"𝑨𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒈𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔 𝒐𝒓 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝑰 𝒇𝒖𝒄𝒌 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐?"
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⚠️sᴛɪʟʟ ᴇᴅɪᴛɪɴɢ⚠️
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Haunted by the night when me and my mother were forced away from our daily lives in Mexico...
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"Memories can be the cruelest form of torture,"
That's what Mama used to say when the burden of being strong became overwhelming for her. There were moments when her steel strength would waver, allowing vulnerability and pain to cast faint shadows on her face.
During those times, Mama would withdraw into herself, seeking refuge beneath a blanket for hours on end. When it first began, I was just five years old, and I was so frightened that she was dead that I cried almost the entire time she remained still beneath the covers.
I thought that he had taken it too far and killed her, which was also why I thought he had left and didn't appear for hours.
After fifteen hours, Mama rose from her fetal position on the bed, her eyes filled with fear as she looked at me. My eyes were bloodshot from crying all day, tears staining my small cheeks.
I can still vividly recall the look of terror that washed over my mother's face as she struggled to push the covers off her weakened body, stumbling with each step she took towards me as I sat in the corner of the room, too afraid to approach her, convinced she was dead.
To comfort me, she enveloped my small, trembling body in her arms and gently stroked my arms while repeatedly telling me how sorry she was. Her apologies caused more tears to spill from my eyes, despite the stinging sensation they left behind.
I couldn't miss the tremble of her own body, the way her heartbeats were thundering against my ear. I wanted to tell her that it wasn't her fault. I wanted to be there for her so she wouldn't need to retreat into her mind. But all I could do was cry in her warm embrace and make a silent promise to be by her side if she ever slipped into that state again.
And she did.
Two years later, as I lay beside her in our new bed after yet another episode, I whispered, "Why do you go away like that, Mama?" She tensed behind me upon hearing the question, and I instantly regretted it, considering denying that I had ever asked.
But then she spoke, her voice barely more than a whisper, "Memories can be the cruelest form of torture, baby," she tightened her hold around me, drawing me closer, "and that's why I took you away and left. I won't ever let you endure that same torture, never."
That was eleven years ago, but neither of us could have foreseen that despite Mama's desperate efforts to shield me from the pain that only time could inflict, one girl, one serpent, would poison my thoughts just as one man had before her.
She was someone that I looked up to as an elder sister, I respected her like one, admired her like one, loved her like one, and allowed her entry into my life.
And what did she do? She took it upon herself to teach me a harsh life lesson: actions have consequences.
Because I had opened my heart to someone undeserving, that man reached my Mama and took her life.
