It’s morning. I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. Maybe I just dreamt it all. When I touch my hair, it’s still damp from last night’s shower. Angry bruises on my arms tell me it wasn’t a dream.
It really happened.
I was raped.
As the minutes tick by, I fight to put things in perspective. I can’t call it rape. How can it be rape when I agreed to be his woman? What did it matter that I said ‘No’?
I squeeze my eyes shut and tunnel under my bedcovers.
At 10:30AM, Maria and Rosa enter my room and throw open the blinds. ‘You must not sleep all day, Señorita,’ Rosa says.
‘Yes,’ Maria says. ‘It’s not good for me.’
‘I want to sleep a little longer,’ I whisper then turn to face the wall. I’m not tired but thankfully, sleep comes easily to me.
They shake me vigorously around 5 PM. ‘Diablo, he come Señorita. You must dress up.’
Diablo. The name alone makes me want to puke.
Eventually, I drag myself out of bed and go through the motions of getting ready for dinner.
Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t think.
6 PM. I’m dressed and sitting on my bed when suddenly, I hear, ‘Gringaaa!’ Diablo’s trademark shout.
Today, I’m ready for him and slowly I walk to the dinner table. Forcing myself to hold my head high, I sit down and eat with the dregs of society - murderers, thieves, rapists.
Christa vies for Diablo’s attention which suits me. I can’t wait to retreat to my bedroom. In the meantime, I slip away, back into the vast ocean in my mind where everything is muted and serene and sans Diablo.
Finally, dinner is over and I’m excused. I make my way back to my room dreading tonight. Midnight … that’s when he’ll visit. I shiver and wrap my arms around my body.
As I walk down the passage, Santana appears and blocks my path. ‘Gringa,’ she scoffs. ‘You still here, eh? So tooough. Just how old are you, li’l girl?’
‘Leave me alone,’ I mutter and sidestep her.
She matches my steps and blocks my way.
Not now, please. Please! Please!
I feel so drained, so broken and tears are already stinging my eyes. But I know I can’t afford the luxury of tears now. Don’t want to be seen as low hanging fruit – easy target, soft.
‘Get the fuck out of my way!’ I yell.
She looks at me with wide eyes - not the reaction she was expecting from me.
I’m momentarily taken aback at my anger. I’m a fucking bubbling volcano right now.
Santana quickly regains her composure. ‘Ah! Gringa is a very brave,’ she says, as two perfect eyebrows disappear behind a blunt fringe. ‘Is a good move, acting so daring, so valiente. Diablo is eh, how do you say it – fascinate with you? But the question is puta, for how long?’
‘Wha …?’
‘You spent last night with him? That don’t mean nothing. I’m his wiiimon, his wife. I share his bed. He will never invite you to his bed. That means something, no?’
His “wiiimon” his “wife”? What the fuck is this bitch rambling on about? I want nothing to do with that scumbag and here she is, actually trying to dissuade me from being with him? Claiming him as her own?
‘Are you fucking crazy?’ I shriek. ‘First of all, you are his sister. That means you don’t get to fuck your brother no matter how ... how handsome he is. Puta.’
She waves away my chastising with a flick of her hand.
‘And ... and this is a big AND; I don’t wanna share his bed or have him in my bed for that matter. I wanna go home. I hate him, I hate this place, I hate you. Get it?’
For a brief moment I see confusion in her eyes. ‘He will tire of you soon, you know,’ she says, arms akimbo. ‘Then he will ...’ She runs her finger slowly across her neck, then winks.
‘Gee, golly, I can’t wait.’
‘Neither can I,’ she says in all earnest. ‘Neither can I. Satan!’
‘Good. We’ve cleared the air. Now get the fuck out of my way!’
She chuckles mirthlessly and steps aside, gesturing dramatically for me to pass.
I shake my head. Santana is striking – tall, slim, long brown hair that curls at her waist, burnished skin that’s probably the envy of every gringa in the world, almond-shaped, green, liquid eyes - a cross between Sheena queen of the jungle and a young Salma Hayek. Really exotic.
Next to her, I feel pasty, dull and frankly, I can’t understand Diablo’s fascination with me. Could be cataracts. There’s no way he could have 20/20 vision. I mean, I’m okay in the looks department - medium height, long dark blonde hair, medium build, cloudy blue eyes – nothing special, really. So as I said – summon an eye doctor to Tana-Mera. Pronto.
I spend the next couple of hours in my room tensing up each time I hear a sound.
Around midnight, Diablo enters my room, whips off his shirt and fucks me again in the dark.
This time to cope, I work on a murder plot - his. I fantasize about slicing his neck while he fucks me. There is blood all over his chest, but not a single drop on me for some reason. I hate blood. It makes me queasy.
Back to Bastido and my fantasy - he clutches his severed jugular with both hands and gurgles. The look in his eye is an admixture of disbelief and admiration. How could someone as fragile as Gringa be so strong? How could someone as astute and insightful as him have missed the knife hidden under my pillow?
As his thrusting intensifies, so does my imagination.
In my mind, blood seeps slowly down his bare tattooed chest. I shove him off me and then slice off his nuts and he cries out in pain, but there is no sound. Then I grab his gun, barricade the door and start shooting anyone that …
He rolls off before I can conclude my fantasy. Again, I shower till the water runs cold and again, I do not cry. Tears simmer but I refuse to.
Anyway, it was a little less terrifying tonight as there was no razor sharp blade next to my stomach threatening me with a caesarean section each time his thrusts shook my unyielding body. (Except for the blade in my imagination – it was under my pillow and dangerously sharp.)