••• PART 3 •••

Pressure grows, and danger looms.

Emilia is thrust into a world of peril and deceit when her worst enemy finds out about the deadly secret she keeps. Desperate to escape the cruel reality in which she’s trapped in, she turns to drugs and alcohol to numb her pain. She can’t live like this forever, but all her attempts to leave have failed. Emilia needs a way out.

If she faces Pablo alone, she knows for sure that she will lose, but in a small world full of traitors, allies are hard to choose.

•••

He scared me.

It didn’t matter how calm, or how quiet he was, or how kind he acted. Pablo scared me.

Even now, when he was fast asleep, with his eyes shut and his mouth half open, resting his head on the back of his hand like a pillow, curled up like a kitten under his satin sheets. I was deadly afraid of him, and my heartbeat reached new heights every time I looked his way.

It wasn’t just Pablo who scared me. It was the thousands of images flashing through my head, twisted, traumatic ideas of what he might do to me once he found out what I had just told Juan. Those visions became more vivid whenever I closed my eyes.

I had nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. Despite the dozens of guest rooms strewn about the long corridors of his oversized house, I was stuck in the same bed as Pablo.

Perhaps he’d assumed it was what I wanted, or perhaps he wanted to keep a closer eye on me, but I didn’t have the courage to argue against this sleeping arrangement, lest he’d be offended and choose to take it out on me.

Now I felt sick, almost feverish, both shivering with cold and burning up in boiling sweat. I had a frog in my throat, it was slimy and it tasted bad. It croaked whenever I tried to breathe in or out.

I tossed and I turned, flipped my pillow so often that the other side never had time to cool down. There wasn’t a single position that felt comfortable. I felt exposed when I put my arms above the covers, and helpless when I slid them under the sheets. I didn’t dare face him because I couldn’t stand seeing his face, but turning my back to him somehow felt a thousand times worse.

So I lay restless until the sun came up.

I let my morning coffee go cold. I could see the dark bags under my eyes in the faint reflection of my face on its surface. I was exhausted, in every meaning of the word and every way possible, and the caffeine in half a pint of americano wasn’t going to cut it.

“Is everything ok, Em?” asked Oscar.

I lifted my head, but didn’t answer. My gaze quickly got lost somewhere over his shoulder, far beyond the breakfast table, further even than the treeline at the back of the garden.

He softly shook his head, before turning back towards Beto. They kept on discussing the updates on the security situation up in the North of the country. Their quiet mumbling became background noise as they dived into a new folder overflowing with documents, transcripts and aerial pictures covered in scribbles.

“About that,” mumbled Andrea, even though no one was talking to her. “Juan was acting really weird yesterday. Does anyone know why?”

“Nope, but you can ask him yourself,” shrugged Oscar. “The Sandovals are on their way.”

As if the pressure of Andrea asking a bunch of stupid questions wasn’t enough, now I was going to have to deal with Juan and Hernan as well. At this point, I didn’t even mind seeing Manée. Her ice-cold glares and uptight pouts were nothing in comparison to the aura of tension and danger the other two Sandovals carried everywhere with them.

“Why were you gone for so long last night?” Andrea kept on chirping as she turned towards me. “Did you really puke on Juan?”

I answered with nothing more than a shrug of the shoulders, or a falsely shameful nod. Andrea was only looking for some gossip to make this dull, foggy morning a little more entertaining, but her little interrogation would bring me nothing more than mountains of trouble.

I flinched as Pablo slammed his fist on a pile of papers to stop them from flying away in the cool morning breeze.

I swallowed back a shaky breath, choking on anxiety, and lifted a trembling finger to call over the maid.

“What was that cocktail you made the other day?” I asked Pablo while the young girl walked up to me. “The one that tasted like a cake.”

“A Madeleine?” he frowned. “Really? You want a cocktail for breakfast? You could just, you know, ask for a cake.”

“I’m not hungry,” I muttered.

“You’re having a Madeleine?” squealed Andrea, just before she turned to the maid. “I’ll have one too.”

When the Sandovals showed up, Pablo wrapped an arm around me and pulled me closer to his chest. He grabbed me a little too hard; he made me wince and spill a bit of my drink down the front of my dress.

“I’ll go clean myself up,” I mumbled, quickly standing up and using the small splash of liquor as an excuse to run away.

