Love Me for Eternity || Bruno Madrigal

Chapter 30: A Glimpse of the Past and Reconciliations

There were things that were better left unsaid; musings that should be kept under the wraps from the unknowing. Mateo knew his own bitter past would bring more harm than good, therefore he did not dwell on the abuse that he had to endure before Pedro's family took him under their wing.

The earliest core memory Mateo had of Arturo Alcantara was a beer bottle being smashed on top of his head. A wee thing he was—nothing but a twelve year old boy fresh from his own mother's funeral. She was not an exception to the past beatings inflicted by his prideful father, rather, she was the shield that protected Mateo from the fists that would have dawned upon him. There was nothing to say for Arturo's villainy, in fact, he was known to be a kind man to all. A strong man who lugged around the village's share of lumber, creating more than the standard quota. With the praise came the pride, and with the pride came the obsession for perfection. If he didn't like his mother's cooking, he would backhand her and berate the woman for her lack of tack. When there was the slightest stain on his clothes, down came the woman who shielded him from the transgressions of his father. He yelled a lot, but he never raised his voice to the extent that neighbors would hear. He was careful about his reputation; careful of the image he had projected of the perfect little family under the cozy Alcantara home.

Arturo—before his mother's passing—had paired him up with a friend's son. Pedro Madrigal was his name, a bright, smart boy the same age as him. They became fast friends, talking about their shared interest in writing. However, their fathers didn't want writers, no. They wanted strong men. They enrolled the both of them to eskrima lessons, hoping for the day they may become strong masons, lumberjacks, maybe part of the soldiers to fight in the war for the recreation of Greater Colombia. Their village was fairly remote, but a man can dream for a brighter future for their sons as revolutionaries.

The day Mateo's mother had passed, Arturo had gone down a spiral. Mateo knows this story all too well; the constant pressure from his father had plagued his mind to become a better fighter, a better man, the perfect son. He abided by his visions, turning into the textbook example of a child whose whole being had become the visage of a perfect man to appease the ideals of his fathers' whims. When Pedro did better than him—he always did better than him—Arturo would beat the imperfection out of Mateo. The light nudges turned into shoving, the shoves turned into slapping, the slaps turned into brass-knuckled punches, and finally, household items met Mateo's skin and drew blood.

Pedro's father, after realizing the extent of the abuse, had run to Mateo's aid and sheltered the boy at the age of fifteen. It was quiet for a few days; no one saw any signs of Arturo Alcantara after the town had discovered the wrong-doings he had inflicted upon his own son. There was nothing to say in regards to a man who they thought was the epitome of perfection. He disappeared into the night, and no one knows where he had gone.

Mateo never saw his father after that.

It was a secret he only confided in with three people; the love of his life, the late Alejandra Alcantara, Pedro, his childhood best friend, and Alma, the woman he had treated as his own sister.

Alma's perfectionist tendencies had reminded him of his own father's toxic ideals.

It was painful to watch the woman who he looked up to become a mere husk of who she was before. He knew if he left Alma to her own devices, the whole family would reap the tensions she had sowed. He had seen this play out once—he was not going to let history rewind its tapes once again.

"You have to let go of your expectations—let them do what they want to do," His brow was furrowed, his face stern. Alma fidgeted in her place, grasping her shawl tighter across her chest. "...if you don't, then the consequences will soon reap itself, Alma. Your children are suffering from your decisions. My daughter is suffering from your decisions."