need the previous chapter? Chapter 7: The Silence Between Us

Lucia

Nothing can bring you peace but yourself.

~Ralph Waldo Emerson

As soon as Lucia walked through the front door, Abuela noticed the change. “You look so nice. How much did you spend?

“You… really like it, Abuelita?” She reached for the warm feeling, even as a part of her braced that it would be taken back. “Not much.”

“Yes, you still look like a good girl. Not like those girls with their clown faces. Just don’t let it get to your head.”

“Hey, carnala.” Johnny’s whistle cut through her disappointment. “Looking good!”

His praise landed gently, a pocket of safety she needed. With cheeks burning, she sat beside him at the dinner table. “What’s for dinner? I’m starving.”

The kitchen smelled of roasted poblano peppers and cheese. The air was rich and warm. Johnny launched into another of his funny stories and surprised her by asking about her classes. For a heartbeat, she basked in it. She wished they expressed more interest in that part of her life. Then, Abuela looked toward the kitchen, and his smile faltered. If he had already lost interest, she must have said nothing worth listening to. Lucia cut her answer short, the chile relleno cooling on her plate. No point in boring them to death. She pushed the sting aside. There was no room to dwell. Not when the days rushed in, demanding more of her.

Between classes, work, and chores, she sometimes caught her reflection. She liked this polished version, although it still felt borrowed. Each lingering glance asked a question she wasn’t ready to answer. A classmate squinted while looking at her, the tortillería clerk hesitated before sliding her order across the counter, and sometimes, Matteo’s gaze lingered until something in her chest went still.

“No one cares how you look,” she told her coffee, but the words barely rippled.

“I don’t care about your homework. Or work at the bookstore. Doña Cuca needs help making tamales for Paco’s birthday. Family comes first,” Abuela said, always a command, never a request. Her best friend wasn’t family. As though reading her mind, Abuela quickly added, “She’s like family.”

Doña Cuca’s house smelled of pork and chiles. The steady slap of masa against corn husks kept time with the music on the radio. Her daughters-in-law bent over the table, their hands moving fast even as gossip and laughter flowed.

It felt like stepping into her father’s family home: warm, loud, and full of motion. Their easy affection tugged at her, but guilt rose faster, reminding her she wasn’t supposed to love his family. Asking Abuela to see them always led to a fight that she and Johnny lost. Their pleas collapsed under the weight of the same words: “Your father killed my daughter.”

“Mijita, come, come, sit.” Doña Cuca gave her a quick hug and led her to the table. “Here. Eat. You’re too skinny.”

“Thank you.” Who could resist a warm hug and a concha? Affection wrapped in sugar, sweeter than anything at home.

“Girl! You straight up firme.” Smiley’s wide smile made the compliment clear.

“Damn, baby girl, you cleaned up nice.” Tiny winked at her.

Smiling shyly, Lucia shook her head. “You’re the ones who look amazing.” Being acknowledged by the women gave her a thrill she wasn’t used to.

She and Smiley spread the masa, spatulas gliding clean across the husks, while Tiny plopped in the filling. Next to them, she was an unfinished sketch beside a mural. These women didn’t apologize for their power. Flannel shirts and baggy Dickies with spotless white sneakers that dared the dust to touch them. Oversized hoop earrings flashing in the sun, hair teased-up or slicked back tight. Makeup fierce: sharply lined eyebrows, heavy eyeliner, and dark lipstick.

“We’d call you Shy Girl if we rolled up to Logan Heights,” Tiny said. They were kind, but gang life clung to them like stale cigarette smoke. “The way you lookin’, you’d snag a homeboy quick.”

“No homeboys.” Doña Cuca’s voice was firm, eyes hard, bristling with disapproval.

The gang had already taken her two oldest. She left Logan Heights so Alex, her youngest son, wouldn’t be the third. She didn’t need to worry. Lucia was building a life where her future children would never know about turf wars or worry about drive-bys.

“Ay, suegrita.” Tiny kissed her mother-in-law on the cheek. “Don’t be actin’ all grumpy.”

“Mi beba needs a good man.” Abuela set a second bowl of filling on the table.

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“Alex can handle that.” Smiley giggled, winking at Alex as he walked into his mother’s house.

Damn, he was handsome. Strong jaw, sun-browned skin, face roughened by hard work and weather. Mud caked his work boots and grime streaked his flame-resistant overalls. Abuelo would’ve approved. Abuela always said men like him were the real prize, not another diploma.

“Who’s gonna be down for him showin’ up like that?” Tiny teased with a grin.

“What you troublemakers up to?” He tugged off his hard hat, swiping sweat from his brow, already smiling.

Smiley shot Lucia a conspiratorial grin. “You should take out Shy Girl, homie. Abuela would back that.”

Lucia’s cheeks burned. If he thought she wanted this, the barrio would tilt in the wrong direction. She studied the old tablecloth, stomach pulled tight. Alex was Penelope’s boyfriend. She glanced at Smiley, willing her to drop it.

“Hey.” His eyebrows lifted, curious and a little bemused, before he looked away. Maybe it was the makeup. Maybe the braid. Warmth softened his sharp edges before he looked away. “Jefita, we had a job nearby, so I came home for lunch.”

Tiny leaned back in her chair, waiting until Alex and the older women were in the kitchen. “She’s straight-up a little shot-caller, for real. If you’re feelin’ him, I say go for it. His jefita ain’t feelin’ his girl.”

Doña Cuca never hid her dislike of Penelope’s short skirts and her loud best friend. She wanted her son to marry a good Catholic girl, modest and obedient, who would stay home with her grandchildren. Sure, Alex was great. You just had to ignore the fine print: Doña Cuca as live-in mother-in-law.

“I have too much going on to add a guy to my life.” She exhaled, reached for another husk, and let her hands do the talking. Keeping her life from collapsing took all her energy. There was nothing left for a guy who would demand everything from her.

Just as she caught her breath, Smiley nudged her. “For real, huh? A vato ain’t no vato unless he’s blooded his sword.”

“What? A man wasn’t a man unless he what now?” A knot tightened in her stomach. This was her life, always a step behind everyone else.

Alex appeared in the doorway, stopped short, and slipped back into the kitchen.

Tiny disagreed with a roll of her eyes. “A vato ain’t real ‘til he gets his red wings.”

“What does that mean?” Both women burst into laughter.

“Ey, mami, you still a virgencita?” Smiley smirked, delighted by how fast Lucia had flushed. “He blooded his sword is when…” Doña Cuca and Abuela rushed in before Smiley could finish.

“Alex is going to walk you home.” Abuela snatched the husk from her hand and pulled her upright. “You need to do your homework.”

Lucia froze, confused. Whether Abuela meant to protect her or scold her didn’t matter; either way, Lucia knew she was being warned not to step over the line. Alex nodded as if her grandmother made perfect sense.

“Don’t you need my help?”

“Don’t talk to the girl about those things.” Doña Cuca’s stern look broke into amused affection.

“Go to work!” Abuela snapped, brow furrowed, face tight with anger.

