Broken Chords

BROKEN CHORDS© 2025 Naomi. All rights reserved.

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Trigger & Content Warnings – Broken Chords

This story contains mature themes and emotionally intense content that may be distressing to some readers. Please read with care.

Emotional neglect and parental

Family dysfunction and verbal/emotional abuse

VERY VERY toxic family dynamics

Strong language

Alcohol and drug use

Emotional manipulation & betrayal

PTSD symptoms

Racism and Discrimination

Toxic sibling relationships

Power imbalance

Gaslighting and manipulation

Themes of self-worth, invisibility, and identity suppression

IF I FORGOT ONE DON’T COME AFTER ME, I AM HUMAN

Quick note, this story? It’s rooted in my experiences. Inspired by life, filtered through fiction. If there’s something in here you don’t like…THAT IS OK!

But this is my story. I’ll tell it how I damn well please.

Let’ continue.

Chapter 1– Behind the Beat

Being the black sheep of the family isn’t always a curse. Sometimes, it’s a kind of freedom, lonely, yes, but freeing.

I’ve worn that label for so long it clings to me like a second skin. Not something I chose, more like a hand-me-down coat no one else wanted, again used to that as well. Heavy. Frayed at the edges. A little too tight in the places that matter. But still mine.

There’s always a moment, though, a quiet, cracking point, when you get tired of being the afterthought.

When you want more than invisibility behind a drum kit, more than being the muted echo of a family name that doesn’t quite fit.

I don’t want to be just the one who keeps the rhythm. Not just the sister who stays in the background while everyone else shines.Sometimes, just sometimes, I want to be seen.

As someone. As me. Not a shadow. Not a footnote. Just... Azul.

Now, you might be thinking, Girl, you’re grown. Do your thing. Just leave.

And I hear you. I do. But when the only roots you’ve ever known are tangled around this life, this family, how do you just rip yourself out of the ground without breaking hearts in the process?

It’s easier said than done.

And for that? Yeah, I’ll be judged. But judgment? That’s not new. That’s been my daily bread, served cold, without kindness.

To be picked apart, misunderstood, reduced, dismissed, for every damn thing. For speaking too loudly. For not smiling enough. For daring to exist in the quiet spaces where no one clapped.

Like the French say... c’est la vie.But damn, sometimes life needs a drumbeat loud enough to shake the silence.

Azul- Rogers Stadium- Calgary, Alberta

Thump, thump….thump thumpppp

Hit after hit…Each one a heartbeat, a war cry, a confession. Sweat drips down the curve of my neck, trailing along the sides of my face. My arms ache, but I don’t stop. I never stop. This is our last number for the night, and just like every show, I give it everything I’ve got, every ounce of me poured into the sound.

Because the beat? The beat is everything. It always has been.

It’s where I disappear. Inside the rhythm. Inside the noise.Inside the illusion that I belong, like I’m part of something bigger than myself. A living pulse, loud and undeniable.

I’ve been doing this since I was ten. Not just playing music, living it. In our family, music wasn’t a hobby. It wasn’t even a choice. It was stitched into our skin, wired into our nerves, burned into our blood like a rite. Like a brand.

But the truth? I never chose the drums.

Hell, I didn’t even want them.

I still remember that day. My father handing me the sticks like it was some sacred ceremony. And I just stared at them. At him. Thinking he’d lost his damn mind. Me? The drums? I was just a kid, clumsy with my feelings, already fading into the background, and here he was trying to hand me something loud, something impossible to hide behind.

I looked at those sticks like they were weapons, too heavy, too much.

My mother, ever the peacemaker, tried to sweeten it. She smiled and said I’d look good behind the kit. Said I was always tapping on everything anyway, might as well make it music.

Funny thing is… That’s how it started. Not with passion. But with a peace offering.

No... I didn’t want the drums. Or the bass. Or the guitar.All the instruments my father drilled into me and my middle sister—like it was fate. Like music was our destiny.

No. I wanted the front. The mic. The heat of the stage lights pouring down on me. I wanted the world to hear my voice. But apparently, being heard takes a certain kind of pretty, and I wasn’t that kind.

The stutter didn’t help either.

I got better with time. Therapy helped. But when I sang? It disappeared. Like magic. Like the only time I ever felt... normal.