I didn’t even dare to look up, but I still knew that Juan’s jet-black gaze followed me like a shadow, and that his father’s gunmetal eyes could have shot me dead.

I dashed into the kitchen and stood in front of the sink, pretending to dab the wet spots on my clothes with a paper towel. I opened one of the windows, and carefully listened to the conversations going on outdoors.

If Juan had told his Dad about what he knew, this was when shit would finally go down. This is when they’d confront Pablo about the kidnappings, all the business they’d left their so-called allies out of, and this is when the Sandovals would repaint Pablo’s patio in a bright shade of blood red.

If that happened, I didn’t want to be on the frontline, in the crossfire, right within Pablo’s deadly reach. Perhaps I could run, or hide in one of the kitchen cabinets and only crawl out after the gunfire had ceased.

But nothing happened. The Sandovals sat down, ordered some coffees, and Hernan asked Beto how he was handling his new job. Then they all laughed at a joke about Juan’s mother being a whore, which somehow fit into their conversation, and only then did I start breathing again.

It seemed that Juan had kept his promise.

Holding my breath for so long had given me a headache, and so I started opening all the cupboards, looking for a nice bottle to top up my drink. All I could find was Gustavo’s homemade rum, which surprisingly hadn’t been emptied down a drain yet. As much as I craved another shot of alcohol, there wasn’t a chance that I’d drink anything that dead motherfucker had made.

“Hey Em,” cheered Juan as he walked into the kitchen, startling me a little. “Have you had breakfast yet?”

I showed him my empty glass, lifting it in the air and swirling the last drops around the bottom so they’d be easier for me to drink up.

“A cocktail?” he asked, one eyebrow arched.

“I mean, it’s just almonds, oranges, and pineapples,” I muttered. “It’s healthy, if you forget that it’s liquor.”

I was dying to ask him if he’d stayed quiet, but as long as I was stuck in between these walls and their infamously good hearing, I couldn’t risk it.

“I just made pancakes, if you want some,” said Juan.

“You made pancakes?” I frowned.

“Well, a maid did, because I asked,” he shrugged.

“So you didn’t make pancakes,” I replied. “You made a maid make pancakes.”

“I made a maid make a maid make pancakes,” he grinned.

“What?”

My head recoiled a little as I struggled to understand what he’d said, or what even was going on in this damn kitchen. A minute ago I thought I was going to die, and now I was here, inventing tongue twisters with John Danger Glade.

“I asked Majo for pancakes but Luisa cooked them,” he chuckled.

“Alright, then I’m good,” I mumbled. “Majo probably spat on your pancakes, you know.”

“Not the first time I would taste her fluids,” he answered with a smirk.

My shoulders sagged as I let out a long, desperate sigh.

“The worst part about this is, it’s not even the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“So no pancakes, then?” he asked.

“No thanks.”

The shameful smile he’d managed to wring out of my bitter self was only temporary. As soon as he walked out of the kitchen, I started worrying again about the looming threat of my imminent death.

I wished I wasn’t stuck on that thought, rehashing it over and over like a broken record, but it was all I could think of. It weighed on me, like a big stone in my stomach. I saw it everywhere, like a dark mass hiding in the corner of my eye, and it echoed in my head like the dull ring of a distant siren.

The only way I could escape it was to drink myself unconscious. Down enough cocktails that I’d switch off my brain, and lose all my senses.

I spent the day with Andrea, who seemed happy enough to find a drinking partner, and stopped asking questions once she was drunk enough. Night fell before I could even notice, and soon I found myself in the middle of a party, holding tight to my twentieth-something drink with one hand and to Andrea’s shoulder with the other, the both of us stumbling and cackling like witches.

“Millie, Millie, Millie,” she sang, her head tilted to one side as if it was too heavy for her neck to carry. That was the nickname she’d chosen for me. “I really need to poop. Wanna come?”

“Um, no thanks,” I drawled, and sent her off with a friendly pat on the shoulder.

I kept on patting the air even after Andrea had gone on her merry way, but quickly regretted my decision not to follow her to the bathroom. It wasn’t because she’d just fallen over like Carrie Ingalls in Little House on the Prairie – she was fine, and a bunch of guys immediately rushed to help, probably hoping they could cop a feel as they picked her up.

I regretted not staying with her, because as soon as I was alone, Juan Sandoval walked over to me with a grim look on his face.

“Hey,” he murmured, nervously sucking on a cigarette.

“What is it?” I spat back.