“Okay, okay.” Lucia stumbled upright. Alex took her by the arm and guided her out. When she looked back, Smiley and Tiny’s eyes were down, but their smiles had only grown wider. Those two were enjoying watching her squirm.

Still reeling, she turned to Alex when they reached the sidewalk. “What was that all about?”

He dragged a hand over his face, half-disbelief, half amused. “You really don’t know?”

Lucia said nothing. Sometimes she wished life came with instructions, preferably with pictures. After a breath, she guessed. “Sex stuff?”

Biting his lip to hide a smile, he shook his head. “Makes me glad you ditched Ellie.”

“Ellie ditched me when she started college.” Ellie? What did she have to do with this?

“You always just… say what you’re thinking, huh?” His dark black eyes fixed on hers, and she took a step back.

Was he curious or just being smug? If he read her wrong, he’d think she had opened a door she had no intention of walking through. Time ran out.

They stopped in front of her house before she could decide. He lifted her chin, making her meet his eyes. “Don’t come over to my house when the girls are there! They’re a little crazy.”

The rough feel of his calloused fingers startled her. With a tiny flinch, her breath hitched. Unwanted touch always set her nerves on edge.

“I’d better get started on my homework.”

“You should,” he murmured, his hand still under her chin. Maybe he could tell it was an excuse. “I like your hair in a braid.”

Hearing his praise only reminded her how often her barrio peers said she wasn’t right in their eyes. Something in the way he was looking at her shifted. She backed away, no smile on her face. Without realizing it, she reached for the quiet steadiness Matteo offered.

“Thanks for walking me home.”

He nodded, his eyes steady. “I’ll see you at the party.”

Right. The party. His brother’s birthday. The reason for the tamales.

At parties, the women missed nothing. Every move was judged, every whisper fed the endless cycle of neighborhood gossip. Someone always demanded that she sing. She nodded under the weight of expectation. But she already had plans for Saturday, with Matteo.

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When does being noticed stop feeling like confidence and start feeling like a trap?

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Chapter 9: Between the Shore and the Sea

June 6, 2026

Previous Chapter

Author’s note

Doña Cuca’s kitchen is not background. It is part of the social structure Lucia has to survive.

Food means care here. The tamales, the concha, the noise, the teasing, the quick hug, all of it offers Lucia a warmth she does not get at home.

The room also comes with witnesses. Women who notice, interpret, and decide when a girl is ready for her future.

Alex is the respectable future: a good Mexican man, a trusted family, a life everyone would understand. The pressure arrives through affection, jokes, food, and the shared assumption that Lucia is ready to be guided toward the right kind of life.

If Lucia’s new confidence has you wondering what the barrio will demand from her next, subscribe for new chapters as they arrive.

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Copyright © 2026 Angelica Thorne

For permission requests, contact angelicathorne@icloud.com.

Lucia chose a version of herself that matched the life she was trying to build. For one brief moment, being seen by Matteo felt like possibility instead of danger. But confidence was fragile, and home was still waiting.

New to the Serial? Start Here | Need the previous chapter? Chapter 6: Reflecting Grace

Matteo

There are things which man is afraid to tell even to himself.

~Fyodor Dostoevsky

Lucia’s neighborhood came into view, at once familiar and foreign. Modest stucco homes with rust-stained bars lined the street. Sun-bleached murals of the Virgin Mary, lowriders, and Aztec warriors kept silent watch from the corner stores. Like her, the place wore its faith and fear in every line. Her fingers pressed the car door. Her shoulders were locked, her breath, small and contained. “Do I really look okay?”

“Yes.” He caught her glance. “You’re very pretty.”

“Liar.” Her gaze snapped away. It was a quick and sharp retreat he recognized as an echo of her grandmother stripping away her confidence. She looked toward her home, and her shoulders folded as if she had already stepped back into that house. He noticed that her breath was barely moving in her chest.

He reached for her hand, as though her sharp answer had not landed. Her eyes dropped to his hand. Too late, he realized he shouldn’t have reached for her. He had crossed a line she needed him to keep. She pulled her hand back.

“Anyone who tears you down is lying.”

“Good luck with Carol.” Her words were tight, jealousy threaded through her voice, subtle, but not subtle enough to fool him.

His expression slipped, a flash of hurt before he smoothed it away. Knuckles white on the wheel, he swallowed hard. He should have ended things with Carol long ago.

A gentle tap on the window made them both turn. Matteo smiled at the Black woman standing beside his car, gardening gloves and a trowel in hand.

“Babies.” Her voice was firm, word landing like the tap of a gavel.

“Yes, ma’am?” he responded, softening his voice to a velvet warmth.

“My husband and I,” the woman said, “watch you drop this little lady off late at night. Right out here.”

Not late. Always by ten. He got out of the car. Lucia followed his lead like a soldier scanning for snipers. He recognized she was bracing for whoever might twist the sight of them into trouble.

“I’m Matteo Johnson, and my friend is Lucia Perez. It’s a pleasure to meet you!” He extended his hand.

“I’m Mrs. Linda, and my husband is Mr. Jamar,” the woman said, taking his hand in hers. Her husband’s nod was smooth, earned over a long, probably happy, marriage. She slipped the trowel into her pocket and shook her head. “Now, I know you can’t take her to her door if you drop her here. Parents aren’t always… open-minded.”

He nodded. In her grandmother’s mind, a white boy was a greater threat than Lucia changing buses downtown at night.

Mrs. Linda lowered her chin. “Baby. A girl was raped here a few months back. You need to take care of this young lady.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The promise settled heavier than he liked to admit. He could never forget how easily people made promises they couldn’t keep. Fatigue dragged at his limbs, hidden by practiced ease. “I will take care of it.”

“If you park in our driveway, one of us will walk with her to make sure she is safe,” said Mrs. Linda. Mr. Jamar nodded at her side, more mountain than man.

“I live two houses down, just around the corner,” Lucia whispered. He nearly dragged a hand through his hair.

“We enjoy walking, baby,” Mrs. Linda assured her. “Ain’t no bother to us. Mr. Jamar was the pediatrician for many of the neighborhood kids, and I was the elementary school teacher for the rest. No one will give us any trouble.”

Admiration flickered in Lucia’s eyes, but he knew her rhythm: hesitation, silence, retreat, like the pull of the tide. Then, she surprised him, stepping out from behind him.

“Please, don’t worry.” Her voice clipped, but determined. “I’ll just go back to taking the bus. I don’t want to trouble you.”

Matteo saw the tension in her jaw, a familiar warning that owing anyone might feel more dangerous to her than walking home alone.

Mr. Jamar’s voice was rich, low, like an old vinyl record. “Wouldn’t be offering if it was trouble, young lady.”

Mrs. Linda smiled, a teacher encouraging a skittish student. “We’re up till all hours watching our shows, so don’t worry about disturbing us. Old folk don’t sleep like working people do.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Matteo said. “Would nine o’clock work for you folks?”

Lucia’s hand slipped into his, and he felt the quiet plea in her gesture. He drew a steady breath, met her eyes, and allowed himself a small smile.

“It would be mighty fine with us,” said Mr. Jamar.