Still, it was always a no. So who stood at the front? Who was the face of the Altamiras’?

Rosa, of course.

Rosa was the pretty one. Rosa was the face. Rosa was everything we weren’t allowed to be, and you guessed it, Rosa didn’t have to learn the rest. Didn’t need to master the strings or the keys or keep time. She was the princess. She only had to focus on her gift.

But maybe, just maybe, it was a blessing in disguise.

Because back here, behind the kit, it’s just me and my sticks. the rhythm and me. The quiet and me…the kind of power that doesn’t ask for attention, but still commands it.

There’s a solitude to it. A sacred space in the noise. Back here, I don’t have to smile. I don’t have to compete. I just play.

And sometimes… that’s enough.

“You’re the only truth I knowwwww.” Her voice soars now, just a few feet in front of me, as I hammer the beat from behind.

I can hear her even over the crash of my own snare. The guitar hums beneath her, the bass thunders low, it’s all a perfect fusion, one that the world keeps worshiping.

I hit, and I hit again.

My hair is wild. I’m dripping with sweat, wrapped in my usual look: black crop top, black jeans, more metal and ink than my father would ever approve of.

Tattoos crawl up my arms and lace across my chest. Piercings glint under the lights. I don’t look like my sisters. I never did.

That’s the point.

The stage lights hit them like fire and honey, warm golds and sharp whites slicing through the dark like spotlights from heaven and hell at once. Blanca steps up to the mic, her voice smooth like silk stretched over pain, along side Rosa.

I’ll keep you close… “y aunque el mundo nos acabe…”

The crowd starts to clap, soft at first, then louder, rising like a heartbeat echoing through the arena.

Rosa closes her eyes, hands in the air, letting it all go as the bridge hits. Blanca and Rosa lock eyes like the spotlight only belongs to the two of them. Blanca strums the guitar gently, her fingers dancing like this is their world.

“I’ll keep you closer…” Rosa belts her final note. I hit my last snare, hard, and let the silence swallow me.

I glance up. My chest is still heaving, lungs burning from the final song. The dark wraps around me like a shroud, heavy and thick, swallowing the edges of the stage.

Everything feels distant: the crowd’s fading roar, the static hum in my ears, the ghost of the beat still echoing in my bones.

And then the spotlight hits.

Her. It slices through the darkness like a blade of light, and Rosa steps right into it. Rosa tosses her hair with the kind of confidence only she seems to own, the silver fabric of her mini dress catching the stage lights like a mirrorball, flashy, skin-tight, every sequin designed to scream, look at me.

It hugs her curves just right, a dress meant for attention.

Beside her, Blanca stands in quiet contrast. Her red mini dress is softer, less daring, and more velvet than glitter.

This is part of the show she loves, the attention. She bathes in it. Drinks it in like it was poured just for her to shine. She knows exactly how to tilt her chin, how to let the light kiss her cheekbones just right.Like she’s been rehearsing this moment in the mirror since birth.

And then...

I see him. Austin. He looks at me. Smiles and nods.

“Asshole.” I mutter under my breath. I ignore him. Just like I always do.

The sweat slicks down my spine.

The crowd explodes into cheers. Another sold-out show. Another night. Another performance that doesn’t belong to me.

Rosa steps forward to thank the band. One by one, she calls them out. Her spotlight touches each of us, barely brushing me last. I stand. Lift my sticks. The crowd roars, and then... just like that… the lights dim. The applause fades.

Another night over. Another beat buried.

Rosa jerks her head toward the rest of the band, a sharp signal. Time to go. She doesn’t even say it. She just expects us to follow.

Then she looks at me. She’s waiting. Assuming I’ll fall in line like always.

But I sit back down.

She should know better by now. I don’t do commands. Not from her. Not anymore.

And then there’s him. Austin. Again. His hand slips to the small of Rosa’s back, fingers resting there like they belong. He leans in, presses a kiss to her temple…Soft. Familiar. Like it’s always been them.

Let it go, Azul... It’s been too long. Too long… And still, the pain doesn’t know how to leave.

Still, it lingers like a bruise no one else can see.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, barely audible over the thinning crowd.I try. God, I try not to let it eat at me, and on the outside, I’ve mastered the art of not showing it.But inside?

The scars haven’t healed. Not really.

