Chapter 2 2

After four long hours of driving, I finally stop in front my house-my parent's house.

Still the same two story house, with the obnoxiously large water fountain in the middle of the driveway. I guess you could say I was born into a rich family, actually very rich.

Papa's older brother, Pedro Alfonso, was head of the Spanish mafia. When he died of a heart attack, his wife, Cristina Alfonso, and son, Dante Alfonso, came to live with us.

One day, they both magically died. At least that's how Dominic Alfonso, my papa, wants everyone to see it as.

But that's all a whole lot of bullshit.

That night, I heard screams and sobs coming from our basement. My stupid, seven-year-old self, went downstairs to cure my curiosity and my heart practically stopped when I saw the scene playing out in front of me.

Papa-my papa, was stabbing Dante in the chest with a knife while aunt Cristina was tied to a chair in the corner, being forced to watch her own son die.

I didn't know what to do, it's not like I could do anything. I sprinted back up to my room and had my first panic attack, with no one to help me.

The next morning, aunt Cristina was no where to be found. It was pretty obvious, even to my young mind, who had killed my aunt and cousin.

My papa was a fucking murder.

And what did I do?

Fucking nothing.

As I grew older and overheard conversations between papa and his 'colleagues', I soon figured out what the fuck was going on.

I was fourteen when I found out.

My papa killed his brother and his family to take over the Spanish mafia himself. He did all of this for money.

Our family wasn't poor before this, so papa had no reason to be this greedy. He got caught up in all of this avarice that he ended up killing his own family.

It wasn't like uncle Pedro didn't send us money either, he would always help us when we asked. Yet, papa didn't appreciate his brother's efforts enough...

Which is exactly why you should never give more than you receive. People will always hurt you and take advantage of your kindness and efforts.

Somehow the next day, papa found out I had eavesdropped. He forcefully took me to the basement, the same one he had murdered our family in.

Papa signaled one of the men in black suits who had brought over a man. A man who was bruised up and bleeding to his core. A man who shouldn't be suffering like so. A man who a child shouldn't be seeing in such awful conditions.

I had felt like throwing up. A fourteen year old should be doing anything else, but be in a room with a beaten, bloodied man.

Before I could have said a word, papa handed me a gun. A gun, in the hands of a damn child. A fucking gun.

"Shoot." I remember him demanding. As if it meant nothing, as if this weapon couldn't take someone's life in an instance.

When I refused on killing that man, he slowly took of his belt, showing me what would happen if I didn't. He wrapped it around his fist and gave me a pointed look. This was the look he gave me when he would hurt me.

The feeling was all too familiar...My heart dropped straight to my stomach. I felt purely sick.

'Was he really going to beat me? In front all these men?' I had thought to myself. Now looking back at it, yes he would have.

I pulled the trigger. I shot the man, I was so scared. I didn't want to hurt him, but I did. I was selfish. I could have taken the beating, but no, I took a life instead.

The bullet went straight through his head. I was in pure shock and I could not move an inch of my body. The air around me had began tasting like poison, a type of poison I deserved for killing an innocent. It felt like the walls were closing in on me. No one was by my side to help, it was just me.

Papa put his arm on my hip and turned me around, leading me out of the basement.

Just when I thought this shit was over, he took me to the basement every day. But not to kill, to train.

He would leave me alone in there, for ten hours every day after school, with random men. They taught me to defend myself, but not in normal ways.

If I did something wrong, they would fucking hit me. It's like papa gave them permission to treat me like this. I remember the pain I felt everyday, lying on that basement floor, and I don't ever want to feel it again, nor do I wish for anyone else to feel it.

By the age of eighteen, right before graduating, papa had successfully trained me into killing people. He treated me like some project.

I never understood why he trained me. It wasn't like I was inheriting his position, so I never figured out why he taught me to defend myself in such crude ways.

Maybe he was just a mental patient having his fun of my life.

I close my eyes and feel a single tear glide down my cheek.

