Then Damián arrived.
I heard the motorcycle first, then the door slam, then his voice thick with alcohol.
“Where’s my dinner?”
He staggered in, his eyes bloodshot, with the cheap rage of a coward who’s only brave around women and children. He looked at Sofia, then at me.
“What are you doing sitting down? Have you forgotten your place?”
He grabbed a glass and smashed it against the wall. Sofia woke up crying.
“Shut her up!” he roared.
I stood up with a calmness that disconcerted him.
“She’s just a child,” I said. “Don’t you ever yell at her like that again.”
He raised his hand to hit me.
I caught it in midair.
I saw in his eyes the exact moment he understood that something wasn’t going as planned.
“Let go of me,” he muttered.
I twisted his wrist. There was a sharp click. He fell to his knees, screaming. I dragged him to the bathroom, turned on the tap, and forced his face into the water.
“Is it cold?” I whispered, as he splashed around trying to get away. “That’s how my sister felt when you locked her up in here.”
I finally let go. He fell coughing, soaked, humiliated, fear etched on his face.
That night I didn’t sleep. And I wasn’t wrong.
