Venomous Mistake

🐍2🐍

"Wake up, Mami." I hear my mother's voice somewhere in the distance.

I loved that she was my only strength, although she was dead. It didn't feel like I was from the throbbing in my head, though and the fact that I was breathing. I'm not on a soft mattress anymore. I hated these dreams, but they only came when I experienced a sense of deja vu.

He pulls my hair back, and I hit it on the- Puta madre. I groan, my hand instinctively going to my head. Oh, wait, I can't fucking do that because- I became alert. My eyes flew open, and I realised I was sweating profusely. My breaths echoed in my ear, and it was dark. Was I in a box? A whimper escaped my lips. What has he not tried before?

I remember at eleven when he said, "Life challenges us, Clara. You'd be able to think clearly and act precisely in that box. One hour in there, and thats it."

I cried for that hour straight. I was too weak to break the box open. It was a fucking coffin with chains around it and a heavy padlock. My little fingers got bruised with every punch. They bled from every scratch, tearing the skin around my cuticles. He smiled when he finally opened that box and said, "Thats how the brain works, Clara. Instincts. Your first thought was to free yourself."

From hanging by the arms on ropes to holding my breath underwater and running laps around the estate, he placed me in a box. He did it again today. I swallowed the lump in my throat and took a shuddering breath. I had to keep it together. I am eighteen and crying is for little girls. I've done that enough and come a long way to let emotions take control over me.

I'm still in last nights clothes- I don't even know what time it is. I lift my forearm, place my fingertips on the boxs lid and punch hard. I grit my teeth, ignoring the shock in my nerves.

I could barely feel it because of that fucking sor in that convent. Not once do I not have to fight the urge to sneak into that place and take her life. That would do nothing compared to what she did to me. Suffocating, shooting her, breaking her neck or slicing it was too easy a death for the trauma she caused me and some of the canallas who didn't deserve it.

I scream when the final punch I deliver breaks the wood, and sand falls in my eyes. Was I underground? The sand was still pouring like water into the cracks, and I'd better get out of there before I suffocated. I swear, the deaths I plan for people are what happens to me. I'd have to stop that before someone presses a knife against my throat. Worse yet, a bullet like how Mama and Ruben died.

I was panicking because this was new. I don't even know how deep I got buried. I think I will be dead before I am twenty-before I even live life from the wickedness forcefully shoving down my throat.

I never wanted this life. I just wanted to be ordinary with friends, parents, people who didn't make fun of me and feel like I belong. I'm only eighteen and have seen and heard more than an ordinary thirty-year-old man. I'm just stuck, and no one can help me except myself.