(AMANDA)

Gavin's question strikes a deep chord in me. Surprised, I face him. I'm not sure how I look, but there must have been some obvious change, because Gavin grabs my chin and says:

- You don't have to answer if you don't want to.

I nod, looking sideways. Then I play with my fingers, trying to disguise the impact of the question. Obviously, it doesn't work. The blond puts me on his lap, kisses me on the neck several times and says once again, only in my ear in a whisper:

- It's okay. You don't have to say anything if you don't feel comfortable...

- It's not that," I say. - It's just...

- Amanda...

- You don't have to worry, Gavin. I'm not going to break it.

He seems embarrassed by my disguised scolding, but he lowers his head and waits for me to speak.

In the silence, I let my thoughts organize themselves. I do my best not to let my memories get out of control and ruin all the self-control I've been exercising over my mind for the last few months. Doctor Solloman said something I'll never forget: the secret of contemplating or talking about traumas is to recognize them and then catalogue them in series. Recognition was the hardest part, as false diagnoses and feelings of "everything is fine" could be frequent.

Recognition was the act of understanding whether the event was still too recent, too painful and too dangerous. If so, the recommendation was not to talk about it, or to speak as vaguely as possible, avoiding prolonging the subject. If not, then came the second part, which was to catalog the event like an object in a box. That way you can pick it up, even talk about it, but with the same sensitivity as if you were picking up a ceramic vase.

I think of Gavin's words, how he said that he hated his father for various reasons, and that it would take him a long time to talk about him if he explained exactly all the evil things that had happened to him. So I decided to do something similar.

- I hate a lot of people," I finally manage to say. Gavin seems surprised by my answer, but doesn't say anything. - But one of those people is my family. Just like in your case.

- ... Who?

- My father.

I give him a sad smile, which doesn't match. I go back to staring at nothing, to concentrating on the facts and not getting carried away by them or the pain they might cause me

- I still don't know everything your father did, and it would take me too long to tell you about the things I went through at his hands. But I can tell you one story. I think it's one of the most important, because that's when my hatred was born.

- I'd love to hear your story, Amanda. Are you sure you can tell it? I worry, little flower...

- I do," I say as firmly as I can.

A sickly drizzle begins to fall outside. I let the sound of the falling drops relax me, as does the honking of a nearby car horn. Gavin's arms are warm and welcoming, and I feel an enormous sense of peace while I'm here. The past was ugly and cruel, but it was long gone. Now I was there... With him.

I close my eyes. My host patiently waits for me to take the time I need to start narrating that episode... That disgraceful episode that, no matter how hard I tried, I could never hide.

- My father was very macho. Today, I think it's even a little worse than that. His attitudes were purely misogynistic, almost as if all the women around him were his personal objects, at the same time as slaves. I always found his behavior strange, especially when I started growing up. It was as if he always wanted to control me... and the only reason he didn't put me in private prison was because he was afraid of going to jail.

I sigh. Then I continue:

- When I started menstruating, he made a point of saying that he wanted to take me to the gynecologist. All well and good, of course, except for the fact that he said he was going to check my virginity.

- How old were you?

- Thirteen. But that's not even the point. He knew what I was like, that I was ashamed to get close to other boys. And why did he even think about it, that I could be sexually active? I didn't even leave the house.

- It's quite strange, really.

- That was just the beginning. Over time, it got worse and worse. When I was fifteen, I fell in love with a boy. He was two years older, we went to the same school. We never did anything, you know? But my father hated this guy. E... He beat me a lot when he knew I was talking to him.

Gavin's arms tighten, as if he's trying to protect me automatically by imagining the attacks. But this time he remains silent. I continue, my tone cold and calm:

- I've been beaten up several times, and always for stupid things. I couldn't go near boys, I couldn't talk about boys or even wear clothes that he considered inappropriate. And yes, I know it's absurd on its own, but what revolted me most at the time was the fact that I was completely romantic, always thinking that sex was something to be done with someone special. But my father treated me as if I were a slut. And I never, ever understood that.

- I'm sorry about that, I really am - his voice is broken. I stroke his arm, basking in the warmth of our closeness.

- Until then, I wasn't angry with him, but with myself. I really thought I was doing something to deserve it, and I avoided it as much as possible. But he seemed to come up with reasons to punish me, and when he didn't find any, he got angry and abused me. Not physically, but with words. E... The passion I had for this boy grew stronger and stronger. It was the first time I'd ever felt that, and in the midst of my daydreams, I thought I was falling in love with the love of my life.

I finish the sentence with a sound of laughter, but Gavin remains serious and listens intently to every word.

- We spent a year meeting on the sly, and the inevitable happened. One of the times I ran away to his house, on an afternoon when my father wasn't home, we ended up staying.

- ... So?

- It was a bit painful, but at the time I was happy. I felt he was the right guy, so I didn't regret it. But then I panicked, remembering that my father would probably find out sooner or later. I did everything I could to keep it quiet. I didn't tell anyone, it was just a secret between me and him. And everything was going well, we even had sex twice more in the meantime. In my mind, I could put up with my father's provocations, even his violence, anything... As long as I had him.

I let out a breath at once, realizing that I was running out of air. But I'd counted that far, I couldn't just stop. So I carried on:

- Only he found out. Before I went to bed, my father came into my room and asked for my cell phone. He said he wanted me to go to bed early because I had work the next day. So I...

- Wait a minute - he suddenly interrupts me. - Work? Weren't you fifteen?

- Yes. But I was a young apprentice and my hours were short. So I could easily combine school and work.

- I see...

- At the time, I didn't really know what to do. At that time, there was no Whatsapp, and we communicated by text message, just as we still do today in the United States.

