Eunoia | Logan Howlett

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Evangeline Vega's life in Cuba was, by all outward appearances, idyllic. The Vega family lived in a modest house on the outskirts of Havana, where the sun always seemed to shine, and the salty breeze from the ocean carried the scent of freedom and possibility. Though they were poor, they made do with what they had. Marta Vega, Evangeline's mother, was a seamstress who worked tirelessly to provide for her family. Evangeline's father, Hector Vega, was a fisherman, his hands calloused and worn from years of battling the sea. To Evangeline, their small world was perfect.

Evangeline was a bright and curious child, always eager to explore her surroundings. She loved helping her mother with the sewing, her small fingers deftly threading needles and picking up scraps of fabric. She would sit for hours, listening to the rhythmic hum of the sewing machine, finding comfort in its consistency. Her father would often take her down to the docks, where she would watch him mend his nets and listen to the fishermen's stories of the sea.

For the first seven years of her life, Evangeline believed her family was happy. She didn't notice the way her mother's smile never quite reached her eyes or the bruises that seemed to appear on her mother's arms and face with increasing frequency. Hector's temper was a quiet storm, brewing beneath the surface, hidden behind his stern demeanor. Evangeline was blissfully unaware of the dark undercurrents in their household.

It was a warm afternoon when Evangeline's world began to unravel. She had always been a good student, eager to please her teachers and her parents. But that year, she had struggled with her arithmetic lessons, and when her report card came home, it bore the marks of her struggle. Bad grades, for the first time in her young life, stared up at her from the paper. She felt a pang of anxiety as she handed the report card to her father.

Hector's reaction was swift and terrifying. His face twisted in fury as he read the grades, and he bellowed her name, the sound reverberating through the small house. Evangeline's heart pounded in her chest as she ran to her room, seeking solace among her toys and books. She had never seen her father so angry, and it frightened her.

Moments later, Hector burst into her room, his eyes blazing with rage. He held his belt in his hand, the leather strap gleaming menacingly in the afternoon light. Without a word, he advanced on her, raising the belt high. Evangeline cowered in the corner, her small body trembling with fear.

Before Hector could bring the belt down, Marta appeared in the doorway. Her face bore the fresh mark of Hector's anger from the night before, a black eye that had darkened to a sickening shade of purple. She stood there for a moment, her eyes wide and wild, and then something inside her snapped.

With a primal scream, Marta lunged at Hector, her hands clawing at his face. The two of them fell to the floor, a tangled mess of fury and desperation. Evangeline watched in horror as her parents fought, the room filled with the sounds of grunts and cries of pain. Marta's determination and fierce love for her child gave her the strength she needed. In a moment of clarity, she grabbed a heavy lamp from the bedside table and brought it down on Hector's head with all her might.

Hector collapsed to the floor, his body still. The room fell silent, save for the sound of Marta's ragged breathing. She dropped the lamp, her hands shaking uncontrollably. Blood spattered the floor, the walls, and their clothes. Evangeline and Marta stared at each other in shock, both covered in blood, both trembling with the weight of what had just happened.

Evangeline's mind raced, struggling to comprehend the scene before her. Her father lay motionless on the floor, his face a mess of blood and bruises. Her mother, the woman who had always been a source of warmth and love, stood over him, her eyes filled with a mixture of terror and determination.

Marta took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She knelt beside Hector, feeling for a pulse. When she found none, she looked up at her daughter, her expression a mask of resolve.