Bonds of Being

“Don’t forget about me!”
I shouted as my friends headed off down the dusty road, balancing bags of groceries and supplies in their arms. They glanced back with tired smiles, waving before turning the corner. Most of them were already out of school, helping their families full-time. It was different now—less laughter, more responsibility. But I wasn’t sad. We were still close, even if things had changed. They had their duties, and I still had a bit more time. School wasn’t over for me yet, but I knew my days were numbered. Pretty soon, I’d be joining them, helping around the house, at the market, wherever I was needed. I wasn’t in a rush. For now, I could still hold on to these little moments, knowing that when they came back, we’d pick up right where we left off.
I pushed open the door, the scent of beans simmering on the stove filling the house. "I’m home!" I called, dropping the bag of tortillas on the table.
Mamá appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "You’re late, Martina," she said, her voice tight. "What took you so long? You know we have a lot to do, and you still have to study."
"I ran into Ana and stopped to chat for a bit," I said, trying to keep it light, but I could see the disapproval in her eyes.
"Chatting won’t get you into medical school," she replied, shaking her head. "You need to focus. You think I don’t see how hard your papá works to send you to school? You’re our only hope for something better. Your sisters are already married off, but you—you can be different."
I sighed, knowing the speech by heart. "I know, mamá. I just—"
"You just need to take this seriously," she interrupted. "Papá’s counting on you to become a doctor. It’s the only way out of this life, Tinita. No one else in the family got this chance."
Before I could respond, the door creaked, and my younger brother Mateo came in, his hands full of laundry. "Mamá, can I be done now? I’ve been hanging clothes all afternoon."
"You’ll be done when the work is done," she snapped, then turned back to me. "And you, go to your room and study. We didn’t send you to school just so you could waste your time."
I wanted to say something—anything—but I knew it wouldn’t help. They meant well, I knew that. But sometimes, the weight of their expectations felt heavier than anything I carried around here.
The next morning, I wake up to the smell of breakfast and the sound of my mum messing around in the kitchen. What is it with mothers and their love of smashing pans together on a Monday morning? I take a minute to snap out of the morning haze and tumble out of my bed, rubbing my eyes for the morning dizziness to go away. I stretch my face out, wiggling my eyebrows and blowing my cheeks up with air, then I scrape away some dried-up saliva on the corners of my mouth. I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, and sigh hopelessly, fearing if I would be able to fix the sloth-looking creature staring back at me. I reach into the dryer to find the ankle length navy blue plaited skirt, and the white polo our school makes us wear. I go down for breakfast, but then decide not to have any, just like every other day these past five months. I figured that, if I found my friends so pretty, I might as well put in a little effort to look prettier myself. Though, I haven’t seen much difference yet, but they say it’s just part of the process.
When I arrived at school, I walked past all the groups of friends talking and laughing, and I’m not surprised when all of them are boys. There are few girls in this school, since almost all girls of our age quit school, get married, and take care of their household. But my family thought differently. I have three older sisters, each of which got married young, had kids, and lives the life of a usual girl here. But ever since my younger brother was born, we’ve been struggling financially, and my parents decided it’s better for me to go and do something that’ll help our family.
The bell rang, indicating the start of lunch break. I get up from my seat and make my way to the empty chemistry lab that I use as a break room. As one of the only girls in my school, sitting in the cafeteria is risky. Especially with all the gangs around here, it’s better to just stay out of the way. My friend, Ana, experienced such thing last school year. She dropped out right after; her parents made her, but she was my only friend left in the class. They touched her where she didn’t want to be touched, and ever since she’s been scarred.
I drop my books onto the desk and only then I notice the other individual sitting at the other side of the room. His jaw so sharp it could cut diamond, and his salt-and-pepper chiselled hair looks grainy under his touch. I’ve seen him around the school before, but he never taught me. He turns around in his chair to face me. His eyes were the fire in the water. I had never seen eyes as blue as his, nearly silver; it was like standing face to face with a blizzard. His eyes burn a hole into mine as he stares at me, sending chills down my back. He initiates a conversation.
"Still here, Martina?" he asked.
I nodded, trying to keep my voice steady. "Yeah, just… needed some quiet."
He came closer, standing right beside my desk. His presence felt heavy, like he was invading my space. I shifted in my seat, suddenly wishing I had left earlier.
