The Devil's Plaything

“It has, but this needs to be dealt with first.”

“He’s not stupid enough to work for us and steal, then try to resell.” He’s right. None of my workers would have the balls to do shit like that. Not because they’re idiots, but because they know what happens to those who take what belongs to me.

“We’ll see.”

2

Sofía

The sun beats down on my shoulders, and the stifling heat steals my breath as I rush through the street to get home before my dad arrives back from work. The ocean air is fresh, with the soft scent of salt hanging overhead. The docks are noisy, offering me a reminder of who my father is and where he works.

All my life, living with papá, I’ve learned to stay out of trouble by going to school and spending time at work. The part-time job I have at the music store down the road from our house offers me some solace, giving me time away from the worrying thoughts of what would happen if my father fulfilled his promise.

He told me to stop working. To stay home and take care of myself, but I haven’t given strength to my illness. Instead, I’ve focused on being healthy, even though slowly, I’m deteriorating without my medication on a consistent level.

My mother always told me as a child, sé fuerte.” Be strong. It was the mantra I grew up with, a constant reminder that I can do anything I want. Anything I need to be the woman I dreamed of being. But now that she’s gone, it’s another reminder that even life fucks you over at times.

Shaking my head of my wayward thoughts, I head inside the house and shut the door behind me. The one thing I love about our home is that it offers a cool relief in the searing heat. An air conditioner sits against the wall, taking the sweltering humidity and giving an icy breeze to make my sticky skin chill with goose bumps.

I glance at the large clock on the wall. It’s almost time for dinner. Six pm is when papá walks through the door, and I’m met with his happy grin. It took him a while to smile again. After my mother died, he became cold and closed off, but then I got sick.

Perhaps that jolted him from the stupor he’d been living in for so long, or maybe it was his need to protect me, but something changed. And as much as I wanted my father back, he didn’t return the same person. He became more protective, and the sicker I got, the more he would fuss.

“Papá,” I call into the empty house, knowing he’s not home, but it calms me to do it. My mother would step over the threshold and call for both my dad and me. Each evening, I would run into her arms. She would wrap me in warmth, and I’d watch on as she would be devoured by my father. He would kiss her like his life depended on it.

I never knew a love like that. Not even my friends at school spoke of their parents and the affection they’d witnessed. Growing up, visiting my friends’ homes, I never saw an ounce of what lived and breathed in the home I grew up in.

There was just something more between them. When I was older, the idea of that type of passion consumed me, making me crave it. The fire, the passion, even their fights were filled with love. Don’t get me wrong, there was anger, far too much of it, but each night, it ended with them making up noisily.

I was embarrassed, but I was also elated that even though their fights were almost violent, my father had a way of making my mother coo. She would tell him he was the handsomest man in the world. That he owned her heart and soul.

That was the only thing I never understood. Yes, I’d read fairy tales; yes, I got love and having sex, but having someone own you. That never sat well with me. I guess perhaps it was my immaturity, but there was something dangerous in the way she had confessed it.

My father was a man who loved his family, but with my mother, he became more intense. She was his property. But the moment I stepped into the room, the air would change, and it wouldn’t feel as all-consuming.

To me, ownership meant you would never be allowed to do anything of your own free will. You’re bound, locked to that person for life, and they have complete control of everything you do. For me, that sounded like a death sentence, and I knew all about that.

Before my mother died, she learned about my disease. She knew that I wouldn’t last without medication, treatment, or some normalcy. Even though she had meager savings, she had made sure I would get treatment for a few years after she died.