Hell didn’t arrive with fire. It arrived with a sound—one sharp, violent slam at five in the morning, the bedroom door cracking against drywall like a warning shot. It didn’t just wake me. It yanked me out of sleep with my heart already sprinting, my body already bracing for the next impact. I was six months pregnant, heavy in a way that changed every day, my back burning, my hips aching, my legs never quite steady. Sleep came in broken pieces. Fear filled the gaps.
The door flew open and Víctor stood in the hallway light, already furious, his face twisted not with concern but with entitlement—the kind of rage that believes it has permission to exist. “Get up, useless cow!” he shouted, and the words hit before his footsteps did. He crossed the room in two strides, ripped the blankets off me so hard they tangled around my legs, and cold air rushed in. Instinct took over; I wrapped my arms around my stomach like I could shield the baby from sound and cruelty. “Do you think being pregnant makes you a queen?” he snapped. “My parents are hungry!”
I tried to sit up, but pain shot through my lower back, sharp enough to steal my breath. My legs trembled as I swung my feet to the floor and the room tilted slightly. “It hurts,” I whispered. “I can’t move fast.” I wasn’t asking for sympathy. I was asking for time. Víctor laughed—not loud, not wild, but controlled, practiced, the laugh of someone who enjoyed the imbalance of power. “Other women hurt and don’t complain,” he said. “Stop acting like a princess. Get downstairs and cook—now.” Then he turned away like I was a task he’d already checked off.
I stood slowly, one hand pressed to the wall for balance. Everything about movement felt exaggerated, like my body no longer belonged to me. The stairs loomed ahead—steep, unforgiving—and I took them one at a time with my fingers locked around the railing, breathing shallowly so the pain didn’t flare too hard.