"You know," he said, his voice quieter than usual, “it’s nice when it’s just the two of us. The classroom’s so different when it’s empty.”
I forced a smile, hoping he’d leave soon, but he didn’t move. Instead, he sat down in the chair next to me, leaning in a little too much, his leg brushing against mine. My heart started to race. I tried to focus on my notebook, but I could feel him staring at me.
“You look stressed,” he said, his eyes moving over me slowly. “School can be hard, right? Sometimes it helps to have someone to talk to… someone you can trust.”
I nodded stiffly, not liking where this was going. His voice had dropped even lower, and I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I glanced toward the door, feeling trapped.
Before I could say anything, his hand rested on my shoulder, lingering there. I froze. His fingers were too familiar, sliding down my arm as if testing my reaction. My skin crawled.
“You know, Martina,” he said softly, his hand moving lower, “I could help you relax. Sometimes a little personal attention is all you need.”
My breath hitched. I tried to push his hand away, but he grabbed my wrist, holding it firmly. Panic surged through me.
“Stop,” I whispered, my voice trembling. I pulled my arm back, my heart hammering in my chest, but he leaned closer, his face way too close to mine now.
“No need to be nervous,” he whispered, his hand brushing my leg this time. “I just want to help you feel better.”
I shot out of my seat, yanking my arm free. My body moved before I even realized it, my chair scraping against the floor as I stepped back. “Don’t,” I managed to choke out, my voice louder this time. My pulse pounded in my ears, and I could barely think straight. All I knew was that I had to get out, but it was too late. “No, no,” I cried, tears blurring my vision as I kicked and tried to shove him off. But he was too strong. His hand moved higher, and I felt my stomach twist with nausea and terror.
He yanked me harder, pulling me down, his other hand covering my mouth now, muffling my sobs. I struggled, but it only seemed to make him more determined, his weight pressing me into the chair, his hands rough and insistent. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—just trapped, drowning in fear.
Time became a blur as he forced himself on me. The pain, the helplessness—it all melded together, and I just wanted it to stop. My mind went blank, trying to shut everything out, trying not to exist in that moment.
When he finally pulled away, standing up like nothing had happened, I stayed frozen, numb. My body trembled, my skin crawling with every breath. He straightened his shirt, smoothing his hair, as if he hadn’t just destroyed everything.
“You’ll be fine,” he said, his voice eerily calm. “Just keep this between us. No one has to know.”
It had been almost nine months since that day in the classroom, and everything in my life had changed. The weight of what happened grew inside me, both physically and emotionally. I hadn’t told anyone, couldn’t tell anyone. The shame and fear of not being believed kept me silent. I had desperately wanted to end this pregnancy, to rid myself of the child that was a constant reminder of the nightmare Mr. Rivera had forced upon me. I had scoured the internet for information to get rid of the pregnancy, but the options felt limited and terrifying. Each day brought new reminders of my reality, and I felt suffocated by the weight of it all.
When I finally gathered the courage to tell my parents about the pregnancy, I had hoped for understanding. Instead, their reactions were worse than I feared. My father’s face twisted in disgust, and my mother’s gaze filled with a mix of anger and disappointment. “You’ve brought shame upon this family,” my father shouted, his voice echoing in our small living room. “Do you think we can just pretend this never happened?” They kicked me out, hurling words that felt like daggers into my heart. “You’re no daughter of ours,” my mother spat, tears streaming down her cheeks. My world collapsed in that moment. I was a burden, an embarrassment, and they wanted nothing to do with me.
Now, as I stumbled through the park, the sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the grass. I could feel the weight of my belly, the life inside me, and it became harder to ignore the pain. Each contraction hit like a wave, sharp and relentless, pulling me deeper into a storm of fear and desperation. I had hoped to reach the hospital, to have help, but it felt like an impossible dream. I leaned against a tree, gasping for breath, trying to push the panic away. “Not here,” I whispered to myself, but it didn’t matter. The baby was coming. The next contraction slammed into me, and I could no longer hold back the scream that tore from my throat. I sank to my knees, the cool grass beneath me grounding me for a moment. “Please, just a little longer,” I begged, but my body had other plans. With each contraction, the pressure built, and I felt like I was losing control. I was terrified of giving birth in public, of what strangers might think, but I had no choice. I pushed through the pain, desperate to find relief. “Come on, Martina,” I urged myself, taking a deep breath as I clenched my teeth. “You can do this.”