Matteo inclined his head in gratitude. His thoughts looped back to the promise he’d made. Her shoulders eased, as if the weight of the barrio, its kinship and its judgment, had lifted just enough to let her trust someone. He felt the change, a small step to a new faith. He let it anchor him.

Outside his bedroom, the surf worked to lull him to sleep, as it did every night. But Matteo lay awake in the dark, the ceiling a dim blur. The only thing he liked about the medication he took was how easily it carried him under. It had never failed before.

His thoughts returned to Mrs. Linda’s warning, to the weight of her voice when she said, Take care of this young lady. The thought of failing Lucia the way others had failed him tightened something low in his chest.

Outside the hum of a car engine rolled past, a voice called down the street, and laughter cut through the surf. He turned onto his side, pulse quick, eyes wide, and breathed until calm returned and a cold ripple moved across his skin despite the warmth of the room.

He would keep his word, because he was determined to be the safety Lucia needed. No lies. Just the truth. The best he had to give.

As the sounds faded, he felt it. Control, like sleep, was elusive. He had to try because the moment he let go, his family shaped his life without mercy.

Thank you for reading Beneath the Weight of Water. Paid subscriptions are optional support for future chapters, illustrations, and the long work of keeping the story alive.

Have you made a promise to someone while secretly fearing you might not be strong enough to keep it?

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Start from the Beginning

Author’s note

Mrs. Linda asks Matteo to take care of Lucia, and to anyone else, that might sound simple. He knows it is not. Early in life, his body forced him to learn that promises can be loving, sincere, and still fail under the weight of reality: hospital rooms, whispered assurances, one more procedure, one more medication, one more reason to believe the worst was almost over.

When he promises to keep Lucia safe, he is not making a romantic gesture. He is accepting responsibility.

Matteo does not want to repeat the failures of the people who promised safety and could not give it. He wants his care to mean something solid. But wanting to protect someone and having the power to protect them are not the same thing.

Matteo does not fear responsibility because he wants less of Lucia. He fears it because he knows care can fail even when love is real.

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Copyright © 2026 Angelica Thorne

For permission requests, contact angelicathorne@icloud.com.

Previously: Lucia returned to class with Bruno’s violence still visible on her face, only to be reminded that her peers did not think she belonged in the room. Matteo found her hiding in the library and took her to Sofia, whose kindness gave Lucia a new way to face the world. But care still felt unfamiliar, and wanting more of it made home feel colder than before.

New to the Serial? Start Here | Need the previous chapter? Chapter 5: A Silent War

Lucia

It is never too late to be what you might have been.

Inspired by Adelaide Anne Procter, “The Ghost in the Picture Room”

A week later, the honeyed aroma of figs from Sofia’s kitchen slipped into Lucia’s memory. The warmth she’d felt only sharpened the coldness waiting for her at home. She wanted more, needed more, but she’d learned the hard way that big leaps could break her. Smaller steps might carry her further.

She looked up through the library hush and found Matteo. He sat across from her, brows drawn in quiet focus, a finger curled under the page to hold his place. When he caught her looking at him, the corners of his mouth lifted into a smile. Breathing him in, vanilla and sandalwood, pinched something low in her chest in a way she hated.

He thumbed the Catherine de Palma medal his grandmother had given him. Lucia had noticed him playing with it whenever doubt crept in. He raked his hair back. “Leaving early today?”

“Yes. An appointment at Merle Norman, a cosmetic store.” Within a week of plaiting her hair and covering the spots, the hallway glances changed. No more lingering stares, just quick looks that moved on. Smirks turned into small nods and polite smiles. Time for another small step.

“I can drive you,” he offered, his grin widening. “You can skip hours on the bus.”

“Really?” Accepting his kindness meant owing him something, and debts were dangerous things.

“My pleasure.”

Stores on that side of town made her heart race. Salespeople stalked her through the aisles, as if theft were inevitable. Her hands left damp prints on anything she touched. She didn’t want to rely on him, but his blond hair and blue eyes would turn suspicion into polite smiles.

On the drive to College Grove Mall, he glanced over at her. “I’m meeting with Carol tomorrow. I’m looking forward to being done.”

Carol’s name hit low in Lucia’s stomach, tight and unwelcome. Her foot began bouncing against the floorboards, a jackhammer she couldn’t stop, driven by the fear of being replaced.

“If she doesn’t end it this time, I will.” He said with a determined look on his face. “We both need to move on. It’s not fair to any of us.” He didn’t explain, as if she should already know.

And she did. Another girl was waiting her turn. Maybe the next one wouldn’t want him hanging around with Lucia. Heat flared in her throat and remained there as he pulled the car into the mall’s parking lot.

He saw too clearly, and the barrio saw everything else. Before she turned to look at him, she put on a smile.

“What do you think?” She turned so he could see the foundation on her skin. Neither woman mentioned the bruise on her cheek. A small knot in her shoulder eased by a fraction.

“It matches your skin tone,” he said, his eyes fixed only on her.

He was every bit the fairy-tale prince, lighting every corner with his bright smiles and effortless grace. Princesses shoved each other to claim him: Snow White was a scrapper; Cinderella and Aurora outmatched. A smile tugged at the edge of her mouth.

She hoped her first real boyfriend would be someone she could breathe around. Not a fairy tale. More of Roger and Anita. Just home.

The women returned to the cotton pads, brushes, and compacts on their tray. Sharp pink lips. Eye shadow rimmed in electric blue. Another mask layered on: dutiful granddaughter. Good minority. Catholic girl. Now 80s girl.

The makeup sat heavy on her skin, as if her pores couldn’t breathe. She wanted to look like herself, not to add another mask. Being who people wanted would protect her, but she wanted more than safety. She wanted to figure out who she wanted to be. In the mirror, her eyes turned flat and downcast.

The women stepped back. One turned to him. “Doesn’t she look beautiful?”

What if he agreed? Her mind jumped to the worst place, fearing she might need a new mask to please him. Her breath thinned.

“No,” she told the woman, and then, louder. “That’s not me.” The words tasted of stupidity because defiance never ended well for her.

“She is looking for something different.” The quiet certainty in his support eased the burn low in her stomach. Before she knew she’d been holding her breath, she exhaled.

“But she looks amazing!” one of the women protested.

He smiled sweetly. “Understated suits her better.” Her smile rose to meet his, feeling seen, not molded.

This look was hers. Delicate pink lips. Faint blush. Lightly lined eyes. His gaze stilled. Away from the barrio, being seen didn’t feel like vulnerability. It felt like possibility opening before her.

But then she remembered Abuela’s voice. La feita. Ugly. Her reflection in the mirror dimmed beneath Olivia’s shadow. Her mind clung to the old script, but something new was trying to take root.

Outside the store, Matteo spun her as they headed to his car. A soft laugh slipped out, heat rising to her cheeks.

She was ready to start taking up space in her world. The makeup and Dutch braid set her shoulders back. She could picture herself in a suit, lecturing at a university, rows of students turning to her. Something inside her cut loose. Gravity lost its hold. She could fly, and for just a heartbeat, she did.

