Chapter 54: When Silence Screams

MATEO – POV

The parish was silent, but inside me there was a void that devoured everything. Lucía’s absence felt like a hollow space in every corner of the rectory. Her voice no longer echoed through the hallways, nor did the sound of her laughter when she passed by the sacristy. Her scent was gone, no longer mingling with the incense, nor were her honey-colored eyes there, those eyes that always seemed to give daylight back to me.

As I walked through the stone corridors, I caught myself searching for her without meaning to. I surprised myself glancing toward the entrance, hoping to see her with her hair loose, a broom in hand, or that shy smile that always hid a secret.

But she wasn’t there.

And each day without her was a torment.

That afternoon, during catechism class, I struggled to focus on the children’s questions.

“Father, why did God create angels without bodies?” a little boy asked, his eyes wide with curiosity.

I offered a faint smile, forcing calm.

“Because angels are pure spirit,” I explained. “They don’t need bodies the way we do…”

I didn’t finish the sentence. The catechism room door flew open, and one of the volunteers rushed in, breathless, her face pale with alarm.

“Father Mateo!” she exclaimed, nearly out of breath. “Come quickly! It’s Lucía!”

A blow landed in my stomach. My heart raced until it hurt.

I asked Doña Socorro—the elderly woman who was always ready to help—to stay with the children. She looked at me with those wise eyes that understood when something serious was happening and nodded without asking questions.

I ran after the young volunteer. The cold afternoon air of San Cristóbal cut into my skin, but inside me burned a dark fire. We reached an old building near the market, its walls damp, its stairway narrow. As we climbed, a sound froze my blood: screams. Muffled, broken screams that tore through the air.

No one intervened. Neighbors watched from half-open doors, their eyes filled with fear—or indifference. The entire hallway seemed complicit in the silence.

I shoved open the poorly closed apartment door, and the scene struck me like a fist to the chest.

Lucía was on the floor, curled up, shielding herself with her arms. Damián—her husband—rained blows down on her with a nameless fury. His dark eyes gleamed with violence.

“Enough!” I shouted, entering without thinking.

I lunged at him, grabbed him by the shoulders, and slammed him against the wall. His breath reeked of mezcal, and his crooked smile twisted into a mocking grimace.

“And who do you think you are, priest?” he spat, his face flushed. “You think you can take what’s mine?”

“She is not yours!” I roared, not recognizing my own voice.

He jerked violently, raising his hand as if he might strike me as well. In that instant, I didn’t think about my cassock, my vows, or the cross on my chest. I thought only of her, of her trembling body on the floor.

I pulled out my phone.

“I’m calling the police,” I warned, dialing with shaking fingers.

But a weak hand clutched mine.

“No…” Lucía whispered, barely audible. Her eyes, swollen from tears, pleaded with me. “Please, don’t.”

The phone slipped from my fingers. My instinct screamed for justice, but her gaze bound me in place. I couldn’t go against her will—not then.

Damián let out a harsh laugh.

“That’s what I thought, Father…” he sneered, and staggered out, hurling threats that faded down the hallway.

I rushed to Lucía.

“It’s okay… it’s over now,” I murmured, though I knew it was a lie. I lifted her carefully, feeling the fragile weight of her body leaning into mine.

I took her back to the parish. Doña Socorro was waiting. Her steady hands, worn by years of work, moved with surprising gentleness. She cleaned Lucía’s wounds, applied ointments, brushed her damp hair back from her forehead.

“My child, you have to report him,” the old woman said firmly as she wrapped a bruised arm. “That man won’t stop. Now I understand why you sought refuge in the church the first time. You can’t keep silent.”

Lucía lowered her gaze. Her lips pressed together in stubborn silence. Not a single word left her mouth.

Helplessness cut through me like a knife. I wanted to shout, to demand that she speak, that she defend herself. But when I looked at her—her skin marked by blows—I understood she was already too broken for more questions.

Doña Socorro sighed, patted my shoulder, and left us alone in the dim light of the office.

I remained standing, watching her. Her fragility stirred a storm inside me: compassion, rage, tenderness… and a dangerous desire. I wanted to hold her, protect her, erase every mark on her skin with my lips.

She lifted her eyes—honey-colored, like a wounded forest.

“I’m sorry…” she whispered, barely audible.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” I replied, my voice breaking. I leaned in slightly, trying to catch her gaze. “The sin is not yours.”

For a moment, I felt myself moving too close. The warmth of her breath brushed my skin. Everything in me cried out to kiss her, to surrender to the impulse that had burned inside me since the first time I saw her.

But I stopped myself. I clenched my fists, took a deep breath, and stepped back.

Exhausted, she closed her eyes and leaned against the couch. Her breathing gradually slowed, slipping into a sleep brought on by pain and exhaustion.

I watched her in silence. My heart pounded like a drum; my hands trembled. Slowly, unable to resist any longer, I leaned down. My lips brushed hers for just an instant—a chaste, silent kiss that nonetheless pierced my soul like lightning.

When I pulled away, my eyes filled with tears.

“Forgive me, Lord…” I murmured in the shadows. “But I cannot stop loving her.”

And there, standing before Lucía’s sleeping body, I understood that the battle was only just beginning.