I stay back because I like the view from here. Because I like watching the stage lights flicker over the crowd like distant stars, beautiful, unreachable, and untouchable.

My heart’s still pounding. My chest still rising and falling from the last beat I played like it meant something. Blanca catches my eye from across the stage. She doesn’t say a word. Just gives me a soft nod and a small smile.

Always the quiet one. Always so kind.

I swallow hard, the lump in my throat heavier than I expected. Then, finally, I move. My stool creaks under me as I stand, drumstick still gripped in one hand like a lifeline. The stage lights are fading now, a haze settling in, the kind that smells like sweat, metal, and the last note of a song that won’t stop playing in your chest.

Some of the band members are still lingering, winding cables, sharing tired laughs.

I smile at them as I pass.

I turn toward the back exit of the stage, already dreading what waits on the other side: more noise, more flashing cameras, more of them. My combat boots clack against the stage floor, each step louder than the last, like a warning shot.

At the edge of the stage, the lights cut through the darkness, blinding and cold.

Below, the crowd is thinning, but the chaos still simmers.

Down the stairs I go. As I hit the last step, my foot hovers for a beat, because there he is. My father, Carlos. Waiting like clockwork.

He can’t even let us catch a breath, can he? Can’t even let us step into our damn dressing room.

Lately, with him, it’s all been go-go-go. No pause. No space. No time to even peel the sweat off my skin before we’re shoved into the next photo, the next smile, the next performance.

Hurry up, niñas, we’ve got a meet-and-greet to get through. And God, Azul, seriously?

“Stefania! Get her a towel or something, she looks like she just rolled out of a damn hurricane.”

“Ugh, seriously, Zul? You’re always so freakin’ sweaty and gross,” Rosa crosses her arms, nose wrinkled like she just sniffed a dumpster.

She’s always been good at picking. Picking at me. At everything I do, every step I take.I’ve trained myself to ignore it, but lately? Lately, it’s like she’s turning up the heat on purpose.

I roll my eyes as I brush past her, not bothering to slow down.

“What did you expect? I’m the drummer. You want a beat, you get the whole damn tormenta (storm.)”

Stefania rushes toward me, a water bottle and towel in hand, eyes wide like always, But before she can hand it over, my father grabs the towel from her and tosses it at me like I’m a stray dog he has to clean up before company comes over.

“Clean yourself up. Fast. You’ve got ten minutes. Make yourself presentable.”

I catch the towel mid-air, jaw locked so tight it might crack, and this, this right here? This is the difference. The difference between how he treats me and how he treats my sisters.

It’s always been like this. Because I don’t bend. Because I push back. Because I don’t roll over and play the part like they do.

I grab the towel, start patting myself down, not because he barked an order, but because yeah, I’m drenched and we’ve got fans to face.

But I move on my terms. Not his.

“You could’ve at least let us go into the dressing room to breathe a little.”

“There’s no time to breathe when time is money. You should know that by now,” he snaps.

Of course. Always about the brand. The image. The Altamira machine.

Stefani appears at my side, eyes down, holding out a water bottle like a peace offering.

“Thanks.”

She gives me a shy smile. No words, she never risks too much when he’s around. I pop the cap and take a long pull, gulping it down like I haven’t had water in hours.

Because honestly? I probably haven’t.

“And slap something on that isn’t drenched in sweat, would you? You reek, Azul,” Rosa adds. She fans the air dramatically, voice all syrup and venom, like she’s auditioning for a damn soap opera.

“You can’t even—”

“—Be around you without wanting to gag? Same.” I finished the sentence for her.

“Why are you always such a feral little mess? Papito, she’s tanking our brand. She should try looking a little more like Blanca and me. All this tomboy bad-girl crap is dragging us down.

That’s it. I lift my chin, towel still clenched in my fist.

“ Right. Because God forbid I don’t dress like a low-life slut.”

“Excuse me?! I dress like a star! I’ve always, if it weren’t for me—”

“No.” I step forward, chest rising. My voice, sharp, shaking. “If it weren’t for me writing the damn songs that hit number one, we’d be in fucking ruins!”

“It’s my voice–”

I start to laugh. Loud. Bitter.

“You’re so fucking delusional. Hand me a mic—just once. I’ll b..b…bury you.”