I felt the baby shift inside me, and then it was time. A surge of determination coursed through me. I pushed with everything I had, feeling the world around me fade. The sounds of the park—the laughter of children, the rustle of leaves—blurred into a distant hum. “Just one more,” I gasped, my body trembling as I pushed again. I could feel the moment when the baby finally slipped free.
The relief was overwhelming, but it was quickly replaced by the piercing cries of my newborn. I collapsed back against the grass, panting, my heart racing as I looked down. There she was—a tiny, squirming girl, wrinkled and red, her cries breaking the stillness of the park. But as I stared at her, my heart sank. She opened her eyes, and I froze. The same cold, piercing eyes I had dreaded for so long stared back at me. Eyes like the midwinter sky, calculating, and filled with an unsettling familiarity. A wave of nausea washed over me.
I hated it. I hated that she had his eyes. I hated that she was a living reminder of everything he had done to me. In that moment, I felt everything I had tried to bury rise to the surface—anger, despair, and a deep, consuming resentment. This child, so innocent in form, was a constant link to the man who had taken so much from me. “I didn’t want this,” I whispered, tears streaming down my face as I cradled her close, my heart heavy with conflicting emotions. “You’re a reminder of everything that happened.” The weight of my past pressed down on me, suffocating. I wanted to feel love for this child, but all I felt was resentment and pain. I fought against the turmoil inside me, searching for something, anything, that would let me accept this new life.
As I looked into her eyes, the fear I had felt throughout my entire pregnancy washed over me once more. How could I care for someone who reminded me of the darkness I had endured? The sight of her face filled me with a deep sense of dread.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, feeling utterly lost. “I’m so sorry.”
It was the harsh reality: I hated the very existence of my daughter. Every time I looked at her, I saw him. I saw the violation of my trust, the destruction of my innocence, and the life I had lost. I could feel the anger simmering just beneath the surface, threatening to explode.
As I held her, I felt a flicker of something begin to stir within me—a desperate urge to break free from the cycle of pain. But every time I looked at her, I felt only disgust and anger. I could not bear the thought of nurturing someone who carried his legacy.
“I can’t do this,” I whispered, feeling the tears spill down my cheeks. “I can’t.”
The reality was crushing. I had become a mother, but I was filled with nothing but disdain for the very child I had just brought into the world. I was trapped, and the walls were closing in around me. I felt like I was drowning in a sea of despair, with no way out. Then, in that moment of darkness, a thought flickered in my mind—a way to escape it all. It was terrifying yet oddly calming. I could end the pain. I could end everything.
With trembling hands, I cradled my daughter against my chest, my heart racing as I contemplated the unimaginable. I was disgusted by her, repulsed by the very sight of her, yet somehow, I felt a connection. She was a part of me, but she was also a reminder of everything I had lost. In a moment of despair, I stood, feeling the tears stream down my face as I faced the harsh reality of my life. The world around me blurred, and I began to walk toward the edge of the road, the darkness calling to me like a siren.
But as I walked, something within me twisted. I didn’t want to leave her alone in this world. I couldn’t bear the thought of her suffering like I had. The conflict raged within me, and I felt my grip tighten around her small form.
“No,” I whispered, shaking my head as if I could shake off the thoughts that clouded my mind. “I won’t abandon you.”
I turned back, clutching my daughter tightly as I made my way toward the nearby bridge. The weight of the world pressed down on me, and I felt an overwhelming urge to make it all stop. The thought of taking her with me felt almost freeing.
We reached the bridge, and the sounds of the water below called to me. I looked down, the rushing current reflecting the chaos within me. I couldn’t bear the thought of her living without me, of her suffering in this world where pain and shame loomed large.
“Together,” I whispered, my heart racing as I held her close. “We’ll be free together.”
And in that moment, as I prepared to take the leap into the unknown, I felt an eerie sense of calm wash over me. I pressed my lips against her forehead, feeling her warmth against my skin one last time.
“I’m sorry,” I breathed, and then, with one final step, I surrendered to the darkness, taking her with me into the depths of the void.
“Don’t forget about me,” I whispered into the shadows, as we fell into the unknown.