Behind the Hands That Kill

“I’ll talk to Javier,” I whispered to Huevito, and then I reached out and touched her sweat-drenched forehead with the back of my fingers. “He’s kind to me; I’ll tell him what happened to you, and I’m sure he’ll do something about it.” Everything I said, I knew in my heart was a lie. Javier may have been ‘kind’ to me, but I wasn’t stupid—it was just a show; he wanted me to like him, to trust him, probably the same way he did all of the other girls here at one time. But I had to say something; I had to at least try to give the poor girl some hope.

Marisol, finally snapping out of her shock that I had stood up in the room, reached out and slapped my hand away from Huevito’s forehead.

“Alejate de nosotras!” she said in Spanish, and I didn’t understand the words, but her body language set me in the right direction. “Vete! Tu vas hacer que nos lastimen a todas!” She clenched her white teeth amid her caramel-colored skin; her long, black hair sat ragged around her square-shaped face.

I looked over at Carmen, hoping she’d translate, but then I heard the voice of Huevito, weak and hoarse, and no one cared about me or Marisol or Carmen anymore.

“Promise…me,” Huevito said, with great difficulty.

I leaned in closer, took her hand into mine.

“Promise me…if they kill him…” she had to stop to catch her breath, and with every word, every movement the muscles in her face aggravated, the pain in her body became that much more evident in her expression.

“It’s OK,” I told her, and softly patted her hand. “Take your time. Catch your breath.”

Her eyes opened and closed from pain and exhaustion; her hand was weak and clammy in my own. I could feel everyone’s eyes on us, all around me, and the warmth of their breath as they all leaned in to hear what Huevito struggled to say; it didn’t matter that it was in English.

Huevito’s eyes opened a little wider, and she looked right at me. But I got the feeling she didn’t even know where she was, that she’d been beaten so severely that she was hallucinating. And when she continued to speak, I became more convinced of that assumption.

“I won’t let them kill you,” she said. “Te amo mucho, Leo. I won’t live without you.” She started to cry, tears tracked through the dirt on her cheeks; her breathing began to labor.

I held her hand more firmly, and I started to cry too. Who was she talking about? I didn’t know, but whoever Leo was, even my heart ached tremendously for him—for both of them.

Huevito closed her eyes, caught her breath once more, and then opened them again. Her lips were so dry and cracked that the skin began to break apart right in front of me; slivers of blood appeared in the tiny slits.

“If they kill him,” she repeated, “promise me you’ll let me die—promise me!” I couldn’t tell then whether or not she was coherent.

Then the door burst open, and Izel stood in the doorway like Death in a short skirt, tall and dark and lethal. And I learned before she dragged me out, kicking and screaming, why no one ever stood up in that room at night—Izel was always watching from her room in the house next door, for walking shadows to move along the walls.

But that night, as Izel tormented me about my mother’s death, and how I belonged to her then, all I could think about was Huevito. And I never saw her again.

Izabel

Present day…

Until now.

I stare at Naeva blankly; words have abandoned me; I can feel my heart beating in my ears. I raise both arms, gun still clutched in the right hand, and I rest them on the top of my head. I hold them there, the gun pointed at the ceiling; I shake my head, trying to sort out what’s happening: why she’s here, how she’s here. My God, she’s Victor’s sister; she was in Javier’s compound—with me. What could that possibly mean?

I can’t…

It’s too much. I don’t know where to begin with any of this. My mind is racing. I feel dizzy. Finally, my arms come back down. And I just look at her. And out of the hundred or so questions I want to ask, I settle with, “Why did they call you Huevito?”

Naeva smiles softly.

“Carmen thought I looked like a little egg,” she says. “The nickname stuck.”

Overcome with unwanted emotion, I step forward and wrap my arms around her small frame. She returns the affection, holding onto me with more strength than she appears to possess.

“I can’t believe you’re still alive,” I say, pulling away; I cup her elbows in my hands and look her over. “I…well I thought Izel killed you—she even said she did.”

Naeva shakes her head. “There were times I wished she had,” she says, dejectedly.

“But I never saw you again after the night we met.” I hug her one more time, just relieved to know that she’s OK. “I was there for nine years.”

Although my and Naeva’s relationship never went beyond that night, our conversations never went further than the desperate, incoherent things she said to me as she lay beaten on that floor, the mark she left on my mind and my heart was heavy. It was the same with all of the girls in the compound who I grew to love as my sisters. All we had were each other. And a bond formed in such trying times can never be broken.

Naeva takes up her blouse from the chair and slips it back on, closing the buttons from top to bottom.

I set the gun on the coffee table and sit back down next to it.

“I know you have a lot of questions,” she begins, “about me, and what happened to me in that place, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know, but in time—I want to know all about you, too.” She sits on the chair again. She’s no longer smiling, nor does she seem interested in catching up, or telling me her sad story. She’s in desperate need of something else, something far more important; the enormity of it encompasses her.