"Am not," I mumbled though I was. He had a way of keeping his hands busy, like he was always preparing for something bigger, something we both knew would never come.
The sound of a slammed door cracked through the evening quiet. My stomach twisted. I didn't have to look to know who it was.
"¡Diana!"
My father's slurred voice sent ice through my veins.
I turned just as he staggered onto the porch, his stained shirt barely covering his bloated stomach. Felipe Mendez was a monster–mean when he was sober, worse when he wasn't. And today judging by the way he swayed his feet, he was far from sober.
"¡Diana! !Ven aquí ahora mismo, maldita parra!"
(Diana! Come here right now, You damn bitch!)
Andrés tensed beside me. "I should go," he murmured, slipping his pocket knife back into his pocket. I hated how he never met my eyes when he said it, hated how he never stayed when things got bad.
I swallowed hard and forced myself to stand. "Go."
Felipe's eyes locked on me the moment I stepped forward. He reeked of alcohol and something rotten, something worse than sweat. Before I could react, his hand lashed out, cracking against my cheek. Stars burst behind my eyes, and the taste of blood filled my mouth.
"¡Meldita perra como tu Madre! Solo sirves para abrir las piernas, ¿Verdad?" (Damn whore like your mother! You're only good for spreading your legs, right?)
He grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked me towards the house. My scalp burned, but I didn't scream. I never screamed. It only made things worse. My mother wasn't home. No one was. No one ever was when I needed them.
I stumbled as he dragged me up the stairs, my knees knocking against the wooden steps. I could hear him mumbling insults about me and my mother– calling her the same thing, a filthy prostitute. He said it like it was the worst thing in the world like it was my fault.
The door slammed behind us, locking out the world.
"Por favor, papá," I whispered, my voice barely audible. (Please, papa.)
He didn't care.
He threw me onto his bed, the mattress cracking under my weight. My heart pounded, bile rising in my throat. I had never seen that look in his eyes before–hungry, dark, something twisted beyond mare anger. This was different.
I didn't understand what was happening.
Not at first.
Then I did.
I screamed.
I fought.
I kicked.
I scratched.
It didn't matter. He was too strong.
"Shhh," he whispered into my ear as I sobbed beneath him. "Así es como aprendemos a ser mujeres." (This is how we learn to be women.)
I pushed against his chest, but he only laughed. "¿Ahora quieres pelear?". (Now you want to fight?) His breath was hot against my face. "Eso lo hace más divertido." (That makes it more fun.)
I stopped fighting.
I turned to the side, staring at the cracks in the ceiling as he pressed down on me. I felt a tear between my thighs. As something liquid trickled down my legs.
When it was over, I curled up, my body trembling. My father leaned in close, his lips brushing my ear as he whispered words that would haunt me forever.
"Tu madre disfrutó esto más que tú." (Your mother enjoyed this more than you.)
Tears burned my eyes, but I refused to cry. I bit my lips tasting blood, and swallowed the sob that threatened to escape.
One day, I promised myself. One day, he would pay.
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