Chapter 6 — The Cold Water of Truths

Gracias

I think I slept. Yes. But not really. Not the way one sleeps when at peace or recovering.

I slept because my body simply couldn't take any more.

Like a wounded animal fading out, little by little, in a corner.

Stretched out on the hard couch, covered with an old blanket that smells of damp, legs curled up, I sank. Mouth dry. Tears congealed at the edges of my eyes.

No dreams. No respite. Only that constant presence in my temples: the sound of their pleasure.

In my bedroom. Their moans. The bed creaking. The panting. The sexual insults cracking like whiplashes.

"Harder."

"You see, she doesn't even know how to do that."

"My real wife is you."

I don't cover my ears.

I listen. To the end. To the point of nausea. To the point of numbness.

I don't cry anymore. That would be too undignified.

I just want to disappear.

I wondered, lying there, if I bore some share of responsibility. If I was to blame for letting the pain settle in without ever disturbing it. If I had, somewhere along the way, authorized others to trample me in silence.

Perhaps. Perhaps I was too docile. Too kind. Too transparent.

But not this morning.

The morning did not wake me gently. It gutted me.

I barely have time to lift my head before the door slams. A silhouette rushes toward me.

My husband's mother, arriving with her heels and her heady perfume. She is furious, and I don't know why.

"You're still here, you filthy beggar?"

I want to answer, but my throat is dry. I'm not ready. My body is still in pieces.

"You didn't understand, did you?"

And a full bucket of ice-cold water hits me square in the face.

My heart skips a beat. I choke. I suffocate. I cling to the couch so as not to fall. My hair sticks to my skin. My pajamas become a cold shroud. The room stinks of cheap soap, humiliation, and vengeance.

She looks down at me.

"I've been dreaming of this moment for three years. Three years I've put up with your sad face, your lack of class, your bland cooking, your empty belly. Oh, forgive me — now it's full?"

She laughs cruelly.

"You think a child will change anything? Even your baby doesn't deserve to have a wreck like you for a mother."

I clench my fists. I want to scream. But I don't even have that left.

"Gather your rags and get out. You're finished. You are OUT. Even your husband doesn't want you anymore. He told me last night while he was fucking YOUR SISTER. And you know what? She, at least, doesn't scream like a corpse."

She throws the empty bucket at my feet. The water slowly seeps under the couch.

I am soaked. And trembling with rage.

I stand a little too fast. My head spins. I cling to the wall so as not to fall.

I go upstairs like a thief. I grab my bag. A few clothes. A clean pair of underwear. My phone. Nothing else. I forget my jewelry, my books, my memories.

I forget my life.

I pass the hallway mirror.

I stop there. I look at myself. And I don't recognize myself.

Disheveled hair. Red eyes with deep dark circles.

I look like a stranger.

A stranger who has been soiled. Disfigured by blows of indifference and betrayal.

I walk past our bedroom. The door is ajar.

I glance in. My sister sleeps, naked, on top of my husband.

He still wears his wedding ring. She still has my perfume on her skin.

They sleep. They almost laugh in their sleep. They are so peaceful.

And I am the ghost.

I go down. I don't slam the door. I don't even deserve that crash.

Outside, the rain lashes me. A mocking drizzle, continuous, as if the sky too wanted to humiliate me one last time.

I don't know where to go.

I walk without knowing where. Barefoot. Clothes wet.

I'm cold. I'm hungry. I'm afraid.

And suddenly… I stop.

I take the paper from my pocket. The card.

His initial. His number.

The man from the bar.

The stranger with the calm eyes.

The one I told everything to.

The one who listened to me.

The one who, in my blackest night, lit a candle.

I stare at the card. I tremble. My thumb hesitates.

Then I open my phone.

I type the number.

My finger hangs suspended for a second.

And I press Call.

One ring. Two. Three.

"Yes?"

His voice is steady. Clear. A winter breath.

I swallow.

I close my eyes.

And I speak.

"It's Gracias."

Silence. Then, more softly:

"I'm listening."

I press the phone against my ear the way one squeezes a hand.

I breathe. Once. Twice.

"I accept."

Silence.

"The bargain. I… your proposal. Whatever you want. I'll do it."

He doesn't answer right away. He asks me nothing. He doesn't laugh. He doesn't set conditions.

Then, simply:

"Give me your address. I'm coming to get you."

And for the first time in a long time, I feel something rise in my throat. It isn't tears. It's a breath.

Perhaps a beginning.