I shake the old memories away and step out of my black Mercedes. I take a deep breath and grab my suitcase and purse from the back. Heading to the front door, I ring the doorbell. A repeated 'bing', noise echoes through the walls and bounces off the windows.

Still the same fucking sound.

My parents are both from Spain. I fluently speak Spanish since I was raised there for the first five years of my life. My parents never bothered to check on me, so I took care of myself.

I remember one time, I had accidentally spilled coffee on my papa. And he yelled. Screamed. And fucking hit me. I cried and I still remember his stupid, useless words. Except they've been proven to not be so useless after all, because I have recited his sentences word for word.

"Eres una puta mujer, así que empieza a actuar así. No vales nada más, así que no esperes que yo ni ningún hombre te tratemos así. Ahora, ve a hacerme otra taza, perra!" (You're a fucking woman, so start acting like it. You are not worth anything else, do not expect me or any man to ever treat you like it. Now, go make me another cup, bitch!)

I was fucking seven. This sexist motherfucker. Yet, I never said that to him, I simply just went back and made him another cup.

My mama, Anita Alfonso, isn't any better. She never treated me like a human, let alone a child. I got myself up in the mornings for school, and made my own dinner and breakfast at the age of ten. It wasn't ever real food, just things that were easy to make because I was never taught how to cook. For example, cereal and bagels were always a go-to.

I had no siblings. No pets. And my parents would never allow my friends to come over. I was all alone. I felt like a prisoner in my own home, trapped with no way out.

Some people should never have kids if they can't take up the responsibility to give them a good life. I don't get why they didn't put me up for adoption or simply just dispose of me if they didn't want me.

The relationship of a mother and daughter is supposed to be the most special. Your mom is supposed to give you sex education and explain periods not abandon you in a world full of cruel people.

School was never easy for me either. I was always taunted because my parents would never show up to any of my events.

It was excruciating, seeing other girls at school getting picked up by their mama's while my fucking driver came.

It pained me to think my parents didn't love me enough to do those little things for me-the ones that mattered the most.

If I decide to have kids with someone, I'll never let them go through the things I endured. I end up knowing that I cannot give them a good, happy life, I simply will not have children.

I was snapped out of my thoughts when the door opened.

Mama.

She still looked the same, except some wrinkles had made their way to her face. She was a beautiful woman on the outside, yet I never thought I looked like her or my papa...

She had the fakest smile plastered on her face as she spoke unexpectedly nicely. "Bienvenida a casa, Elisia!" Mama exclaimed, excitedly. A little too happy, isn't she?. (Welcome home, Elisia!)

I step into the house and all of the horrible, traumatic memories come flooding back. It's as if all those years of therapy had done nothing to heal me.

Four years of therapy down the drain.

"Bienvenido de nuevo a tu casa, cariño!" A loud voice booms behind me. (Welcome back to your home, sweetie!)

Papa.

His grey hair was shriveled and messy. He was in his usual grey suit, and it's safe to say he hasn't changed one bit.

It's ridiculous how he says 'your home'. This house was never my home. Maybe my naive seven year old mind thought so, but as time passed, and I grew up, I slowly realized this isn't what you call home. This was and still is fucking hell. And, I, unfortunately, was stuck in the deepest, darkest pits of it.

I want to go back already.

"Cómo has estado, cariño?" Mama chimes in, acting as if they hadn't traumatized me for life, scarred me for life. (How have you been, dear?)

I swallow the lump in my throat and reply, "Bien." (Fine.)

"Bueno, pareces cansada. Por qué no vas a tu habitación y duermes?" Papa smiles at me, obviously fake and sarcastic. (Well, you look tired. Why don't you head up to your room and sleep?)

My room?

I thought they made it into a guest room.

What the fuck is happening?

Why is he smiling like this?

Something doesn't feel right.

"Me parece bien." I reply, just happy to stay away as far as possible from them. (Sounds good to me.)

And with that, I head up stairs.