She describes my father’s filth.
“What are a few bruises if the man who made them has the right to do so?” she says, and now that she has started, she cannot stop. “What are a few corpses in the history of a respectable man? What is one more child handed over to a disgusting old man to abuse day and night? A young woman full of possibilities, violated? What does that mean to these people? What does it mean to anyone?”
Her entire speech comes out in a thread of a voice, but even so, I feel her rising anguish. I hear her soul burning, breaking, losing color. It is as if she wants to fall asleep and never wake up again.
Graziela is exhausted.
“What have I done with my life until now except cry and live terrified of what might happen? I’ve thought about taking my own life, you know?” She c