“You can’t even talk straight. B...b...bb...bbbb… you ex-expected to f-fucking—”

“Fuck you!!!”

It’s rare that I stutter. Usually, it only happens when I’m really pissed. When the fire climbs too fast and the words can’t keep up. I try to stay quiet when I feel it coming, try to swallow it down—because once it hits, it erupts.

“S-s-scared, aren’t you?” I tilt my head. Smile sharp as broken glass. Close my eyes for just a second and breathe. Try to recenter.

“Yeah. I know. That’s why it’ll never happen. Because the day Papito hands me the mic? You’re... f-f-fucked.

“You bitch—! “ She growls, chest heaving, her face cycling through every shade of rage-red imaginable.

But before she can open that venom-dripping mouth again, Blanca steps in, arms up like a referee in the middle of a title match.

“Guys. Calm down. Let’s not make a scene.”

I’m almost nose-to-nose with Rosa now. Heart pounding. Palms are sweaty around the towel.

“I’m not making a scene. Trust me, this isn’t a scene.”

“There’s no one here but us. So tell your sister to leave me the fuck alone. To stop acting like all of this—” I wave a hand around the room, at the lights, the gear, the name behind us, is because of her.

“It is because of me, you bitter bitch—”

“THAT’S ENOUGH!” His voice booms like a gunshot.”You’re sisters, for crying out loud. And you’re lucky we’re not out there already. Now stop yelling before someone hears–”

“What? They’ll finally find out what a cunt your daughter really is. That she’s not some polished princess but a full-time nightmare in a sequin dress?”

“ Azul! Did you just—Did you just call her—”

“Azul, maybe you should–” Austin’s voice comes out of nowhere.

I spin and jab a finger right in his direction.

“Don’t. You don’t get a say in any of this. Just because you’re fucking my sister doesn’t mean you get to play daddy’s little spokesman. So sit the fuck down, and stay the fuck out of it.”

And then…Right on cue, a timid voice breaks through the tension.

“Um… they’re ready for you whenever you’re set.”

“We’ll be there in a minute.” My father’s voice is tight, his hand already pinching the bridge of his nose like this is just another migraine in a suit.

“Of course it is.”

He closes the door behind him with a heavy sigh, leaving all the assistants and bodyguards outside like they don’t even matter.

“I’ll see you all out there.”

Rosa’s ever-watchful bodyguard tenses as I pass, like he thinks I’m about to throw hands.Please.He should be more worried about her mouth than my fists.

As I walk past Rosa, I lift both arms, make a dramatic show of sniffing my armpits, and grin.

“ Mmm. Smells like fucking rosas (roses).”

“Bitch.”

“Cunt,” I growl, not missing a beat.

“Leave her alone, Rosa. You can be so damn annoying,” Blanca adds.

“What?! I’m just saying the truth! Maybe if she dressed a little more feminine, she could actually get a man!”

That stops me, just long enough to laugh. Loud. Shameless. From deep in my chest, where all the best comebacks live.

Without even looking back, I flip her off and keep walking.

“I don’t need a man. I have a vibrator. Five, actually. All different shapes and sizes.”

“AZUL!” My father’s voice booms behind me like thunder cracking open the sky.

But it’s too late.

The damage, and the comedy, is done. Blanca snorts. The rest of the crew breaks. One of the sound techs damn near drops a mic from laughing too hard.

Knox matches my pace as I storm down the hallway, boots hitting the floor like punctuation marks.Behind us, I hear my father and Rosa still bickering, louder now. But I’ve had enough of their bullshit for one night. I’m not sticking around to watch the rerun.

“You’re gonna give your father a heart attack one day.”

I smirk at him, my bodyguard, my shadow. The only one in this entire machine who actually knows when to shut up… and when not to.

“Good. Maybe if he drops dead, this band will finally fall apart, and we can all go our own damn way.”

“You know that won’t happen. You love your sisters too much.”

I stop. Just for a second.Then I glance up, meeting his gaze, deep, calm, chocolate-brown eyes that somehow always see too much.

“I love Blanca. And Estrella.” I start walking again, brushing past the wall like it personally offended me.”Rosa can go choke on a mic. I couldn’t care less.”

“You can say that…But deep down, you love her.”

I shake my head, steady, no hesitation.

“Way… way deep.”