Thank you for reading Beneath the Weight of Water. Paid subscriptions are optional support for future chapters, illustrations, and the long work of keeping the story alive.

What did it cost you the first time you allowed yourself to feel free?

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Previous Chapter

Start from the Beginning

Author’s note

Lucia’s appearance has belonged to other people’s judgment: Abuela’s neglect, the barrio’s mockery, her classmates’ assumptions, and the quiet rules that decide which girls are allowed to be seen without being punished for it.

The trip to the makeup counter is not the transformation. Her choice is.

Lucia does not want another mask. She has enough of those: dutiful granddaughter, good minority, Catholic girl, grateful girl.

What changes on that trip is smaller and harder. She chooses the version of herself that reflects the path of her ambition. Not the girl others think they see, but the woman she is silently building herself to become.

The mirror does not save her. It only stops agreeing with everyone who hurts her.

If Lucia’s reflection has you waiting for what she’ll claim next, subscribe for new chapters as they arrive.

Subscribe now

Copyright © 2026 Angelica Thorne

For permission requests, contact angelicathorne@icloud.com.

Matteo understood too late that his friendship with Lucia had already become something more. Holding her grief made the line between care and wanting harder to ignore. He could still choose what he did next, but he could no longer pretend nothing had changed.

New to the Serial? Start Here | Need the previous chapter? Chapter 4: Suddenly, not Empty

Lucia

Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.

~Ian Maclaren

In a crowded lecture hall, it was easy for Lucia to lose herself. Not so with only ten students sitting around the conference table in Historiography and Methods. She usually sat beside the professor.

On this day, she chose a seat near the door. She positioned herself so her curls would hide her face. The welt pulsed under her hair, dragging her thoughts away from the lecture. Her stomach tightened. The worst part wasn’t the pain but the fear they would see her bruise and use it as proof she never belonged there.

“Ugh,” a girl muttered, loud enough for Lucia to hear. “I can’t believe she’s back. I thought she’d flunk out. When are they going to learn? They don’t belong here.”

“Who are they?” someone asked, voice rising with curiosity.

“Affirmative action kids,” the first voice sneered. “They can’t keep up. It’s not fair to the students who actually earned their spot.”

Lucia’s grip on her pen tightened. Write. Focus. Work. Acid bubbled up her throat, swallowing the rhythm. Every word hit like another blow.

A rough scoff cut through the whispers. The professor glanced around, but as he turned back to the board, the first voice continued: “I bet she’s screwing Dr. Hayes for good grades.”

They always crossed the line, turning her work into something filthy because they wanted her to break. She felt the room tilt and fought the desire to get up and just run. Dr. Hayes called on her. Answering hurt, but silence would confirm what they already believed about her.

Their words said it all; every syllable shut her out, but a real future was worth any price. What was one more ulcer? Her family had already given her so many.

It wasn’t the first time someone had tried to hold her back. Her high school counselor had told her to give up on college and get a job because she would be pregnant before she turned eighteen anyway. While other students applied nationwide, she focused on schools she could reach by the city bus. The reality was that without a scholarship, she couldn’t attend. Her future hinged on numbers she couldn’t control.

Collwood State University offered her nothing. The University of Alcalá gave her a partial scholarship. Clairemont Community College was her fallback. But there was still one last possibility, a long shot.

When the thin envelope from the University of La Jolla arrived, she tossed it onto her desk. Thin envelopes were nothing more than polite rejections, another reminder that girls like her should know their place. When dreams died, they took pieces of you with them. She was done. Time to move on.

A few weeks later, a thick envelope from the university sat in her mailbox. Her heart skidded, hands trembling as she tore the seal. Her mind stalled. She couldn’t be reading it right. The first line of the letter blurred behind her tears. She blinked hard, reread it.

The University of La Jolla gave her a full scholarship. Work-study. Real. Unbelievable. Hers. It was everything she dreamed of: a prestigious faculty, a leading research institution, globally respected. She could finally see the future she wanted in the ink of the scholarship letter.

Johnny stopped in the doorway, frowning at her tearful smile. Joy was something he wasn’t used to seeing on her face. She held up the letter like Charlie clutching the golden ticket, except this time, she was the protagonist of the story.

She could almost cry at her naivety. Every time she let herself hope, something struck her down. It had been stupid to think that getting the scholarship was the hardest part. Now, for the first time, she wondered if it was all worth it.

The moment she stepped out of class, she could breathe again. The future, she promised herself, was more important than the bruises of the present. Most students grumbled about the sprawling campus, but she loved the long walks, each step carrying her closer to the independence she craved.

Then, she saw those icy blue eyes sweeping the crowd of students, drifting her way. The memory of his voice, shifting when he heard her crying, tore through her. If he reached her now, he would see too much. She walked fast, then faster, until she broke into a run.

The eight-story building loomed, cold concrete and glass, but inside, peace awaited. In the quiet stacks and dim corners, she could exist. Here, she felt untouchable, because there was no one to twist her words or her worth. Without judgment. No expectation. Surrounded by the scent of paper and the rustle of turning pages, her frayed nerves would give way to serenity as they always had. Books never flinched at her silence. They always welcomed her questions, her need to understand, her longing to belong.

On the sixth floor, she chose a carrel desk tucked deep in the stacks. After arranging her things, she curled beneath it. Book in hand, a memory rose unbidden, a hard truth she lived by. She whispered, “Any woman worth her weight in salt can do anything she needs to do.”

She blinked, slightly disoriented, as she realized that she had fallen asleep in the library again. Leaning into the silence, she wrapped herself in the familiar scent of old paper and ink. With a deep breath, she stretched and felt relaxed.

“Baby…” Baby? She must have misheard. No one called her that.

She shifted, and there was Matteo crouched beside her. The thought of his embrace rattled her. Although she feared his pity, she wanted him to reach for her, steady her again.

“Hey,” he said, brushing her curls away from her face. “Did you forget we were meeting?” Even after her confessions, his gaze held steady. This felt more intimate than his fingers gracing her face.

“I promised to take you to my sister’s house. She can help with your face,” he said, his smile unchanged.

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry. I forgot all about it. It was a rough morning. Anyway, I don’t need help. I’m fine.” The lie burned her throat on the way out.

“A promise is a promise.” He gave her a knowing smile, then lifted her up by the hand.

She flushed, embarrassed that she had gotten exactly what she had wished for.

Sofia, Matteo’s sister, let her calm blue eyes linger on her bruised cheek. With an easy smile, she showed them to the kitchen island. Shade by shade, she guided Lucia’s skin back to balance: green for red, peach for blue, and concealer to seal it. She was not used to a woman offering guidance instead of criticism, and the warmth of it enveloped her in a way that left her craving for more.

“Every girl can face the world on her terms with the right tools,” Sofia said. Her fingers were gentle, but Lucia flinched, the reflex automatic. “Let me teach you how to do a Dutch braid.”

“My hair is impossible.” Abuela’s voice echoed in her mind whenever she reached for hair products.

