Miss Cabello

How She Became Camila

(AN: TRIGGER WARNING: CONTAINS TRIGGERING AND/OR SENSITIVE TOPICS SUCH AS VIOLENCE AND RAPE.)

Camila's POV

"Camila!"

I was afraid. I hear her words but I sit on my bed. I was alone. I had no one. Not even her.

Her footsteps became louder as she nears my room. Was she going to hit me again? My eyes fall on the make-up I had on the table by the bed. I was running out of concealer, powder and foundation to cover the bruises. I needed to buy new ones. The eyes of the cashier would always be the curious and amazed ones, besides I was an eleven year-old buying makeup.

"Are you deaf, you little twit?!" She was near. I was about to cry, I was at a point of dying, mentally and emotionally. Physically, I hope, too.

But instead of the loud bang of the door, was the calm manner of opening it. Mama slowly appears inside the room. Her face, I couldn't look at her face.

This was worse.

"Camila, I was calling you from downstairs." Lovingly. Since when did she speak to me with love?

I hesitated, peering up at the woman through the gap permitted by my eyelids. "I'm sorry, mama, I couldn't hear you." I bit my lip, hoping, praying that God will hear my silent, anguished cries of an unpainful night with her. But as my mama unbuckled her belt from her pants, I knew the night would be filled my own screams and tears. I guess I needed make-up sooner than I thought.

"I heard from your teacher that you've done quite poorly in your test. I'm guessing I need to give you a proper lesson. I don't want a dumb child."

The belt in her hands was not the thing that caught my eyes, rather the container that had a white substance. After taking her belt, she opened it, and poured the contents on the floor.

It was salt. Rock salt. 

"Kneel."

I felt my heart tighten inside my chest in fear. This cannot be happening. I move to the opposite end of the bed, but knowing the distance between us was useless. This was a losing battle, I just had to prolong the moments I had before I would surrender completely to pain and punishment.

I brought my knees to my chest. "Please, mama, I am so sorry for being a dumb girl. I won't be that again." Mama dredged up a smile and scooted forward until she was near me.

"Not to worry, my child, this won't hurt. Much." Mama hauled me off the bed. I smelled the stench of alcohol and cigarette.

She pushed me down unforgivingly. It was then I felt the salt on my knees, the sharp little edges hard against my skin. I couldn't do anything. I still wasn't healed from my beating days ago. 

And as the searing pain and rippling sensations of flesh on my back came into my senses, the first few set of tears cascade like a waterfall on my cheeks. I was immobile, paralyzed. My back felt numb at first, but then the familiar itch came. It slowly transformed into a burn, like what it felt when touching a burning pot. The burn didn't disappear. I curved my back, my whole face to the ceiling.

I felt the expansion of my skin on my knees. The salt was splitting my skin open, giving way to new wounds. This was rubbing salt in the wound in the literal level. My knees were on fire.

And it was only the first whip of the belt.

I let out an ear piercing scream. My throat felt painful then.

"Shut up!"

Then the second whip came, then the third, then the fourth. The burn on my back only heightened and magnified. It spread even on the areas not touched by the belt.

I was wailing and screaming. My whole body was drowning in the burn of it. "PLEASE STOP! MAMA, PLEASE!" I fell on the floor, lying on my stomach. I was breathing, but I wished I could have just died.

"The next time you'll show me a forty-five out of a hundred, I'm giving more than this." With that, she left the room.

I was alone. I had no one. Not even her.

Mama used to love me. She used to cook me breakfast and help me take a bath. She used to read me stories to sleep and kiss me good night. She used to call me "Angel" and say how beautiful I was. She used to buy me dresses and shoes. She used to drive me to the beach and play with the sand. She used to see me as her daughter.

But it all changed when Papa died when he served in the Military.

Mama feels sad almost all the time. She would rarely eat. She started drinking and smoking. My old mama died with papa. The doctors said she was in a state of depression. They said she would be okay. They said she would recover. They said I would have my mama back.

But I didn't.

She started getting violent towards me. At the very little thing she gets annoyed with, she hits me. The bruises form, but I couldn't tell anyone. She would be mad at me. Which is why I bought the make-up, to hide them from everyone at school. They did not need to know, for mama would beat me if they did.

-

I turned to my side, a little less painful here. I finally was able push my body from the bed, but the pain is even more clear to the senses sitting up. I could barely remember life without pain. I barely remember life with love. Misery and loneliness slyly made their way into all my memories, as if they knew I would be in this state all along.

All I am aware of is the deep, hollow pit inside my chest made by my mama. But I don't hate her. I love mama, she just doesn't love me back anymore.

 I went to the bathroom to check on my back. All I saw was purple and blue, almost like islands, all the way from my shoulder blades down to the small of my back. My knees weren't any close to better. They were covered with small cuts and glowed blood red.

 I didn't finish taking a bath, the water felt painful. Almost everything felt painful. After putting on my uniform, I immediately wrapped bandage on my knees. I tripped on the concrete, I think that would be a believable excuse. I applied make-up on my right cheekbone, covering the spot where mama punched me nights ago when she got home drunk. And another one on my temple. I looked okay.

After getting everything ready, I clatter down the stairs, and I had to hold on to the wall for a moment when the sting on my back called for attention.

I lingered in the kitchen, making myself breakfast. I made some for her too. I didn't want her to be hungry. As I put the bread inside the toaster, I realized she was sitting on the chair. We didn't speak to each other, though. Not until I put down my cereal and her coffee on the table.

"Did I hit you last night?" She was probably too drunk to even notice she was hurting her child. 

"Yes," I took a deep breath, "but it wasn't that all hurtful. Just a couple of slaps on the back."

Mama nodded before pouring alcohol in her drink.

"Just make sure to cover them up."