“I haven’t told anyone,” he said.

“Don’t talk about it,” I hissed through my clenched teeth.

“I know, I just wanted you to know–”

“Don’t. Talk. About. It,” I repeated, drawing closer to his face as if that would intimidate him.

“I’m not talking about it,” he mumbled.

“You’re talking about it right now.”

“I’m just reassuring you,” he whispered.

“Do I look fucking reassured?” I seethed.

I wonder if he could see how my temples trembled at the fast-paced rhythm of my racing pulse, if my eyes were as bloodshot as they felt, and if I had spit frothing at the corners of my mouth yet.

“No, that’s why I wanted to tell you,” he sighed. “To be honest, you look insane right now.”

“Oh, fuck you!” I retorted, and splashed the rest of my drink in his face.

“Don’t take it out on me,” he protested, whacking an arm out in my direction as if I was a fly he could just swat away. “I didn’t ask for any of this, you know.”

“Well, neither did I.”

“Then whose fault is it?” he mumbled, rolling his eyes as he tapped the ash off the end of his cigarette.

“Yours!” I shouted. “I wouldn’t have told you if you didn’t ask stupid questions.”

“Stupid questions like ‘what is your name’?” he scoffed. “Really? That’s a stupid question?”

“Well it’s not exactly a clever question, is it?” I replied.

“Are you drunk?” he asked, with a few smug lines wrinkling up his brow. “Because for someone who’s supposedly trying to keep a secret, you’re being pretty fucking loud.”

“Oh, I’ll show you loud,” I drawled, poking a finger in the center of his chest like Ana used to whenever she tried to provoke a wannabe-tough guy.

A disgusting smirk spread across his lips, but before he could open them to say anything stupid, I slapped them shut with the back of my hand.

“What the fuck was that for?” he cried out, rubbing his cheek. “I didn’t even say anything”

“You were going to,” I spat.

Juan sneered, and disdainfully blew his cigarette smoke in my direction. He stared at me with a fake smile frozen on his face.

“Why are you being such a cunt?” I asked him.

“I’m a cunt? Really? If I was a cunt, I’d be telling everyone what I know about you,” he spat. “I’m doing you a favor by keeping my mouth shut. Perhaps I shouldn’t. If I told my Dad, he’d probably be more grateful than you are right now.”

The anger I’d been holding blew up in Juan’s face like a geyser. I flung myself at him, throwing punches in every direction, hoping one of them would land on his jaw. I kicked, I yelled, hurled insults at him at the top of my lungs. Meanwhile Juan swatted away my limbs and blocked each of my hits, as if I had no more strength than a small child.

“Hey, what the fuck is going on here?” Pablo intervened.

With embarrassing ease, Juan grabbed my hands and held them down. He took a step towards Pablo and with a swift move of the arm, herded me behind his back.

“I don’t know,” Juan shrugged, pointing at me by throwing his thumb over his shoulder. “I just told her she should stop drinking, and then she tried to hit me.”

This was one of the many, many moments where I wished I was shorter. Usually, it was because I had a crush on a guy who was a foot shorter than me, or because I kept banging my head against low door frames and open cupboards. This time, I just wished I was short enough to cower behind Juan, just out of Pablo’s line of sight.

Instead, I took the brunt of his exasperated glares. He licked his teeth and shook his head, before he reached around Juan and retrieved me from my hiding place.

“Juan’s right, Gordita,” he groaned. “I think it’s time you go to bed.”

“You can’t talk to me like that, you’re not my father,” I snarled.

Juan snickered, and I swung at him again. This time, it was a cheap shot, a treacherous and unfair one I threw from behind his back. It landed on his ear, and Juan folded over in pain.

“I’ll take care of her,” Pablo sighed.

Pablo dragged me back to the bedroom, and I mean literally dragged. My heels screeched across the kitchen’s tile floors, and I was still thrashing around by the time we got to the hall. I tripped over every step as he pulled me up the staircase. My stilettos left tracks in the varnish of the wooden floors, all the way down the long corridors.

“What is wrong with you?” he thundered as he shut the bedroom door.

“Nothing,” I groused, desperately trying to reach past him to grab the handle.

“Don’t make me lock you in here,” he spat, latching his fingers around my wrist. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“I just told you, nothing,” I answered sluggishly. “I’m just... stressed, that’s all.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m under quite a bit of pressure,” I muttered.