“Even the wildest hair doesn’t stand a chance against a tub of gel.” Her grin held an easy confidence. “Did you see the picture of my girls in the living room? Their hair is crazier than yours.”

In the photo, one had defined curls; the other, a tight ponytail. Their smiles, unburdened by guilt or fear, sparked a flicker of envy in her.

“How old are they?” Lucia guessed they were Matteo’s age.

“Eighteen and seventeen. My husband loves having girls.” She winked at her brother. “If he missed having a boy, we just borrowed Matteo from Mom.”

“I’m everyone’s favorite toy,” he said, grinning as he rummaged through Sofia’s fridge.

“Says the most loved kid in this hemisphere,” she retorted, shooting him a look. “Has he told you that he used to wear a cape everywhere until he turned seven?”

Arching her eyebrow, Lucia tried hard not to smile. “A cape? Superman?”

“Oh, no. Not a red cape. Black. It had to flow behind him. He even wore it to the Bolshoi Ballet performance of Spartacus. I still can’t believe mom let him do it.”

Matteo groaned without looking up, his head buried in Sofia’s freezer. “Revenge is coming.”

Unfazed, she smoothed gel through Lucia’s hair and gathered it tight. “I have photographic proof.”

“You wouldn’t,” he said as he sat on the countertop with a tub of vanilla ice cream, as though it were his rightful prize.

“I would,” she said with a sweet smile. “You were such a dramatic child. Even your tantrums had flair, and your exits were theatrical. You were made for the stage!”

Matteo’s smile froze, and for a breath, the corners of his mouth faltered. There was a wound there, still tender, one he had not shared. He caught Lucia’s surprised look and, too quickly, pulled a tragically comical expression. “Et tu, Brute?”

Sofia raised her hands in mock innocence. “I didn’t say a word.”

“Traitor,” he muttered, digging into the tub with a serving spoon. Sofia tucked a napkin into his collar; he didn’t blink.

“I still can’t believe mom let you run around New York City wearing that thing,” she said, shaking her head at the memory.

He groaned again. “I was dashing!”

“You were overly dramatic,” she corrected and laughed as she reached for a second spoon to steal a bite of his ice cream. “But we love you.”

Watching them smile at each other, Lucia glimpsed the ease of a family knitted by love. It felt foreign to her, yet not unwelcoming. Just… unfamiliar. Something that had been denied to her the night her parents died, a reminder that love like this was out of her reach.

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Author’s note

The phrase “affirmative action” did not land on a blank social field. White women benefited from affirmative action, especially through gender-based employment protections, but the stigma did not attach to them. Other preferences also shaped admissions without marking the students who benefited from them: wealth, legacy, athletics, donor connections, and faculty family ties.

Black, Latino, Native, and some Asian American students were already navigating assumptions about intelligence, work ethic, language, class, and belonging. The “affirmative action” label gave that prejudice socially acceptable language.

The ultimate irony was that universities claimed to form educated people, students trained to read history, reason carefully, and think beyond inherited prejudice. Yet many of those students turned the records of students of color into an accusation: “affirmative action admit.”

Thus while students or colors were admitted to academia, many of their fellow students refused to accept them socially. Every mistake, question, bad grade, or request for help were treated as proof they did not belong. Perfection invited suspicion from other students. That scrutiny added self-doubt, emotional strain, and performance pressure to students already navigating an unfamiliar environment, often as the first in their families to enter those rooms.

Lucia earned her place. The room still forces her to prove it over and over again.

If Lucia’s quiet fight to belong has you waiting for the moment she stops hiding, subscribe for new chapters as they arrive.

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Copyright © 2026 Angelica Thorne

For permission requests, contact angelicathorne@icloud.com.

Lucia called Matteo after Bruno’s violence made hiding impossible. When she broke in Matteo’s arms, restraint stopped feeling simple. By the time the waves filled the silence between them, he understood what he had been trying not to name: this was love, and action would follow.

New to the Serial? Start Here | Need the previous chapter? Chapter 3: Resurrection

Matteo

Seek happiness in sorrow.

~Fyodor Dostoevsky

As Matteo cradled Lucia in his arms, he found it unbelievable that he hadn’t seen he had fallen for her. The warmth of her breath on his neck pulled the past into sharp focus.

He should have seen it in the way he noticed little things about her: the way her curls fell forward as she read, head tilted slightly, a nail between her lips. Whenever she looked up and caught him watching her, something in him faltered. Her dark brown eyes, unblinking, cut through him as if she saw what he’d been trained to conceal.

It was nothing, he told himself, a play of light and timing. But these moments stayed with him. The way she seemed both fragile and unbreakable, a paradox that haunted him. By the end of their freshman year, he enjoyed sitting with her in a corner of the library surrounded by dusty books. He pushed aside the pull of her because he had a girlfriend, one his family claimed to love. A single rule carried him through every hard choice: stay in control or watch his family take the reins again.

A long summer stretched before him. He left for Mallorca at the end of May. Surfing, traveling, even among friends, he couldn’t stop thinking of Lucia sitting at the library, dust motes dancing in the light hitting her face. The growing ache of missing her threaded through everything he did.

Only now did he understand why he had written so many letters from the other side of the world. He began writing to her at the school bookstore because he didn’t even have her home address. His letters were restless, full of parties, cliffs, and distant waves. He told himself the letters were harmless, just summer chatter, but he knew it was more.

Then, after Côte d’Azur, he reeled at the stack of letters waiting for him in Mallorca. Without thinking, he had written the villa as his return address. Laughing at himself, he opened the letters. She didn’t write about her life; she asked questions about the places he’d been and the books he read. Her restraint made him wonder what she was holding back. The way she sometimes flinched as she sat down, the shadows marking her skin, returned to him now.

The letters stayed with him, but so did his family obligations. Mamà gran, his grandmother, leaned forward. “Your girlfriend is an interesting young woman.”

Matteo shrugged, hating the formal dining room when it was just the three of them, but his grandparents insisted. Padrí, his grandfather, had Matteo seated to his right, positioned like heir apparent, as if the title belonged to him rather than his mother.

“Is it customary for a young woman like her to read so many books?”

His blue eyes narrowed, cold and cutting. She wasn’t speaking of Carol, Mamà gran had read Lucia’s correspondence. The breach hit him with unwelcome clarity. For a moment, control slipped, and he crumpled the napkin in his hands.

“Curious.” Her tone was cool and dismissive. “How does one move from Crime and Punishment to Princess Daisy in scarcely a week?”

“She just does.” His voice a blade drawn clean, he added, “Simple as that.” Her judgement of Lucia was also a judgement of him, and it felt like a hand closing around his throat.

Padrí’s eyebrow lifted, a quiet but unmistakable warning. Everyone noticed the bitter tone of his voice, even if they all pretended that years of being treated like a child hadn’t shaped it.

Matteo checked himself. He smiled. It was a polite, forced thing. For the sake of family peace, he had spent the day pretending to love the Balearic and Mediterranean Seas, following the script they kept writing for him.

“Lucia is not my girlfriend.” Saying it out loud sharpened the bitterness of wanting her. He missed the Pacific. But he missed Lucia most. Fuck. For all he knew, she was dating someone in the barrio. He would find out.

