Chapter 4 - The Breach
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Helena spun around, her eyes wide and manic, staring directly at me on the floor.
“You called the police?!” she shrieked, her voice cracking with hysteria.
I could barely lift my head, the pain in my neck throbbing violently, but I managed a small, weak shake.
“No,” I rasped.
It was technically true. I hadn't dialed 911. I hadn't spoken to a dispatcher. I had simply sent a text to my father containing two words. He had orchestrated the rest with the precision of a military operation.
Victor stared blankly at the heavy wooden cane in his hand, as if suddenly realizing it was a weapon. He dropped it. It struck the tile floor with a sharp, damning crack.
Nora looked down at her smartphone, the screen still glowing brightly, and then looked frantically at Victor.
“What do I do with this?” Nora asked, her voice trembling.
Victor turned to her, his eyes wild with panic. “Delete it. Delete everything.”
Her face changed. Right there, in the harsh kitchen light. Pure, unadulterated panic set in.
“Now!” he snapped, stepping toward her.
Nora’s thumb moved frantically over the screen. I tried to scream, to tell her to stop, but nothing came out of my throat except a strangled, bloody wheeze.
Then, the heavy front door burst violently inward.
It wasn't because my father had angrily kicked it down. It was because the responding officers had clearly announced themselves repeatedly, and then, as they would later describe in their official reports, they saw an "immediate, active threat to life" through a side window and made entry under emergency exigent circumstances.
My father walked into the house directly behind the heavily armed officers.
He stopped completely dead in his tracks the exact moment his eyes found me.
I will absolutely remember the look on his face until the day I die.
It wasn't anger first. It was shock. Pure, devastating, world-shattering shock.
I was lying in a broken heap on the cold kitchen floor, wearing a violently torn maternity nightgown. Blood was smeared across my mouth and chin. One side of my face was already swelling alarmingly, coloring to a deep purple. Massive, angry bruises were already rising across my exposed thigh. My hands were wrapped desperately around my large belly.
Victor stood frozen exactly five feet away from me. The heavy wooden cane lay discarded between us like a physical confession.
Helena’s hand was still awkwardly raised in the air, as though she had been caught conducting a symphony of violence. Raul stood stiffly beside the dining table, looking anywhere but at the police. Nora stood frozen, clutching the phone, the red recording light still faintly visible.
My father looked down at me, his strong shoulders sagging.
May you like
“Emily.”
There it was. My name. I had been called 'sweetheart,' 'honey,' and 'you stupid bitch' for so long, I had almost entirely forgotten how my actual name sounded in his deep, familiar voice.
