Blood On Her Hands

Chapter 7

Whenever there was a really bad storm outside, our basement would flood. 

It was an inevitable occurrence. No matter how many times my Tìo ventured down the creaky wooden steps with a new solution in mind, a bad storm would come and fill it with murky brown water. It was why it remained unused for the most part. It was far too unreliable to store old family albums, furniture, or out of season clothing. It was just a vacant space beneath our house, devoid of responsibilities and assigned no expectations. We’d let an exterminator go down there to fumigate sometimes and Nancy had hosted a couple of parties there too. Other than that, we didn’t get too attached to our basement. 

Whenever it would flood, we knew there was nothing we could do until it was over. The water would pour in and rise, stopping just short of enveloping the steps. All we could do was wait until it stopped on its own. 

The basement and I had a lot in common. 

I could not stop the tears flowing down my cheeks after Nancy yelled at me. No matter how many deep breaths I took or how many times I washed my face, fresh streams of water cascaded out of my sockets. Sobs shook my body until my chest and stomach felt tight. My aunt sat with me in my bed for hours, rubbing circles into my back as I layed curled into a fetal position. At first, she was trying to console me, saying that Nancy hadn’t meant what she said or done. She said that her grief was turning into anger and we had to be more patient with her during this time. Then, when I did not take the cue to stop crying at the point a normal person would, I saw concern cast a shadow across her features. She began to ask me what was bothering me. If I was crying because of what Nancy did or something else or if I knew why I was crying. I was unable to answer any of her questions. Everytime I tried to calm down enough to say something, I cried harder. 

I figured that I had reached a boiling point. It wasn’t only the impact of Nancy’s words but Adonis’s death, my mother’s murder, the thoughts about my father, the gun hidden in the house, and what Julio said to me days prior. All of it had gathered together to create one big breakdown. 

These used to be far more common. 

During the first few years after my mother’s death, it was especially bad. I was prone to night terrors, my five year old self never able to sleep a peaceful night without reliving my mother’s murder in my dreams. I would wake up screaming, trembling and unconsolable for several minutes. It became a nightly routine for my Tìo and Tìa to burst into my room at the sound of my cries. They said I would stare with a horror in my eyes that made whatever I was seeing in my mind feel palpable. Sometimes I would calm down and fall asleep with the two of them curled up on my tiny mattress beside me, sandwiching me in a hedge of protection. Other nights, they’d stay up with me until the crack of dawn, forsaking their own rest for my sake. 

I imagined that whenever I showed the slightest bit of vulnerability, this was the version of me my family remembered. The one who would jump at loud noises, the one who needed my aunt to attend every day of kindergarten with her and the one prone to fits of selective mutism. 

Or perhaps it was the teenage version of myself they remembered. The one who still couldn’t seem to shake the past off of her, though it didn’t consciously affect her the way it once did. I was often depressed, having high days and then suddenly losing interest in everything but sleep. I had been very needy back then and maybe I still was. Maybe the last few years went well for me because nothing bad happened - a storm hadn’t passed by. Maybe I hadn’t gotten stronger or more resilient at all. 

It was nine in the morning when I woke up. My face felt stiff and sticky from all my crying. Crumpled up tissues were scattered on the ground in front of my bed. The last time I checked the time it had been three in the morning. I had only stopped crying because I had tired myself out.