Episode 3

Maria

It's been a few minutes since Nena and I got back from the market. The bags are still on the kitchen table, forgotten, while I'm here in my room, pacing back and forth like a prisoner awaiting her sentence.

My father hasn't arrived yet.

But the waiting... the waiting is always worse. Because when you know what's coming, every second turns into torment. It's like walking towards the abyss, aware that you're going to fall.

And then, the sound. The living room door bursts open with a thud that echoes through the house like thunder. My heart races. The screams come soon after—his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

His steps... heavy, firm, determined. He's coming.

My feet retreat instinctively, stumble, and I fall back onto the floor.

The door to my room opens violently. And there he is. Emiliano. My father.

But what scares me the most is not the bloodshot eyes of anger or the clenched teeth. It's what he holds in his hands: a piece of folded rope, thick, stained. Already used before.

"Who were those men, Maria?!" he roars, like a beast.

"I... I don't know, father. I swear I don't know!" I reply, already crying, my voice choked with pain and panic.

He advances.

"Then let's see if this helps you remember!" he snarls, raising his arm.

Behind him, Nena appears hurriedly, along with my mother, both desperate.

"No, sir! Please! It was just an accident, a misunderstanding! The girl did nothing!" Nena pleads, her voice choked.

But he doesn't hear. He never listens.

The arm comes down.

The first blow is dry, like a cut in time. The pain comes quickly, burning, the rope cracking against my skin like hot iron.

I scream. I put my arms in front of my face, I shrink as much as I can.

"HELP! Father, please! I didn't do anything! I swear!"

"Now you ask for help?!" he shouts, his eyes on fire. "Ask! Ask all you want! No one will hear you! I am the law in this house! I am the authority here!"

"Emiliano, the neighbors... for God's sake, stop!" my mother tries, in vain.

He doesn't stop. He only stops when fatigue or fury dissipate for a brief moment.

Finally, he throws the rope on the floor with disdain, his chest heaving. He looks at me as if I were a broken piece of furniture.

"No one helps her. Get out. Now."

My mother hesitates. Nena gives me one last look—eyes watery, helpless—and both leave the room.

He approaches, looks down at me, fallen on the floor, and spits:

"Be ready at seven. Our family has a reputation. I don't want any embarrassment at the workshop's opening."

And then he leaves, with the same fury with which he entered.

Silence returns, but now it weighs even more. I stay here, motionless, staring at the ceiling of my room as I did this morning.

But now everything burns. Every inch of my body burns. Every beat of my heart seems like a reminder that I'm still alive.

And sometimes, that hurts more than any blow.

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