I gripped the edges of the island, trying to avoid whimpering. The moment he twirled the spoon in the air, sliding the handle along the same track he'd used with his hand, I couldn't hold back. The sound was like a pitiful cry, a moment of self-doubt fusing with the ugly acceptance that I would end up breaking his rules time and time again.
He wrapped his hand around my hair, keeping me in place, his wrist cracking as he smacked first one side then the other.
"Fuck!" The word slipped from my mouth, my grip becoming nail-biting firm as the anticipation rode every synapse in my brain. When he issued four more, one coming after the other, I slumped against the counter, taking several deep breaths.
"Once you learn to obey me, the world will open up to you," he said almost casually, as if I had every intent of behaving.
He smacked me several times until the heat buildup was intense, the pain almost blinding. Who knew that a wooden spoon could inflict so much anguish?
A nervous laugh bubbled to the surface, the fight to hold it back adding instant pressure to my already aching head. As he continued the spanking, the hard smacking sound almost as bad as the actual pain, I fell into a different state of mind, a quiet lull that I used in order to concentrate on learning my music.
I don't know why the realization that I was doing the exact same mental exercises bothered me so much, but it did. Another round of anger and desperation filtered into my system, creating a wave of stress and anxiety. All the various premonitions I'd had since I was a little girl had dissipated, allowing me to live without their blasphemous revelations that usually came to me in my sleep.
Why now?
Why did I have such a foreboding feeling?
Why did I know that... someone was going to die?
The myriad ugly thoughts made me lash out, pushing back from the counter.
"Stay in position," he commanded.
I yanked my head from side to side, struggling with him as various images flashed in my mind's eyes. I couldn't stop them. Ugly. Brutal.
Bloody.
They filtered into my mind in vivid color. I hadn't realized that the savage and very guttural sound was coming from my throat until I managed to break free of his grasp, fighting to get away from the island.
"Valencia. What's wrong?"
"Na-nothing." I raced toward the coffee table, hurrying to grab my nightgown, knocking his jacket to the floor. My entire body was shaking as I bent down, my eye catching a smattering of photographs that had fallen from one of the pockets. As the pictures scattered across the beautiful hardwood, I was drawn to them, unable to stop my curiosity. I blinked several times in an attempt to focus, sucking in my breath when I was finally able to comprehend what I was seeing.
"Valencia, don't. Leave those alone," he commanded, quickly heading in my direction.
Even with only the light coming from the kitchen to illuminate the glossy photos, it was enough to allow me to realize the horror depicted on every one of them. I jerked one into my hand, trying to keep a rational mind. The photographs were horrible, the scenes of various murders unlike anything I'd seen before, either in real life or on television.
I was pulled into a vacuum, my mind unable to process the information completely.
But I knew several of the locations. That meant that... my father was... No. No! This couldn't be true.
"Valencia. Don't do that. I'm sorry you had to see these."
"Don't!" I snapped, yanking a handful of photos in my direction. I clamored backward, trying to keep from going completely numb. I had to know what my father truly was. I shifted from one picture to the other, barely cognizant that Miguel had once again moved into a standing position. Oh. My. God.
My mind became a blur, the vivid splashes of crimson covering walls and verandas, kitchens and bedrooms. As I flipped through them one by one, I finally fell into an abyss.
Until one picture surfaced. "No. No, it can't... be. It just..." Tears rushed to my eyes as the once sweet then bitter memories floated to the surface. A moment lost in time.
A boy who thought he loved me.
A series of vicious lies.
Then a disappearance.
Everything my father had told me had been a huge lie. I hadn't been abandoned. I hadn't been unloved. Oh. Oh!
Miguel tipped his head, his eyes glassy, his expression cold.
This was more than just a warning, this was my reality and one I needed to embrace. I knew three things for certain.
One; the photographs were very real, woman and children murdered in their beds.
And two; I knew without a doubt that I could never spend another moment with my father.
Ever.
Again.
I gazed into Miguel's eyes, my hands shaking.
Finally, three...
That Miguel, his family, and his tactics were entirely the same as what I'd experienced growing up.
Both monsters.
Both murderers.