“If you can’t manage a little girl, how will you handle a woman?” Padrí’s expectation, complete mastery, absolute control, pressed down on him.

Matteo’s jaw tightened, the only sign of tension as he pulled himself back under control. “I’ve never been interested in little girls.”

Padrí’s smile thinned. He’d lived under his grandfather’s expectations all of his life, even the smallest action a lesson that control was the only acceptable form of manhood. Matteo knew he’d pay for his sidestep, but his thoughts kept returning to Lucia.

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Author’s note

A friendship Matteo thought he had kept at the edge of his life turns on him. He thinks naming the truth gives him control. It only proves how long the truth has been moving without him.

He looks back and sees the evidence: the letters, the restlessness, the way Lucia stayed with him even when distance should have made forgetting easy.

That matters because Matteo comes from a family where love often arrives with expectation, privacy is negotiable, and manhood means mastery.

His feelings for Lucia do not fit that script. He does not want to manage her, possess her, or turn her pain into proof that he matters.

But wanting her compels him to ask a question that was already answered for him: what kind of man does he want to be?

If Matteo’s feelings for Lucia have you wondering what he’ll risk next, subscribe for new chapters as they arrive.

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Copyright © 2026 Angelica Thorne

For permission requests, contact angelicathorne@icloud.com.

Lucia Perez lives in a house where anger is excused, silence is expected, and survival means staying small. She keeps her head down, studies hard, and holds on to one fragile hope: that education might be her way out.

Set in 1980s San Diego, Beneath the Weight of Water follows Lucia as she navigates family pressure, prejudice at school, and the quiet negotiations required to stay afloat. Then Matteo enters her life: wealthy, Spanish, and impossible for Lucia to understand without risking more than she is ready to admit. He looks like escape but may be another kind of danger.

This is a story about love, class, culture, survival, and what it costs to make your life your own when no choice comes without loss.

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Beneath the Weight of Water is free to read. Paid subscriptions are optional support for future chapters, illustrations, and the long work of keeping the story alive.

Chapters

Upcoming Chapters

Chapter 10 — Her Sin
June 20, 2026

Chapter 11 — Dignity Recall
July 4, 2026

Chapter 12 — Not a Bird
July 18, 2026

Chapter 13 — Uncharted Waters
August 1, 2026

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Copyright © 2026 Angelica Thorne

For permission requests, contact angelicathorne@icloud.com.

Bruno’s violence pushed Lucia past the silence that had kept her trapped. Abuela excused him, the house turned against her, and Lucia did the one thing she had been trained not to do: she called Matteo. Leaving did not make her safe yet. It only made the bruise visible.

New to the Serial? Start Here | Need the previous chapter? Chapter 2: A Step out of the Dark

Matteo

And whoever saves a life, it is considered as if he saved an entire world.

~Mishnah Sanhedrin 4:5

Matteo flexed his fingers, released them, then gripped the leather-wrapped steering wheel again. He drew a slow breath and he let it go even slower. Stillness thickened between them, heavy with everything he didn’t say. Self-control was something his grandfather expected, but Matteo had perfected it far beyond what his family imagined.

Even so, something about Lucia’s presence had always unsettled him. And now, the sight of her pain pushed hard against his discipline.

The fresh welts on her skin spoke of a coward’s rage. A violation of her. A violation of her dignity. A violation of basic humanity. Unacceptable. Unforgivable.

He forced his breath into a steady rhythm, jaw set, shoulders locked, his pulse refusing to speed up. She had done what he’d asked; she had called. Finally.

He remembered the moment she’d climbed into the car, her posture folding inward. Her shoulders were tense; her limbs were rigid. He recognized that tight, contained stillness. She was holding herself together by inches.

Ice. A gas station emerged ahead, its blue canopy sharp against the heat-hazed asphalt. He pulled in and returned minutes later with an ice pack.

As he handed it to her, their fingers brushed for a heartbeat. The thought of taking her hand rose unbidden, but she avoided touch in moments like this. Which was why he pulled back, protecting the trust between them. She opened her eyes, set the ice pack on her cheek, and said nothing. He gave her space, remembering how often he longed for the same from his family.

He drove toward the coast because she loved long drives. The salt breeze slipped through the window, easing the tension in her face. Above the cliffs, seagulls drifted in slow, weightless arcs. Surfers cut clean lines through the swells. A horn blared from the opposite lane, dragging him out of his thoughts.

The car came to rest beneath the yellow light of a street lamp at Torrey Pines Beach. Lucia’s eyes fluttered open and met his. She looked small, wary, as if expecting another blow.

Something inside him broke, and it forced him to draw a ragged breath. He felt the urge to make empty promises, but he knew too well the betrayal in hollow words. His doctors and family had made countless promises, but none had spared him from what came next.

He stepped out, fingers curled at his side for a moment. The salty breeze filled his lungs, and he let out a sigh. When he opened her door, her whole body went taut, as if, in a breath, the space between them could tilt from safety to danger. He knew she might pull away, yet she needed steadiness more than distance. She allowed him to help her out of the car, uncertainty shadowing her face.

She bit her lip. Her breath snagged, a tremor undoing her before sobs ripped through her, wracking her body. Heat flooded his chest as her breath hitched against his collarbone, pulling him back into his own skin. It wasn’t fear. He had felt this kind of exhaustion, the kind carried by someone who stood strong for far too long. His arms tightened around her, steadying them both.

“Abuela doesn’t love me,” she managed between broken sobs. “She only took me because of Johnny… because she couldn’t have him otherwise.”

He held her while truths broke loose, one by one. Her fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt, her breath hot and uneven, as though he were her lifeline.

“I look like him!” She jerked away from him, crossing her arms as if she were throwing her armor back on. Yet she looked like a gust could topple her. “Abuela doesn’t love me because she sees him whenever she looks at me.”

“Lucia.” His voice was warm, steady, even though his chest ached. He had learned to conceal his weakness, but he still lived in a body that had turned traitor, stealing ballet and the future he’d trained for his entire life. A rush of helplessness cinched his ribs as he raked his fingers through his hair.

“My father! I look like my father.” She forced the words out between raw, broken sobs. “I’m just a breathing, living scar. A reminder of her loss. And the man she blames for her daughter’s death.”

Her weight folded into him, and the shock stole his breath. The trust in her emotional surrender landed harder than he was ready for.

“You are not alone. Not today, not tomorrow. Not ever.” The rawness in his words tightened something low in his chest, revealing a truth he wasn’t ready to examine.

Step by step, he steadied her from the parking lot to the beach. He lowered himself onto the sand and guided her onto his lap. The moment his body settled around her, he felt it. This was too far. He knew it. His body knew it.

The rhythmic crashing of the waves filled the silence. No rush, no words. Breathing in the heat of her body, he felt younger than he wanted to be. Unprepared. He wished he were wiser and knew what to do. Tightening his arms around her, he pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.

All summer he had written her restless letters he should not have sent, then read her responses until the paper thinned. He had told himself it was nothing. He had a girlfriend. Friends with benefits who made no demands. A family that asked for too much.

