Fiction: Group 4
“It’s not my blood.”
“What?” my voice is so quiet that I’m not sure he hears my disbelief.
He then dampens the kitchen towel and roughly scrubs the blood off his face, leaving the grey
cloth streaked crimson. The intensity of his charcoal eyes scare me, I have never seen them so clouded and
steely.
“Papá…” my throat feels thick and I nearly choke on my words, “You’ve never hurt anyone, you
can’t… you’re incapable of it…”
“Listen to yourself Catia…” his words are tired and gravely, “Stop seeing what you want to see and
take a good look around you.”
“You don’t have to do this, I’m sure whatever this is… nobody needs to get hurt.” My voice rises
unstably.
“This isn’t your decision, or a discussion we can have. This is my job, and there are bad people,
and it is
my job
to stop them.” I can tell he’s trying not to raise his voice; he’s trying to remain calm.
“You’re not stopping them, no, you’re hitting them,
beating
them.” I spit my words viciously, and
the agitation seems to flood my mind.
“Because I had to, Catia.” He says through gritted teeth, “They were bad people.”
“
They
were just building a school on Taipa Island-
“With no permits, with no permission.” He cuts me off, his thunderous voice filling our dreary
house.
There is a brief moment of silence where my father lowers his head as if regretting raising his voice
at me; he keeps staring at the bleached, tiled floor. And although my words are fierce with determination,
my lip quivers and my legs begin to weaken. I have never so defiantly spoken up to my father – a man who
I’ve idolised and looked up to. But it doesn’t feel empowering or gratifying. It feels wrong.
“You have to understand that I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he looks up, his dark eyes glossy,
“Beating them… it is awful, it is not right and you know that… because your heart is so kind.”
“If you don’t want to, then don’t.” there is a pleading sense to my tone.
“I’ll try.” He says, his voice incredibly low.
“Promise me Papá…”
“I promise.”
The streets are quiet when we go to mass; the morning is still and hushed, the sky a pale
marmalade. I walk along the cobbled roads, wearing my finest frock, a creamy shade of daffodils, and my
caramel curls tamed into tight plaits. My father walks beside me, but his new hat doesn’t hide his weathered
face, it only casts a shadow, emphasising the blue of his bruises. And as other families, neighbors and friends
gather outside St. Domingo Church, I notice hidden scratches and black eyes. I see the colours of brutality
amongst my town, hues of black, indigo, purple, red. And all I can think is: this is my father’s doing.
“Catia!” I hear a whisper around the corner of the church.
