Chapter 7 – At Peace

Terra I woke up with a massive headache in an unfamiliar place. There was no one around, and I wasn’t in my original clothes. Panic surged through me as I jolted upright—only to be slammed back down by a searing wave of pain. “Ow!” I groaned. Lesson learned—never try to shadowbox thin air when you're hungover. My flimsy limbs gave up and flopped me onto my back. I stared at the ceiling like it might magically replay last night’s events for me like a stone tablet etched with answers. It didn’t, so I had to work for it. Clorinde and I had gone out for a girls’ night with Diego and his friend. I didn’t drink… but Diego—he drugged me. Another wave of panic hit me, and I shot out of bed. Fury fueled my steps as I burst into the living, ready to find Diego and crack his skull open. But I froze in place, stunned. Instead of Diego I found my father—and all three of my brothers. They turned in unison, their eyes wide as they stared at me. “What is going on here?” I asked sheepishly. Max stepped forward and gently guided me into a chair before starting a full inspection. “How are you feeling?” he asked, examining the fading rash along my arms. “Not bad… just a little itchy,” I muttered. “There’s no sign of assault or abuse, but I did find a discarded Benadryl packet,” he said. “Which means these rashes were likely an allergic reaction. What did you take last night?” “One shot of vodka,” I said aloud. “Your drink was spiked,” Tyson said grimly. “Who were you drinking with?” “…Diego,” I muttered. Tyson closed his eyes and cursed under his breath. “Then how did you get here?” Zeru chimed in, arms crossed. I shook my head, defeated. “Well, someone brought you here, but dint harm you. That someone also is also a witness, we must find him,” said mt father. “I remember…” I paused. Last night, I vaguely recalled seeing the big version of Linney looming over me. It couldn’t be… could it? While I was deep in thought, a knock came at the door. Tyson was the one to answer it. A few minutes later, he returned with a USB drive in hand. “Who was that?” I asked, curious. “The manager of the bar from last night,” Tyson replied. “She said this has all the evidence we need to bring Diego to justice.” He paused, glancing down at the drive. “Whoever saved you doesn’t want to be found.” Zeru plugged the drive into his computer and opened the files. The first clip showed a woman talking to Diego before Clorinde and I arrived. Then it cut to the part where Diego spiked my drink, followed by the confrontation—and finally, the moment where a man carried me out of the bar. The man’s face and shoulders were blurred beyond recognition. Whoever he was, he truly didn’t want to be found. “Do you have any idea who the woman in the video is?” Zeru asked, rewinding the clip to the beginning. He paused the footage—and I recognized her instantly. “That’s Demi Salvado,” I muttered. “You know her?” Tyson asked. “Yes…” I said, my stomach twisting. “She was the one with him that night—six years ago.” The room went completely silent. My family exchanged glances, something passed between them without a word. Then Tyson finally broke the silence. “Alright, let’s get you back home. From now on, you're to stay away from alcohol, bars, pubs, and clubs,” he said firmly. “What about the case?” “We got this,” he said, finalizing it with a nod. Disappointment and hurt caught up to me as I got dressed in the bedroom. Six years had passed, yet he still hated me so much. I had hoped time would soften things, blur the lines between love and resentment, but instead, it just deepened the divide. Was it really that unforgivable? Everything I went through—everything we went through—didn’t that count for anything? I thought maybe… just maybe, if we crossed paths again, something would shift. Maybe he’d let go already. But no. To him, I’m a guilty shadow that clings to him like a second skin. Even now, I still don’t know what I did wrong—but I’m suffering the punishment anyway. And for some reason, knowing that—it stung more than I expected. A lump rose in my throat, tight and unrelenting. I blinked up at the ceiling, biting the inside of my cheek to keep the tears at bay. I didn’t want to cry. I shouldn’t cry. Not over this. Not over him. But God, why does it still hurt? “Mommy!” The moment I heard my daughter’s voice, I pulled myself together and put on a façade—a fake smile to hide the pain that lingered from the encounter with their father. “My princess.” Lynette ran into my arms with a huge grin. I held her tightly, planting kisses on her cheeks. Being with my kids always made everything feel better. And today, I needed that more than ever. “Where’s Linney?” I asked, scanning the room. “He’s in the bedroom, pouting about something—I don’t know what. I tried giving him some snacks, but he didn’t want them. He even threw them on the floor and told me to go away,” she reported innocently. “I