Slave of Love

I was eight years old the first time I understood that silence could save lives. Not the silence that teachers praise or the kind priests call holy. This was a heavy silence, the kind that tastes like blood and hides behind locked doors.

The kind that keeps you breathing, but never living. You know, the kind that makes you feel like you’re walking on eggshells all the time?

My Dad, Ramon Santiago, was a well-known politician—a congressman. He was also a successful businessman, owning hotels and restaurants. He had a “hand of steel,” as people said. He was respected, honored, and he always wanted everything to be perfect.

Especially me.

He wanted me to be his perfect heir, his legacy.

He wanted a son who mirrored his name, not one who carried his heart. Like I was just an extension of him, not my own person.

From under the kitchen table, my hiding spot, I could see his shoes. Polished, black, perfect.

Like him.

Ramon Santiagonever raised his voice in public. In the world outside our home, he was calm and collected, but inside, his standards screamed.

It was like living two different lives, the one everyone saw and the real one, hidden behind closed doors.

“Marissa!” His voice boomed through the house again. That one word, my mother’s name, always sent a shiver of fear through me. I knew what was coming.

I stopped listening after the thud.

That sound was a regular thing. Like a broken record, it played in our home, a twisted melody of fear. The sound never got louder, but it always cut deeper. It was like a physical blow, even though it wasn’t aimed at me. The air would thicken, heavy with unspoken dread.

Mama never screamed back.

She just breathed through the pain. Slow, measured breaths.

It was almost graceful, like she had rehearsed it. Like this was a dance she had long ago memorized.

A dance of pain and endurance. Even her tears seemed to know their cue. They would fall silently, like rain on a windowpane, never daring to make a sound.

I clutched my sketchpad to my chest.

The pencil dug into my hand. I drew lines over and over, trying to drown out the noise. The paper tore, but that was better than hearing skin meet anger.

Some nights, I wondered if the paper hurt too—or if it was stronger than me. If it could absorb the pain, so I didn’t have to.

When it was over—when the storm inside our home had passed—she always came to me. Always. It was part of our twisted routine. Like she had to make sure I was still there, still okay.

“Hey, my love,” Mama whisper, her voice trembling, but her smile still there. “Nothing to worry about, okay? Your father’s just tired."

Just tired.

That’s what she called his rage. That’s what she called love. It was a twisted kind of love, one that left bruises and scars, both visible and invisible. And when she hugged me, I could still smell the perfume she used to hide the blood. It was a sickly sweet smell that made my stomach churn.

And I believed her.

What else could a child do? Who else could I turn to? She was my safe harbor in a sea of chaos. If love meant staying, then I stayed too. Trapped, just like her.

❀࿐

By the time I turned twelve, I had memorized the rules of survival in our house. They were carved into my brain, a survival guide for a war zone. They were the key to staying safe, to avoiding his anger.

• Rule one: Don’t speak unless spoken to. My voice was a dangerous thing, best kept locked away.

Like it had the power to set him off, to unleash the storm.

• Rule two: Perfect grades, perfect face, perfect posture.

Excellence was my shield, my armor against his disappointment. I had to be perfect, to give him no reason to be angry.

• Rule three: Love means staying, even when it hurts.

Dad taught me that without saying a word. Mom lived it, every single day. And I was starting to understand that maybe that wasn’t love at all.

Dinner was always the same: crystal glasses, silver forks, and silence so sharp you could hear the clock breathe. It was a performance, a carefully constructed facade.

No one spoke until my father did. It wasn’t a meal; it was inspection. Like he was looking for any flaw, any sign of imperfection.

He sat at the head of the table, reading the paper, his glasses low on his nose. A king on his throne, judging his subjects.

Mama kept her hands folded on her lap, the sleeve of her blouse tugged just high enough to hide a tremor. Her knuckles were white, her face pale.

The scent of burnt roast mixed with perfume and fear. A truly unsettling combination.

He didn’t look at us when he said, “Grades came in today.”

My throat closed.

