Chapter 115 A noose and a lifeline.
CHAPTER 115
A nose and a lifeline.
SCARLETT – POINT OF VIEW
“Do you know why some men use fire, Rosalina?” Papa asks as we peel the oranges.
I shake my head and chew on my lip, “No, Papa.”
At seven, my brain is sharp. I am his first child. I do not yet know I will be his only child.
“Fire is just like water. Water washes away everything; it washes away bad weather, a tension-filled room, and it also washes away our sins. It cleans us, and we are born anew. We bathe with water. We drink water. We cook water. It’s in every part of our lives,” he lectures, “Yet so is fire. There’s nothing so consuming as flames. Water replenishes, giving a second chance, but fire doesn’t. It gives no second chance. It takes everything away. Men use fire when they want something to stay dead. There’s every chance that a body of water can wash somewhere else, but fire leaves no room for denial. It does its job cleanly.”
Fear fills me as if my body knows my inevitable future.
“Cowards use fire to end their enemies. It is inhumane and despicable. There is a special place in hell for men like that. They will burn abundantly by the same fire they wield as a weapon.” He says sharply, displeased.
“This may seem hypothetical, carino, but there are ways to handle conflict. It doesn’t have to end with violence. I am not a man who fights with his fists. Words go a long way. Words stick to us. Words remain with us when people are long gone. Remember my words, amore.” He smiles and caresses my cheeks softly, before glancing at the tree, “Let’s get enough to make a large container of juices.”
“Yes, Papa.” I run around, breathless as I pick up the oranges from the ground.
“I want you to meet someone tomorrow, mijo,” he bends beside me, throwing oranges in the large basket.
“Who?” My little heart races with hope. Could it be another child to play with?
“A friend. A business partner. Someone to take care of you in our absence.” He ruffles my hair, and I giggle, “Okay, Papa.”
“Emiliano Calderón. An old friend.”
I wake up violently gasping for air.
My lungs constrict as the air seems to solidify and thicken.
Panic spreads through me, and my chest caves in painfully as if my heart is being crunched in someone’s fist.
I can’t breathe.
There is no air.
I am going to die.
Hot tears blur my vision.
“I’m here, Scarlett.” Roman’s voice feels like a noose and a lifeline at the same time.
“Breathe for me, Red. I’m right here. You are fine. You are safe. You are safe. I promise you, my love. No one will ever hurt you again, not even me. I promise you.” Urgency takes over his words, and his grip on me tightens desperately.
A sob tears out of me immediately air fills my lungs.
I shatter in his arms, and he holds me firmly.
He caresses my hair, offering sweet words on a platter, rocking me softly.
My chest hollows out as if someone has scooped out everything in me, carved me out like an orange and left the empty and fragile wrap.
Nightmares about my parents, my home and the person I used to be are a clear sign of disaster on the horizon. It means something bad is about to happen. This is one I cannot identify because it was a dream, a beautiful memory of my father, albeit one I’ve forgotten, but a memory nonetheless. A dream ended viciously with a nightmare. The mention of Emiliano makes it a nightmare.
I’m not sure what to expect.
It’s hard to lean into my father’s memories when Emiliano was mentioned.
I cannot remember this. I was seven. I should be able to remember it, but I don’t. Perhaps my brain hid this memory as a form of self-preservation, scrubbed out in the flames. There is something for me here, but I just can’t think right now.
What am I trying to remember?
“Do you want to talk about it?” Roman asks, pulling me back to the present.
I shake my head. I shouldn’t trauma dump on him. He will drown under the weight of my pain. Then, he will leave me because all I have done is lie to him. I will hold him to his promise. I will remind him of tonight, of the promise he made me, and I hope it holds, but I doubt it will. Roman’s anger is quiet, and I do not look forward to it.
“I just want to go back to sleep,” I whisper, even though the thought of that scares me endlessly. What if I fall into a deeper nightmare? What if I’m stuck there, unable to leave? What if Roman can’t reach me, can’t hold me, can’t save me?
“As a child, my parents travelled a lot,” he whispers, running his hand over my back, soothing me.
“They were activists. They believed it was important to fight for what was right, to speak up when necessary, especially when others were too scared to. They always believed in leading with love. They were Christmas cards bundled together.” He scoffs, and I chuckle, warmth replacing the dread running through my bloodstream.
“My father was a strong feminist; they both were. They always spoke up, flying across borders to give lectures and educate the world on various things. I didn’t really see them as often as I’d liked, and sometimes, they took me with them. It was always a wonderful vacation for me. I got to see my parents make an impact, and I knew I was going to be the same.” His voice holds a trace of regret.
“Yet, here I am, grown up, and different. I’m miles away from who I wanted to be. I don’t think my Dad would have liked me. I know for sure my mom doesn’t. My point, Red, is that sometimes we grow up to be totally different from what we planned to be, but that’s not a failure, that’s growth, that’s life. Life often throws curveballs our way, and we do our best to dodge them, but sometimes we don’t. Yet, we must carry on.” He says sternly.