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.
Then, it hit her. It was the start of the month. Abuela’s retirement check had arrived. Her uncle was circling like a vulture, ready to pick it bare.
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.
Next Chapter: 2. A Step out of the Dark
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