Chapter 10
Lying in my bed, I stare up at my blank ceiling. My mama was called when Penelope sent me to the office to be picked up, and she came. Dad still doesn't know about my 'experience', and mama, Lucía, and I don't plan to tell him.
Mama picked Lucía up, to, and she's watching a movie in the lounge, while I lie up here silently, alone in my own thoughts.
The black mist hasn't returned. It's almost as though it senses it's done enough.
But I know it will be back.
Just not today. Not now.
I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. Someone knocks on the door.
'Can me come in?' I hear mama say.
'Si.' I reply. She comes in, and sits on the bed.
'Mija, you OK? I am worried... about you? For you?' I smile a weak smile.
'They're both right.' I say, aware that I am dodging the question
'Mija, you avoid question.'
I take a deep breath, and sigh. I am not OK. Not even close.
"But what if she judges me?"
But she wouldn't. She's nice...
"Are you sure? You can never be sure..."
No, I can trust mama.
So I blurt it out before this evil voice can interrupt me.
'No.' I say, and shock crosses her face. I'm sure she thought I would pretend I was OK. But I can't fake it anymore.
'Mija, can me help?'
'I don't know, mama.' I say.
'¿Me puedes decir que es lo que pasó? ¿Eso ayudará?'
(Can you tell me what happened? Will that help?)
And in that moment, I make my choice.
Mama deserves to know.
So I take a deep breath, and tell her everything.
''Toda mi vida, he sentido que nunca fui lo suficientemente bueno. Estaba bien cuando vivíamos en México: hablaba el idioma, me parecía similar a todos, no sentía que me juzgaran. Tal vez eso fue solo porque era más joven, pero recuerdo sentirme inocente. Sentirse libre.
Pero cuando nos mudamos a Australia... nos mudamos aquí... empeoró. Tal vez porque yo era mayor. Pero también porque me veía diferente. Y lo que papá dice sobre mí comenzó a asimilarse. Y comenzó el odio hacia uno mismo. Nueve años.
No es tu culpa. No quiero que sientas que lo es. Te amo. El problema es... que no creo que le guste a papá.
Ser constantemente comparada con Lucía me pasó factura. Papá me comparaba constantemente. Diciendo que no era lo suficientemente bueno. Durante los últimos cinco años.
Y luego te fuiste. No es tu culpa, no te culpo. Solo que, cuando estabas fuera, papá empeoró. No estabas ahí, y sentí que Lucía me odiaba. Como si papá me odiara. Como si todos me odiaran.
Hace unas semanas, algo comenzó en mi cerebro. Yo lo llamo la niebla negra. Todavía está allí todo el tiempo. Sólo a veces, toma el control. Sin embargo, empeoró. A veces, ni siquiera podía recordar lo que se siente ser feliz.
Y hoy... estos cortes en mi brazo... son autolesiones. Me odié a mí mismo hoy. Sentí que merecía el dolor. Te mostraría, pero... No puedo quitarme el vendaje. Y... pensé que merecías saberlo. Pero por favor no le digas a papá.'
(My whole life, I've felt like I was never good enough. It was OK when we were living in Mexico- I spoke the language, I looked similar to everyone, I didn't feel like I was being judged. Maybe that was just because I was younger, but I remember feeling innocent. Feeling free.
But when we moved to Australia...moved here... it got worse. Maybe because I was older. But also because I looked different. And what dad says about me started to sink in. And the self hatred began. Aged nine.
It's not your fault. I don't want you to feel like it is. I love you. The problem is... I don't think dad likes me.
Being constantly compared to Lucia took its toll on me. Dad was constantly comparing me. Saying I wasn't good enough. For the last five years.
And then you left. It's not your fault- I don't blame you. Just, when you were away, dad got worse. You weren't there, and it felt like Lucia hated me. Like dad hated me. Like everyone hated me.
A few weeks ago, something started in my brain. I call it the black mist. It's still there all the time. Just sometimes, it takes over. It got worse, though. Sometimes, I couldn't even remember what it feels like to be happy.
