SOFÍA
The sun beats down on my shoulders, and the stifling heat steals my breath as I rush through the
street to get home before my dad arrives back from work. The ocean air is fresh, with the soft
scent of salt hanging overhead. The docks are noisy, offering me a reminder of who my father
is and where he works.
All my life, living with papá, I’ve learned to stay out of trouble by going to school and spending
time at work. The part-time job I have at the music store down the road from our house offers me
some solace, giving me time away from the worrying thoughts of what would happen if my father
fulfilled his promise.
He told me to stop working. To stay home and take care of myself, but I haven’t given strength to
my illness. Instead, I’ve focused on being healthy, even though slowly, I’m deteriorating without my
medication on a consistent level.
My mother always told me as a child, sé fuerte.” Be strong. It was the mantra I grew up with, a
constant reminder that I can do anything I want. Anything I need to be the woman I dreamed of being.
But now that she’s gone, it’s another reminder that even life fucks you over at times.
Shaking my head of my wayward thoughts, I head inside the house and shut the door behind me.
The one thing I love about our home is that it offers a cool relief in the searing heat. An air
conditioner sits against the wall, taking the sweltering humidity and giving an icy breeze to make my
sticky skin chill with goose bumps.
I glance at the large clock on the wall. It’s almost time for dinner. Six pm is when papá walks
through the door, and I’m met with his happy grin. It took him a while to smile again. After my mother
died, he became cold and closed off, but then I got sick.
Perhaps that jolted him from the stupor he’d been living in for so long, or maybe it was his need
to protect me, but something changed. And as much as I wanted my father back, he didn’t return the
same person. He became more protective, and the sicker I got, the more he would fuss.
“Papá,” I call into the empty house, knowing he’s not home, but it calms me to do it. My mother
would step over the threshold and call for both my dad and me. Each evening, I would run into her
arms. She would wrap me in warmth, and I’d watch on as she would be devoured by my father. He
would kiss her like his life depended on it.
I never knew a love like that. Not even my friends at school spoke of their parents and the
affection they’d witnessed. Growing up, visiting my friends’ homes, I never saw an ounce of what
lived and breathed in the home I grew up in.
There was just something more between them. When I was older, the idea of that type of passion
consumed me, making me crave it. The fire, the passion, even their fights were filled with love. Don’t
get me wrong, there was anger, far too much of it, but each night, it ended with them making up
noisily.
I was embarrassed, but I was also elated that even though their fights were almost violent, my
father had a way of making my mother coo. She would tell him he was the handsomest man in the
world. That he owned her heart and soul.
That was the only thing I never understood. Yes, I’d read fairy tales; yes, I got love and having
sex, but having someone own you. That never sat well with me. I guess perhaps it was my immaturity,
but there was something dangerous in the way she had confessed it.
My father was a man who loved his family, but with my mother, he became more intense. She was
his property. But the moment I stepped into the room, the air would change, and it wouldn’t feel as
all-consuming.
To me, ownership meant you would never be allowed to do anything of your own free will.
You’re bound, locked to that person for life, and they have complete control of everything you do. For
me, that sounded like a death sentence, and I knew all about that.
Before my mother died, she learned about my disease. She knew that I wouldn’t last without
medication, treatment, or some normalcy. Even though she had meager savings, she had made sure I
would get treatment for a few years after she died.
As much as papá tries, he’ll never be able to keep up with the payments on my medical bills. And
that’s okay, I’ve come to terms with dying. I’ve prayed to a god I never believed in, and if I ever came
face to face with the Devil I know exists in our world, I’d beg him, not for riches or power, just for a
chance at life.
Making my way into the kitchen, I pull the meat from the freezer and pop it into the microwave to
defrost. I asked my father to do it before he left for work, but clearly, he forgot about it.
The chicken slowly spins on the glass plate. I watch the meat turn around and around. The
medication I’ve taken is slowly wearing off, and I feel sick, once more, watching the rotating item.
Holding my stomach, I race into the bathroom and spill my guts into the toilet bowl. The lunch I’d
managed to finish earlier is now lying in the pool of water. Sadness washes over me when I realize
I’ll never be able to afford treatment, or the transplant that would possibly save my life. Even though
papá works for one of the richest men in Colombia, I know he’ll never be able to pay for me to get
better.
On my knees, in the tiny bathroom, I heave once more, and then again. The emptiness of my body
offering nothing more to expel. The thought of my father’s boss makes me dry heave, one more time,
before I stand on shaky legs.
The man they’ve named, The Devil, is every bit as evil as the title ensures. He lives in a castle, a
monstrosity on the beautiful coast of my small city. Santa Marta is pristine, bar for one dark noose—
the Cordero Castle.
It was built years ago by the man who ruled Colombia with an iron fist, and now, his son is as bad
as he is. Papá has worked for the Cordero’s all his life. Since he was sixteen, he’s been pulled in by
their dark promises of riches and wealth, only to be rewarded with a small house and meager
earnings. But my father is loyal to a fault, he goes back each day with the promise that he’ll be able to
pay for my medication.
Even though I beg him not to go back, I know there’s no running from Victor Cordero. The man is
ruthless, he doesn’t take kindly to anyone going against his rules, and the thought of ever coming face
to face with him sends a chill racing down my spine.
If I had a choice between death and the man my father is so loyal to, I’d choose the former. It
seems an easier way of leaving this world. I’ve heard the stories, I’ve heard it from the girls who
ventured into his domain—stories of his sick needs, his violent tendencies, but I’ve also heard that
he’s never kept one woman in his life for longer than one night.
Shaking my head once more, I try to focus on dinner. But I can’t, whenever I think about Victor,
there’s something that niggles deep in my gut, and I know that sleeping serpent will want to play. Each
time she awakens, I tamp her down. But there are moments where I crave it, the darkness, the danger.
I wouldn’t back down if he were to summon me. And perhaps, that’s what I hunger for so deeply.
The fire between two people. I want to experience the sting of pain and taste the drop of poison, just
to feel alive and bask in the passion I crave. And I know not many men can offer me that. Not many
men who I want can give me that.
But Victor is a bad man.
And bad men get killed.
Or they kill you first.