Infatuation, he understood. Desire, he could sate. This was a want so strong, it became a surrender. Desperate. Unforgivable. Irrevocable. Love. The moment he admitted his feelings, he knew he couldn’t tolerate silence. Action would follow, and the thought of it scraped at the edges of his composure.

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Author’s note

In the 1980s, no social media threads, constant essays, or shared public language taught young men about healthy masculinity, boundaries, emotional responsibility, or how to help without taking charge.

Family, community, faith, class, and whatever version of manhood their surroundings rewarded shaped much of what they understood about masculinity.

That matters in this chapter because Matteo sees Lucia hurt, and he wants to help. But he believes helping her should not mean taking possession of her choices.

Matteo does not have a script for this kind of care. He does not know how to help her yet. He only knows he must not make Lucia’s pain about himself.

If Matteo’s restraint has you watching for what he can no longer hide, subscribe for new chapters as they arrive.

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Copyright © 2026 Angelica Thorne

For permission requests, contact angelicathorne@icloud.com.

Lucia kept quiet because it was supposed to keep the house from turning on her. Bruno remained dangerous, Abuela looked away, and by the end of the afternoon, Lucia understood the rule more clearly than ever: in that house, the truth was the problem.

New to the Serial? Start Here | Need the previous chapter? Chapter 1: Shattered Soul

Content note: This chapter contains graphic domestic violence and verbal abuse.

Lucia

A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

~Lao Tzu (Tao Te Ching, 6th century BCE)

Uncle Bruno’s boots hit the floor, and the vibrations crawled up Lucia’s legs, stoking the fire in her gut. It was always hardest before the first blow.

“What the fuck did you just say to me, bitch?” Each word hit like shrapnel against her skull.

Cold sweat skated down her spine as she braced for the blow. Panic collapsed into an unspoken prayer. Oh, God, help me! Please…

Heat seared another welt into her skin. Pain drowned out the sound of dishes shattering on the floor. The belt was all she knew. Breath failed her, but no sound escaped. The air reeked of sweat and fear.

He yanked her ponytail, and her body jerked like a puppet on his hand. Pain tore down her neck. Her knees nearly buckled. Stupid! I should’ve kept my hair short.

Tears spurred his rage. Screams made his strike harder. She gripped the counter, refusing to fall. No, no! Stay up! If you fall, he will kick you!

He dug his hand into her curls and yanked her face close. A wet glob struck her cheek, sour with spittle. “You’re nothing! School won’t change that! You’ll always be nothing, like your stupid mother!”

Biting back her cries, she closed her eyes and let the pain crash through her. Matteo’s steady voice rose in her memory, and her breath anchored to it. She bit her lip hard; the sharp tang of blood curdled in her stomach. Yet hope flickered, a small pulse beneath the pain, hinting that she wouldn’t always have to keep silent.

Abuela’s wail pierced the room. She tried to turn her faith in her son’s decency into reality.

As if that mattered when the belt bit Lucia’s cheek and he sneered. His pleasure sent more bile up her throat. She swayed, but kept her feet beneath her, battered but unbroken. Refusing his stare, she told herself that her degree would free her.

He stopped as suddenly as he had started. She braced against the wall, breath uneven as the room spun. Silence frayed, as threadbare as her thin hand-me-downs.

“You’ll never learn, huh? Useless bitch!” he spat. “If it wasn’t for us, you’d be rotting in Mexico!” He slammed the front door on his way out.

Her legs gave out, dropping her onto the cold linoleum. She bit the back of her hand to stifle her cries, in case her uncle returned. One day, there would be no knots.

Her memory returned to Matteo, the one place she always found comfort. She hadn’t meant for him to slip past her defenses. He waited out her silences, saved her a chair, found books that spoke to her. When he looked at her, she couldn’t believe the worst about herself. She was safe, because someone like him would never want someone like her.

“I need things to change,” he’d said when the term began. The line replayed in her head. His restlessness clear, although its cause stayed hidden.

It unsettled her with a tension she mistook for her own. The gap between knowing and doing stretched wider each day, like searching the long Dewey Decimal drawers, until the cards blurred and the title slipped away. At least in the library stacks, the yellowed pages curled around her until the world thinned and she was free of it.

Matteo felt at home there, too. He loved the library as much as she did, treating the old, neglected books like treasures. Her intelligence never rattled him. He welcomed it, took her feedback, rewriting without hesitation. In return, he tightened her grammar and cut the clutter from her drafts.

Working with him, she could almost believe she wasn’t the stupidest of the smartest students. She wished someone would treat her with the same care he gave his favorite books. Maybe she could find a husband with his personality and his affinity for books.

When he shared his love of classical music, he became her door to Narnia. Chopin’s sweet melodies calmed the chaos in her mind. But Franz Liszt’s compositions left her unsteady. Listening to Liszt: Liebestraum No. 3, she felt his passion, raw, unapologetic, too close to emotions she didn’t want to feel.

As kind as Matteo was, she couldn’t shake the feeling that leaning on him was trespassing. He had a girlfriend. Yet he had become the air she gulped when she was drowning. Her family didn’t do crutches. You just toughed it out or pretended it wasn’t that bad.

“He’s under so much pressure,” Abuela whispered, clutching her Virgin of Guadalupe medallion. “Pain is temporary, but family is forever.”

Each lie sliced jagged through her. She realized Abuela’s loyalty had nothing to do with love, but only with survival, even if it was Lucia who always paid the price.

She shut out the excuses and felt herself give up on her grandmother for the first time in her life. Fear did not heal bruises, and excuses never stopped fists.

Abuela’s eyes, sharp and accusing, pinned her. They were all supposed to stop Bruno before he exploded. To fail was to invite blame. Abuela’s lips parted, but she said nothing.

A spark cut through Lucia’s despair. She held Abuela’s gaze. Not in defiance, but in quiet determination.

Abuela never asked her if she was strong. She simply expected it, always telling her, “Any woman worth her salt, can do anything she needs to do.”

She had to be strong. Not for her family, but for herself. It hit her then. That wasn’t given. It was claimed. She wiped the blood from her lips and slipped away to her room.

Almost as soon as Lucia eased onto her bed, Abuela began knocking at the door. The blanket pressed fire into her welts. She clenched her fists, fighting her tears.

The knocking became louder. Every nerve screamed for escape, but she had nowhere to go. At Penelope’s house, her mom would soak the welts in arnica and Lucia would see the pity in her eyes. Ellie was a worse option. Lucia had overheard her sneer, “a train wreck waiting to happen.” She fought the despair pressing hard on her chest.

Matteo had told her to call anytime. The rotary clicked beneath her fingers, but Catholic guilt gnawed at her ribs. She dropped the receiver. Then, she heard Abuela and Doña Cuca, her best friend, plotting in the kitchen. They would wring an apology out of her.

“Hello.” His voice was soft and reassuring.

Sobs tore through her plea. “Can… can you come get me?”

“Where are you?” Concern tightened his voice. “I’m on my way.”

