Episode 2

"What's your name, child?" the lady asked me.

"Ofelia, ma'am," I replied shyly, trying to avoid eye contact.

"Well, welcome Ofelia, I'm Mary, the housekeeper. I manage everything related to the running of the house and the staff. This is your uniform, you've already seen the house, I'll tell you your assigned tasks, and then it's to work."

The uniform was huge on me, as it was for a large person and I was only 10 years old at the time. After two days, Mary got me one tailored to my size, and truly, for the next 6 years, that was the only clothing I had.

My assigned tasks back then were simple: collecting the dishes left around the house at night, arranging the food in the pantry, helping in the vegetable garden, cleaning the laundry room after its scheduled use was over, and hanging all the clothes on the clotheslines in the garden behind my room.

As time went by and I grew and learned, I started doing other things, like cooking or even making homemade meals from scratch. Many Sundays, they had pasta for lunch made by me and no one else.

I still remember the first night in that house. I was gathering all the dishes that had been left lying around, mostly glasses and tea or coffee cups. It was a very busy place; there were always many people, either visiting or for business meetings, so it wasn't a minor task, as a lot of dishes were actually collected. That night, I was in the hallway, coming from the library, passing by the study of the master of the house, my father. I took two small cups with their respective saucers that were on the desk and left. As I closed the door, a closed fist hit me squarely on the left side of my face, which made me fall to the floor and hit a piece of furniture that was there. When I looked up, I saw the master right there, looking at me with hatred.

"What the hell were you doing in my study? Why did you come in? What were you doing in there? Answer, you piece of shit."

"I only went to collect the dishes, sir, I swear, just that." I answered fearfully, and at his slightest movement, I covered my face, noticing in that movement that my nose was bleeding.

He didn't even flinch and simply went to his study to check that I hadn't taken anything. Upon coming out, he grabbed me by the hair and told me I was forbidden to enter unless he called me or gave permission. And just as he had appeared, he left, and I went to the kitchen, my face red and dripping blood, hoping everyone was asleep; I was ashamed for anyone to see me like that.

That was just one of the many beatings I received later. Over time, I gathered information, like his name, what he did for a living. His name was Vicenzo Leggio; he was clearly Italian. From what I heard, he was involved in selling horses and some business with cars, or something like that. To my surprise, he had children and a wife. His wife was very beautiful; she had very white skin, lovely sky-blue eyes, and black hair. She never spoke a word to me except to let me know how much my presence irritated her. His children were two, a boy and a girl; they were younger than me, she was 3 and he was 5. It's not that he was father of the year, but he didn't treat them badly, so clearly the paternity problem was only with me.

As the years passed, and since my presence was almost invisible, I started to be the one in charge of bringing coffee to his meetings. It was there that I finally realized he wasn't only involved in the businesses I thought, but was also associated with or part of the mafia. I still didn't understand why he had sought me out, as my presence clearly bothered him.

Mistreatment and physical abuse became my companions for the remaining 6 years. No one spoke to me more than necessary; it wasn't that they were mean to me, they just didn't want trouble, and I understood that.

The house was enormous, so I always tried to stay in the places furthest from him or his wife. She had never hit me, but I didn't want to risk her deciding to start. He, however, took every opportunity, and it wasn't that he hit softly; he really hit with hatred and fury. He hit me as if he were hitting someone his own size. More than once I fainted from the blows; I had concussions, fractures, burns, bruises.

It's not that I simply stood by idly taking the beatings; once I wanted to leave, I tried to escape, and it was the worst idea I ever had.

He followed me. I was running through the fields without knowing exactly which direction; I just wanted to get away from the house and then I would see. The sound of grass and branches breaking behind me was what alerted me that I was being followed; to my great fright, it was him. He yelled at me to stop. I didn't, and then I felt the shot; he shot me in the leg. It wasn't a bullet, it was a pellet, but it still managed to injure me, and I fell. He approached and grabbed me by the hair, dragging me to the trunk of a fallen tree that was there, and when I was close, he placed one of my hands on it and hit me with the butt of the shotgun. The pain was unbearable; he shattered my hand, I could see the bone sticking out. Not content with that, he continued hitting me; he dealt me several blows to the face while insulting and threatening me for having tried to escape. What I remember next was being locked in what seemed like a basement, or a room, I don't know. I only know it was dark, there were no windows, I didn't know when it was day or night, and he only came every two or three days to leave me a plate of food and a little water. I had such a terrible time that after that, the idea of leaving that place simply vanished.