—“Look at her”— said Helepa, smiling with a coldness that chilled the blood— “she thinks that carrying a baby makes her special.”
There was no compassion, no doubt, no moral conflict, only a shared narrative where I was the problem.
Victor repeated the orders, as if he were speaking to an animal, or talking to his wife, or recognizing the mother of his child.
I opened the refrigerator, but the world started to spin, and at that moment I stopped saying that my body could no longer sustain that pain and its consequences.
I fell to the ground, and the impact was what hurt the most, but the reaction of those who surrounded me.
—“How dramatic”— grumbled Raúl, as if the suffering were an act designed to make them uncomfortable.
Victor didn’t come to help me, didn’t hesitate, didn’t waver, he simply chose violence as an automatic response.
