When Bluebirds Fly | ✔

Part Three : Chapter Twelve

It was late afternoon and I discarded my clothes, stuffing the pile in the washing machine. I rarely showered because of low water supply, but today I let hot water run down my body, setting my scalp to my feet on fire. The thick steam in the air made me panic for a second, reminding me of the haziness of yesterday as I turned off the shower and wrapped a towel around my trembling body. 

I was pulling on fresh clothes when I heard a knock on my door. "What happened?"

"Come out and eat something," my father said softly, his sympathetic tone irking me. I didn't reply and rigorously tugged at my tight leggings, tearing the fabric at the ankles. Once dressed in an over-sized t-shirt, leggings, socks and with my fading blue dyed-hair still sopping wet, I sat at the dining table. My father who was stirring soup in a large pot turned around and smiled. "Here, taste this. Is it fine?"

I licked the ladle and felt a burst of sweetness from the corn, this entire scene of dad paying close attention to me made me reminiscence the days when I was ill and he took care of me.

But I wasn't ill today, I was completely alright.

We ate in silence, rather I ate and he watched me pitifully like I was in a tragic, romance movie and the soup was my partner and one of us dying was the ultimate destiny. After my bowl was empty and the slurping noise had ceased, the silence seeped in both of us, making us fidgety. I began clinking the metal spoon against the plastic bowl and each clink pressurised him to speak. "We'll go to the station now."

"Station?"

"Police station," he said tensely.

"Why?"

"Mariana---"

"Nothing happened!" I exclaimed, flinging the spoon across the room. Why couldn't he understand? Nothing happened last night.

I remembered asking about the modelling contract, the business card being shown, then feeling like I was going to faint. I had stupidly skipped breakfast and lunch yesterday and had already been feeling dizzy. He let me rest in his place before dad discovered us and dramatically made a huge deal out of it. Everything was normal.

I could still move out of this hellhole and live happily with Isaac.

"You were late so I-I . . . " My dad inhaled sharply, his eyes averted to my feet. "I was so worried, but then I saw your slippers in front of that puta madre . . . He ran away, that pendejo! Escaped!"

Somehow, his yelling had quietened me. "But nothing happened . . . "

He reached across the table and squeezed my hands, an agonizing, sorrowful expression on his face. "Let's go . . . We'll pick up dinner while coming back."

I found it best to comply, using my silence as a way of protesting against what he was doing. It satisfied me to see him uneasily squirming in the taxi while taking a glimpse of me, hoping to elicit some reaction, whether positive or negative from me. I blankly stared at the back of the balding driver's head all the way.

The affair at the police station didn't last long because I maintained my point that nothing was wrong and hence there was nothing to report even though my father insisted otherwise. They directed my concerned father to take me to a health care facility which irked me. However, I behaved as politely as I could and once we arrived (again by taxi), I answered a few questions by the nurse but refused to undergo a humiliating, medical examination.

The kinder they were being, the further I shrank, knowing well that their kindness was a ploy to get the evidence out of me which they wouldn't find any way. Because nothing happened. I had gone through the basic Google questions and no, I didn't feel any pain in my genitals and  I wasn't raped. Case closed.

I could sense my dad growing frustrated at my lack of co-operation and since they couldn't get my consent to perform their evaluation, we were sent away with a melancholy smile, phone numbers and unasked reassurances. When we rode back in the taxi, our roles had reversed. My father was staring blankly at the back of the driver's head while I looked outside the window, the dim lights of the late evening streets and stores feebly flickering, moments away from shutting off and letting darkness prevail.

"You're staying with your abuela's from tomorrow," my dad declared, a tinge of apologetic intonation concealed heavily by authoritativeness.

The phone in my hand buzzed for a hundredth time, a call from Isaac, and I reluctantly turned it off.

Getting no reply from me, he continued, realizing that he needed to justify his decision, "I can't let you live here till I find a job. It isn't safe."

"But nothing happened."

"He fled! That pendejo!"

It was futile to explain anything to him so I sighed. "For how long?"

His features softened at hearing my voice and he mused, "Till that bastard is caught."

"Abuela's house is over two hours away and I have a job here."

"You can take a break," he said, having prepared answers for all my predictable questions. "You can go tomorrow and talk to the manager." I clenched my jaw from saying anything spiteful. He began, "Mariana . . . This is for the best. I promise that I won't keep you away for long."

"Whatever." I shrugged and when the taxi stopped before the apartment building, I stormed out and didn't wait for him to pay and join me.

The phone buzzed again like a cage trapping a fluttering bird and seeing the overwhelming number of messages from Isaac, I finally replied,

Sorry I couldn't come to work. I'll tell you tomorrow.

Almost immediately, a message came, Is everything alright? Should I come by?

If my dad sees you, you'll be a dead man. Then things won't be alright. I sent this with a sarcastic wink emoji, hoping that he wouldn't bother me anymore.