And today... these cuts on my arm... they're self harm. I hated myself today. I felt like I deserved the pain. I would show you, but... I can't take the bandage off. And... I just thought you deserve to know. But please don't tell dad.)
Mama looks at me, sympathy in her eyes. But not the bad kind. Like she's truly trying to understand.
'Mija, no le diré a papá. Él no merece saberlo.'
(Darling, I won't tell dad. He doesn't deserve to know.)
She hugs me, and I remember just how amazing mama is. Just how much I missed her. So I hug her back.
6:30. Dad's almost home. I take a deep breath. Mama told me I could stay upstairs if I wanted to. I told her I wouldn't let him control me anymore.
I'm sitting on the couch, trying to look casual, while I'm freaking out inside.
Dad doesn't know what he did to me. And if he did, in his eyes, it wouldn't be his fault. He probably wouldn't even feel bad. He would think it was my fault. Because in his eyes, nothing is ever his fault. Not possible. Because he's so obviously perfect.
Until you know him.
I tense when I hear the door open, and see him walk through the door. Mama's eyes sharpen, and from my spot on the couch, I can see every last dagger she sends his way, from her eyes.
'Maria! So nice to see you!' he says, as if the last time we saw him, he didn't slam the door on mama's face, leaving her in tears, and Lucía and I confused, and scared.
He sweeps her up in a hug, and I watch her stiffen. Either, he doesn't notice, or he doesn't care.
As soon as she can, she disentangles herself, and escapes back to the kitchen.
'Dinner is ready!' she says.
Dad is already at the table, and as I sit down, I place my cup next to my plate. A small movement, but it sets him off.
'Jesus, couldn't smash it any harder if you tried!' he says angrily. I sit down meekly, and lower my head.
I raise it again in shock, when, for the first time, Lucía sticks up for me.
'God, dad, just leave her alone, would you? Do you actually enjoy making your youngest child feel bad about herself? Because, guess what, dad? Goal achieved. Leave her alone. I'm sick of you bullying her.'
Dad looks at Lucía. Anger fills his frame instead of guilt. It annoys me so much.
'Go to your room, Lucía. No dinner. You can go hungry tonight, for all I care. Show you what you deserve. You too, Sofía. Now, María, give me my goddamn dinner.'
Lucía doesn't move. I don't move. Mama doesn't move. And I can practically see the steam coming out of dad's ears.
'You will go to your rooms, Lucía and Sofía, you ungrateful little brats. I've worked so hard for this family, and this is how you repay me? Sofía, I always knew you were like this, but Lucía? You're better than this. She- she's influenced you. And María.' He turns to mama. 'It's all your fault. You weren't a good enough mother. I bet it's your fault that Sofía has turned out like this. I'm sick of you. I'm sick of all of you.'
I watch mama bristle.
'No, it is not me fault. You are an... away father. I am one in house, doing all work. You do not blame me.'
Then she unleashes a stream of angry Spanish at him for the second time this week, to fast for even me and Lucía to understand.
Lucía and I collect our plates, and go up to her room. Once I've eaten my dinner- well, as much as I can stomach- we watch a Netflix movie on her laptop.
I fiddle with my bandage. Lucía notices, and pauses the movie.
'Can you take it off yet?' she asks.
'Yeah, I think so.' I reply in a small voice.
"But do you really want her to see? She'll hate you... realise how much of a freak you really are."
I banish the evil voice along with the black mist to the back of my brain.
Slowly, I tear the bandage off my wrist. It hurts, but I do it.
Lucía and I stare at the cuts I made myself.
A drop of water lands on the cut. It stings. I look up. Lucía is crying.
'Lucía, it's OK.' I say.
'No, it's not.' she replies. 'God, I hate him so much. He thinks he can get away with doing this to you...'
'Shhh.' I reply. 'It's alright. I'm getting better.'
And I give her a hug.
And we hug tighter and closer as dad's shouts echo up from below us.
'Promise me you'll try to get better.' says Lucía. 'That sounded rude- but- I love you. Please.'
I sniffle.
'I promise' I say. 'I promise, I promise, I promise.'
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