Novel-novel oleh Cynthia Arizmendez

I survived because I found strength in the small things - my grandmother’s quiet hugs, my siblings’ laughter, the way the moonlight filtered through the trees and reminded me that Selene was still watching. I survived because even when I wanted to give up, there was a voice inside me that whispered: Not yet. Not like this. You are more than what he did to you. I am not what he did to me. I am not the silence he forced me to keep. I am not his crime. I am still here, scarred but not broken.“We didn’t find what I wanted at the store,” he’d say when we got home, and I would nod, pretending it was true. Pretending was easier than facing the truth. Pretending kept the house quiet. He would tell me to go shower and get ready for bedtime, as though the night had been ordinary, as though nothing had happened.But fear had been stitched into me like a second skin, tightening with every word he spoke. It clung to me in the silence between us, in the echo of his footsteps, in the knowledge that

Slowly, I would gather myself back together. Piece by piece, I coaxed back the part of me that had fled, the part of me that split away to survive. I had become an expert at disassociation by then, slipping out of my body while he took what was never his to take. In those moments, I learned how to build walls inside myself – all surrounding a beachfront getaway with a beautiful sunset where he could never reach me, even if he held my body in his hands. I was creating a safe space before I even knew what it was.And when it was over, when he sang and smiled and pretended, I pulled those walls back in, brick by brick, hiding the broken pieces of me behind them. He might have fooled the world with his mask, but I knew the truth. I carried it inside me like a brand, burning and unrelenting.For years, I thought I had to carry those moments in silence. I thought if I didn’t speak of them, maybe they wouldn’t be real. Maybe I could bury them deep enough that they wouldn’t rise again. But si

Even so, light persisted. Out of all my cousins and siblings, most broke free from the shadows that had once bound us. They carved lives of happiness, far from the echoes of fear and pain that had haunted our childhood. Weddings, laughter, achievements - seeing them thrive became a quiet beacon, a reminder that survival was not the end of the story. It gave me hope. Hope that I too could rise. That I could learn to wield my powers without fear. That I could shape a life truly my own, one not dictated by abuse, expectation, or the weight of ancient bloodlines.It was in those same temples, nestled in the shadow of towering ancient trees and weathered stone walls, that I began to understand the true weight of responsibility I carried. The air smelled of earth, rain-soaked stone, and incense, thick with the promise of magic waiting to be shaped. Birds called from high branches, their songs threading through the chants of my instructors. Even the wind seemed alive, whispering secrets as i

It was in the temple that my aunts first encountered witches and warlocks, learning the ways of magic under their guidance. These natural-born practitioners were patient and wise in ways that the adults in our lives never were. Their presence was at once calming and electric, like the silence just before a storm - alive with the promise of knowledge, of power, of secrets hidden in the folds of the world.The air hummed with potential; faint scents of herbs, incense, and something indefinable, like the tang of lightning on stone, drifted through the hallways. Candles flickered, casting shadows that danced across carved symbols etched into the walls, symbols that seemed to pulse subtly, as though aware of our attention.My aunts, and eventually we children, were not born with innate magical abilities. Magic did not flow through our veins as a gift to wield at will; it had to be earned. Every lesson was painstaking. We learned to still our minds, to listen with more than our ears, to sen

It was heartbreaking to learn all of this as an adult. To us, our grandfather had always seemed kind and gentle - a figure of calm authority and measured words. His voice never rose in anger with us, his eyes always soft when he leaned down to hear our childish chatter or make jokes to make us laugh. He smelled of cedarwood and pipe smoke, and in his presence, I felt protected, even cherished. Only later did I learn that this gentleness was not given freely to all.My grandmother - my sweet Luna - was the opposite of his hidden cruelty. She radiated light, warmth, and care in a way that felt almost supernatural, a rare refuge amid the shadows of our pack. Her hands always smelled faintly of cinnamon, her skirts carrying the scent of wildflowers and hearth smoke. She was the kind of woman who smiled despite the pain, who held us close when the world outside felt unrelenting. Her lap was the safest place I knew. Even as a child, I sensed her strength, though I did not yet have the words

At first, there were only two of us. I am the oldest of my siblings. Two daughters, born a year apart - Naomi and me. One dark-skinned – me. One fair skinned. This is a big deal to my mom’s family – of course making me a black sheep. We were always dressed neatly, always well-fed, always presented as though we were the jewels of the household. To anyone outside, we looked like blessings - healthy, bright-eyed, and thriving. But survival is not always visible in the shine of a child’s hair, the cleanliness of her skin, nor the neatness of her dress.We each found our own ways to endure. I was the nerd, always lost in books. I devoured stories with a hunger that had nothing to do with curiosity and everything to do with escape. Between the pages of fairy tales and legends, I could breathe in worlds that were not my own, where monsters were slain, heroes rose, and endings could be rewritten. The words became my refuge, the only places where the horrors of my real life could not follow. E