know why he’s mad. Why don’t you go to Grandma? I’ll go talk to Linney.” I handed her over to my mother and turned toward the bedroom. “He was up until midnight last night waiting for you. Be patient with him, he is mad at you because he is worried about you.” My mother said before I open the door. “I will,” I said, and then open the door. The room was dark, the blinds pulled tight. Linney lay curled on his side, one hand tucked beneath his cheek. He didn’t look at me, even though I knew he felt my presence. Of everything that had happened, my son turning his back on me hurt the most. “Linney?” I called softly, but there was no response. “I’m sorry,” I said, hoping it would break the silence—but still, nothing. “Linney, I know you’re mad… but can you hear me out?” This time, he shifted just a little—barely—but it was enough. He was listening. “Where were you last night?” he asked, monotone. “I was caught up with some work and stayed at a hotel.” “You went to the bar last night,” he said. Right. I forgot. “Yes, but we met with a client and ended up talking about work.” “That still doesn’t explain why you didn’t answer my calls or texts. You never do that.” I was stumped. My son’s analytical skills were far beyond his age. And since I couldn’t lie to him, I deflected. “Honey, look at me,” I said gently. He shifted, then turned around. I crawled onto the bed and faced him, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “Something happened to me last night… but I can’t tell you.” “Why not?” he whispered. “Do you not love me anymore?” His question shattered me. Tears welled up in my eyes, hot and unrelenting. “Baby, you and Lynette are my life and soul. Please don’t ever question my love for you two—it hurts my heart,” I cried. My son came forward and gently wiped away my tears with his little hands. “Mommy, I’m sorry. Don’t cry, please,” he pleaded, his voice soft and apologetic. I nodded and pulled myself together, breathing through the pain. “Mommy, can you tell me what happened?” he asked. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I can’t,” I replied gently. “Why?” “Because I love you. And I want you to grow up innocent and carefree.” “Will you tell me in the future?” “Maybe someday… when you’re ready.” “When will that be?” “When you’re old enough to understand that adults have their own reasons for the things they do,” I said, brushing his hair softly. “For now, I just want you to know that I love you—and I’ll do anything to protect you and your sister.” I let out a tired sigh. “I had a long night, baby. I’m really tired. Can I take a nap with you?” “Okay, Mommy,” he replied and lay next to me. “Are you still mad at me?” I asked. “No,” he finally gave me a small smile. “But please don’t disappear again.” “I won’t.” I gave him a kiss on the forehead. “Thank you… and I love you.” “I love you,” he replied. “I love you too!” my daughter called out as she came running in and climbed onto the bed with us. I glanced toward the door and found my mother standing there, a soft smile on her face. She didn’t say a word—just gently closed the door to give us some peace. Within these four walls, I felt safe and at peace with my children. But deep down, there was one fear that overshadowed everything else: that their father’s hatred might one day shatter the innocence of their childhood. At the same time back at the hotel… The sun rose, glaring into the bedroom. Two bodies lay entangled beneath the blanket—his hair a mess, her makeup smudged. Everything about the scene pointed to last night’s tug-of-war between two strangers. Clorinde “Clorinde, go to the henhouse for some eggs!” my mother shouted. “Okay, Ma,” I replied, groggily walking over to the henhouse. Right at that moment, the hen laid her eggs outside the nest. “Wah! Eggs! Eggs! Eggs dropped! Egg drop!” Panicked, I rushed over and tried to catch the eggs with my hands, but I couldn’t save them. My masculine fingers crushed them, and I burst into tears. “My eggs broke,” I wailed, crushing the already crushed eggs again just to remind myself of the pain. Wait a minute… why are my eggs soft and rubbery? Eggs shell should be hard and brittle, but these eggs are… I slowly opened my eyes, to a man sobbing his balls out. “Eggs dropped. Eggs burst,” he cried, sadness and pain etched across his face. “Huh?” I said, confused. The man responded by frantically motioning for me to look under the blanket. I did so, and... “Wah! Not eggs! Not eggs! Balls! Balls!” I screamed, backpedaling out of bed like my ass was on fire. But I stopped—frozen—when the cold, open air hit every inch of my skin. “I’m naked,” I muttered. My gaze shot to the bed. “You’re naked.” The man winced, clutching a pillow over his parts, revealing the yellow stain on it—and the bed. “You…” I said, pointing to the trembling man, “…raped me. Be prepared to die.” And I pounced, putting extra effort into demolishing those rubber eggs.