“Still?” he sighed. “Do you want a pill or something?”

“Hell no,” I retorted, scrunching my nose in disgust.

“Then what?” he mumbled, rolling his eyes at me. “Would you have rather stayed in that bedroom forever?”

“No,” I gulped.

“Right,” he answered. His face softened, and so did the grip he had on my arm. “You just need some rest. Lots of it.”

“Okay,” I murmured, bowing my head in defeat.

I walked over to the bed, and let myself fall limp on the soft mattress. While I waited for the ceiling to stop spinning, Pablo knelt down in front of me and gently unlatched the straps of my high-heeled shoes. He rubbed his thumb down the sole of my swollen feet, and softly cracked my red and throbbing toes.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked. “Some ice? Water? Something to eat?”

“I’m good,” I mumbled, as I pulled my dress over my head.

“You haven’t eaten all day,” he said. “What about a quesadilla? Taco Bell doesn’t deliver out here, but I can ask the maids to make you one.”

“Don’t ask Majo,” I mumbled. “I’m pretty sure she spits in my food.”

“Alright,” he chuckled softly. “Chicken or beef?”

My racing heartbeat finally settled, and for the first time in a few days, I actually felt a little hungry.

“Can I have both?” I asked.

“Sure.”

The kiss he left on my forehead as he tucked me in under the sheets and wished me goodnight might have been the only reason I managed to sleep that night. Or perhaps it was the sheer exhaustion plaguing me, which almost forced my eyes shut the second I laid down. I didn’t even manage to finish half of my quesadilla.

A day went past. Then another. Perhaps one more, then I lost track.

Rage, anger and a backlog of frustration spilled out of my throat every time I opened my mouth, but I made myself the promise not to lash out at anyone who was doing me a favor. I owed it to Juan, for keeping my secret a secret. I owed it to Pablo, for not locking me up again despite how many times he’d threatened it. I owed it to everyone else, for tolerating my unpleasant presence around them.

So I kept quiet. For days on end, I didn’t speak a single word, unless someone asked me a question. ′Yes’, ‘No’, and ‘I’m fine’ were a few typical answers. ′Sure, Andrea, I’ll have another drink’ was another.

Chugging alcohol helped me to drown out my tears. Every drink I swallowed pushed the lump in my throat a little further back. I stared at the floor when not at the bottom of my glass, and spent so much time with my head bowed down that my neck began to hurt.

I’d wake up every morning with a pounding headache, spend the day with an unbearable weight in my chest, and collapse around midnight with a churning ache in my guts.

I was sick and sore everywhere from stumbling around, going from blackout to blackout. Cocktails, wine, liquor straight from the bottle, I tried it all, but alcohol no longer managed to numb the pain.

There wasn’t a number of shots I could take that could kill my dark thoughts, not enough Tequila Sunrises that could cloud my brain.

It was yet another night when I was moaning in pain, suffering the early symptoms of my latest hangover, and Pablo was sleeping tight. Tonight more than ever, I wanted to end it. To stop this endless fall before I found myself once again drenched in cold sweat, paralyzed by nausea and a throbbing migraine.

With a trembling hand, I opened the drawer of the night table beside me. I would have thrown a glance over my shoulder to check if Pablo was asleep, had I had the strength to lift my head from my pillow.

In the darkness, I felt around the drawer, hoping to find my salvation. The first thing I found was a gun, and I longingly traced my finger down the cold, hard metal, until it curled around the trigger.

I tried to pick it up, but it was too heavy. It slipped out of my hand and fell with a loud clatter that made the whole night table rattle. I held my breath until I heard Pablo snore again.

I let out a quiet sigh, and slipped my hand back in the drawer in search of something else. I found pills, powders, more capsules and tablets, hundreds of them, sorted into dozens of little plastic bags. I could hardly discern their colors in the faint moonlight. I could barely tell apart their shapes as I rubbed them between my fingertips.

There were too many pills to choose from, so I entrusted my fate to a game of eenie meenie miney mo. A tear rolled down my cheek and fell on the silk sheets below me as I pulled out a pill from the bag I had picked.

Just pray it’s the right one. Pablo’s voice echoed in my head as I let it melt on my tongue, grimacing at its foul taste. I hoped it would give me a little bit of peace, just a tiny bit of relief until I got back on my feet.

I was only one step closer to reaching rock bottom.

Kerning

Pressure

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