She did not need to be rescued. Relief sliced clean through her doubts. She was choosing safety. “Home… you said I could call you.”

“I’ll be at the usual place in twenty minutes.” Urgency now edged his voice.

She pushed her hair back, fingers grazing the welt on her cheek, and hissed. There would be no hiding that bruise.

“Sooner. I promise.” His urgency tipped into panic.

She took off her shoes and barefoot crept past the kitchen to the bathroom. Her knees almost buckled at the sight of the angry red welt on her face. If the world saw it, so be it. Trying to steady herself, she began the chant that had gotten her through so many dark moments: “I’m a sister, a granddaughter, a woman, a student, a person. My uncle does not define me.”

The whole barrio had heard Abuela’s wails. It wasn’t the first time Lucia had dealt with their darting eyes and trailing whispers. But this was the first time she was refusing to play along with her abuse being called her family’s private business.

She cracked the bathroom door open and slipped back to her room. Her decision made, she grabbed her backpack and hurried out the front door before anyone could stop her. “I’ll be back late.”

An escape was never really possible. Outside, Ellie stood, immaculate in a navy suit. Guilt shadowed her features as she moved toward Lucia.

Jealousy knotted her stomach. Not now. Not her. Ellie had everything: beauty, doting parents, a perfect life. If she came near, Lucia would scream. Don’t act like you’re sorry! I know how you really feel!

Her jaw clenched, but she swallowed the words and walked away. A good person wouldn’t think this. With every painful step, guilt coiled tighter.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered to her ever-silent God. “I let you down again.”

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At what point does loyalty to family become a betrayal of yourself?

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Author’s note

This chapter belongs to 1985 San Diego, when calling the police did not mean the danger left with them.

State guidelines encouraged arrest when there was reasonable cause, but misdemeanor arrest usually depended on the offense happening in the officer’s presence. If the violence happened outside an officer’s presence and did not rise to a felony, the burden could fall back on the victim.

Even if officers arrested Bruno, he would not stay gone. California’s arraignment rule used a 48-hour timeline, excluding Sundays and holidays, and release could come sooner depending on booking, bail, or procedure.

Then the City Attorney’s office would call domestic violence victims and ask whether they wanted prosecution. If they said no, prosecutors dropped the charges.

That question sounds simple only if you ignore the context surrounding it.

If he came home, the violence would not reset.

It would remember.

If Lucia’s choice has you wondering what it will cost her, subscribe for new chapters as they arrive.

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Copyright © 2026 Angelica Thorne

For permission requests, contact angelicathorne@icloud.com.

Whoever destroys a soul, it is considered as if he destroyed an entire world.

~Mishnah Sanhedrin 4:5

Lucia’s shoulders ached as she scrubbed the dishes. Each stroke forced back the sour burn in her throat. The smoky scent of her uncle’s carne asada turned her stomach.

“My baby is the best-looking girl in the family!” Uncle Bruno beamed, holding up a photo of his daughter, Olivia, to his mother. But as he looked up, his eyes pinned his niece, fragile as a butterfly impaled in place.

A plate slipped through her fingers and clanked against the sink. Her breath hitched, then steadied. She scrubbed on, remembering the fading bruise on her thigh. She plunged her hands under the suds to hide the tremor. With them beneath the cold water, she could pretend she wasn’t there at all. Keep busy. Stay quiet.

“Only you are better looking, viejita linda.” His words slid out, slick and hollow, a lie no one dared challenge.

Abuela smirked as her manicured fingers smoothed a wrinkle from the embroidered calla lilies on her dress, the same way she glossed over her son’s outbursts, his gambling, his drinking. She could pretend it was all fine. Except when it came to Lucia. Never enough. Always the same question: Why can’t you be more like your cousin?

“Stupid bitch! What’s taking you so long?” His voice slammed into Lucia, heavy and sudden.

She gripped the scouring pad until its fibers bit into her skin. Cold sweat slid between her shoulders. If Abuela ignored the insult, Lucia knew she was supposed to ignore it too.

Her voice wavered, her knuckles turned white. “I’m done with the dishes.”

The chair groaned under his weight. His rage tore the breath from her lungs. Past and present folded together. Accepted to college, then his fists. Bruises blooming. Not again. Her stomach clenched hard, a deep twist that meant she couldn’t stop the memories from assailing her. Scholarship, bones snapping. Her breath hitched, and her vision blurred. With Abuela and her uncle, each breath teetered at the cliff’s edge. The sink held her up, but the floor still tilted beneath her. Other families probably had the same problems, she thought, but didn’t believe it.

The tension in the house had become unbearable, her mind clawed for anything that would soften the edges of her terror. She hid in her memory of Matteo reading aloud. She borrowed the calm of the moment, not the boy who made it happen. His velvet-low tone curled with the soft hiss of his Castilian lisp. Nothing like her uncle’s jagged bark. Matteo’s voice loosened the knots in her chest. But, it was only a lifeline, not a place where she could rest. She pulled back before the memory could drift anywhere else.

His voice sliced through the room. “What do you mean, I can’t have any money? I’m your son. You owe me because you married that bastard.”

Fear coiled low in Lucia’s gut, tight, because she knew what was coming. He’d leave empty-handed. Property taxes loomed this quarter. The kitchen closed around her, but she kept scrubbing.

Once he left, Abuela’s guilt trip would start: “If you really cared about this family, you’d stop wasting time at that school and get a full-time job. It’s your fault I can’t help your uncle.”

She let out a thin grunt, and swallowed it before it became a protest. Then, nothing. She had stepped on a land mine. Lungs locked, she froze, awaiting the blast. Sometimes, survival meant letting the pain wash over her. Words only made things worse. She would lock her voice away. Her silence would have to save her.

Thank you for reading the first chapter of

Beneath the Weight of Water.

What do you think Lucia will do when silence stops protecting her?

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Author’s note

When I wrote this chapter, I kept thinking about how much work silence does inside an abusive home.

Lucia knows every word can make the room more dangerous. So she scrubs the dishes and hides her shaking hands in the water. She keeps moving because stillness might draw attention, and attention is rarely safe.

Bruno is the danger in the room. Abuela’s silence lets him stay dangerous. By ignoring what he says and does, she teaches Lucia the family rule: endure, keep quiet, and do not make the truth inconvenient.

People learn that kind of silence. They learn the fear beneath it, too.

If Lucia’s silence has you leaning in, subscribe for new chapters as they arrive.

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Copyright © 2026 Angelica Thorne

For permission requests, contact angelicathorne@icloud.com.

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,

And I dropped down, and down—

And hit a World, at every plunge,

And Finished knowing—then—

~Emily Dickson

Poem #93 (“I felt a Funeral, in my Brain”)

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Copyright © 2026 Angelica Thorne

For permission requests, contact angelicathorne@icloud.com.

This story begins in a kitchen where silence keeps the peace and hiding in plain sight is a skill you pick up young. Lucia knows how to survive her family. She has not yet learned how to choose herself. Beneath the Weight of Water asks what happens when survival is no longer enough.

If you want to follow Lucia’s story,

new chapters are published every other Saturday.