- I didn't know you were aware of this - I can see the surprise and pride in your voice.

- I have a few ideas about how American culture works. Anyway... I couldn't delete the messages, not then and not so quickly. And in my panic I just turned off my cell phone...

- Amanda...

- At dawn... I woke up. Or rather, I was woken up. It was my stepmother calling me urgently. In my sleepiness, I couldn't understand a word she was saying. It must have been about two or three in the morning, I don't know. E... From here on, my memory gets a bit hazy. I'm not sure, but... I have the strong impression that she dragged me out of bed and into her and my father's room. By the hair.

Gavin's fingers hold my fingers tightly now. I notice the change in his breathing rate. I continue with the story:

- When I entered the room, or rather was dragged into it, I saw my father using my cell phone and talking to someone. My panic automatically woke me up and I broke out in a cold sweat. Then he turned off his cell phone and calmly walked over to me... And slapped me across the face.

Gavin doesn't say a word.

- That was the day I got the worst beating of my life. While he was beating me, he said that he knew what I was doing, that he read all, I said all, my messages. He called me horrible names, hit me with a closed hand and an open hand. I cried a lot. Worse still, I heard voices from the neighbors outside, and instead of helping me or calling the police, they decided to laugh. Laughing at me... And at the things I was hearing.

My hands and fingers are shaking, but I can't stop talking. I'm fine. Those echoes were normal, but not dangerous.

- My stepmother didn't hit me, but she didn't do anything to help me either. She just stood by and watched as I was beaten like an animal. I was left with several bruises, mainly on my arms and back. He threw me against the wall and hit my head. I think... I think at the time he wanted to kill me...

I feel nauseous and the slightest urge to cry, but I control myself. Gavin is still completely silent.

- I think what really made me nervous was seeing that, in the end, all the fear he imposed on me, all the control and absurd psychological terror he instilled in my head... None of it diverted me from my convictions. In the end, I did what I wanted to do, I went all the way for something I believed in. And he always felt very clever, the manipulative psychopath himself. It was a mixture of broken pride and other things... Although I don't know exactly what.

I clear my throat, swallowing the beginnings of tears. The tremors in my hands begin to subside subtly, but my palms are sweaty from the memory.

- And then...

- Was it your father who whipped you, Amanda?

Silence. I breathe once more, twice. I wait for the anxiety crisis to subside, concentrating on Gavin's skin, the curtains on the window, the smell of the rain.

- No," I admit, in a whisper.

A clap of thunder threatens to tear the skies apart with its fury, and the rain begins to fall more heavily. I notice that his hands are very cold, almost as if he's just picked up a block of ice or a pile of snow.

- But... - I start to say, only to be interrupted by another flash of lightning followed by thunder.

Gavin hugs me tighter, and his breathing is heavy. It's not as if he's feeling ill, but rather that he's repressing with all his might the hatred that has taken over his veins.

- My ribs. The cigarette marks. It was him.

This time Gavin doesn't hold back. The fury in his eyes isn't directed at me, but it still makes me shudder. It's as if he's blinded, completely determined to go after my father and kill him with his bare hands.

Quickly, but with all the care in the world despite his rage, he gently lifts my shirt, taking a closer look at each circular scar that marks the sides of my torso.

I don't know what to say or do, so I decide to continue with the story... With the story that is already coming to an end. I wouldn't swim that far out to die on the beach.

- After punching me in the stomach, he threw me on the bed and tied both my hands with string. He had me so tightly bound that I couldn't even move, and my lungs weren't getting enough air. He had recently discovered that I smoked in hiding, so I guess he thought it would be a good punishment to burn me with cigarettes. He lit one and held it against my skin, listening to my screams. I bet it sounded like music to him.

Gavin was still staring at my back.

- Out of nowhere, I saw him start to breathe harder, turn red, put his hand on his chest and so on. My father has a heart condition, but I never wanted to find out exactly what he had. So my stepmother went to his rescue. I was barely able to process the fact that she took him into the shower, and only realized it when I heard the sound of water falling in the other room. Minutes later, she came over to me and untied the string. My father, apparently very upset, said that if I were pregnant, he would kick me in the stomach... - My voice fails and shakes, but I just can't help but get nervous when I hear that. - That he'd kick my belly until I miscarried...

I think Gavin is going to start crying, or hug me, or both at the same time. But what he does is just pull down my blouse, covering my terrible marks, and stand in front of me. The anger, the hatred are still there. But I see that he's doing his best to diminish that feeling, to focus on me and not on the horrible images that have just been narrated to him.

He finally looks at me. His voice is dangerously deep when he asks:

- Where is your father now?

I lower my head, fiddling with the curls that fall under my face.

- I don't know. After a few... similar episodes, I left his house never to return. I don't know if he's alive or dead, or if he even thinks about the things he's done. I don't know where he lives either, but... I still remember the address of the house. I can even go there with my eyes closed.

Gavin nods positively and asks once more:

- Would you take me there?

I blink. Then I'm overwhelmed by my own emotions, the fear and trauma echoing through my bones before I can get a grip on myself:

- No, Gavin. You can't go there, you can never go there. He's too dangerous, a maniac, a psychopath, and who knows what he might do if he finds out you're with me and...

- Ssh, ssh - he does, hugging me tightly. - Nothing's going to happen. I'm fine here.

- But...

- He can't touch me, Amanda. I'm a respected businessman throughout the country, I have quite an influential name, and I'm well-known. Your father, as much of a bastard as he is, has no power to destroy me.

- But Gavin...

- His name. Just say it to me, little flower.

- Ivan.