The report card in his hand looked small, fragile—like it might burst into flames just from his stare. My heart pounded in my chest, a frantic drumbeat against the silence.

“Top two,” he said flatly. “Second.” Like those words were a curse.

He placed the paper down with the same care he might use for a loaded gun. Like it was a weapon, ready to be used against me.

“I’m proud of him,” Mama said quickly, her voice trembling like thin glass. “He worked so hard—”

“Proud?” Dad finally looked up, eyes cold. “You celebrate failure now?”

The chair screeched backward, the sound tearing through the room. A sudden, violent noise that made me jump.

“Top two is the first loser, Marissa. My son doesn’t lose.”

Mama’s fork clattered against her plate. “Ramon, please—he’s just a boy.”

He turned toward me, his shadow cutting the light from my plate. It felt like the sun had been blocked out, leaving me in darkness. “Is that what you are, Jade? A boy—or a disappointment wearing my name?”

I wanted to speak, to say I tried, but my tongue felt nailed to the roof of my mouth. Fear had stolen my voice.

“You will be first next time,” he said, quiet and final. “Do you understand?”

I nodded.

The sound of his footsteps retreating felt heavier than any shout. It was a crushing weight, a promise of future torment.

Mama sat frozen, eyes wet, lips trembling. Then she reached for her glass of water, and her sleeve slipped again. Her wrist was pale and shaking. I saw the faint outline of bruises beneath her skin.

“Eat, mi hijo,” she whispered. “He’ll calm down.”

But the food was cold, and so was I. I felt numb, empty. Like all the warmth had been drained from my body.

That night, I didn’t draw a boy in the rain.

I drew a boy sitting at a table made of glass—his reflection staring back, mouth open, screaming soundlessly. Trapped, just like me.

Dad wanted a son who would make him proud. A doctor, maybe, or an engineer. Someone with a wife, two kids, and the kind of smile you frame in graduation photos. He wanted a perfect image, a perfect legacy. He wanted to mold me into his ideal son, ignoring who I really was.

He didn’t know yet that I would ruin all of that. That I was a crack in his perfect facade. And cracks, in our house, were meant to be filled—never healed.

Sometimes, I’d catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Eyes red from crying, shirt half-buttoned, hair a mess.

I’d whisper to myself, “You can’t be weak. You’re a Santiago.”

The name was a burden, a weight I carried on my young shoulders. A constant reminder of what I was supposed to be.

And yet, in that whisper, there was always another voice. Smaller, softer, my Mama’s. Saying, “But you can still be kind.” It was her gentle rebellion against the harshness of our lives. Her kindness was the only rebellion we could afford. It was a flickering flame in the darkness.

❀࿐

One afternoon, I overheard my parents talking in the living room. The door was slightly ajar, and their words drifted into the hallway where I stood frozen.

“Ramon, he’s just a boy,” my Mama pleaded, her voice laced with desperation. “He needs your love, not your criticism.”

"Love?” my Dad scoffed. “Love is earning your place in this world. Love is success, Marissa. Something you clearly don’t understand.”

His words were a stinging slap across my face. My heart ached with a pain I couldn’t name. I realized then that maybe my father was incapable of real love.

That night, I learned that even the word ‘love’ could bruise.

That’s how I grew up: between the echo of a man’s anger and a woman’s endurance. Between fear and forgiveness.

Between silence… and the desperate need to be heard. And every time I tried to speak, my throat remembered who it belonged to. It felt like there was a hand wrapped around my throat, choking off my voice.

That night, I drew again.

A boy, faceless, standing in the rain. The rain was heavy, blurring the lines of his body, washing away his identity. Like he was trying to disappear.

Behind him, a house full of shadows. Windows like empty eyes, watching, judging. A prison, not a home.

In front of him, nothing but an open road. A road that stretched into the unknown, promising both danger and freedom.

I didn’t know it then, but that boy was me. And one day, I would walk away from that house. Not out of courage, but because even silence has a breaking point. I knew, deep down, that I couldn’t survive if I stayed.

I would run until my lungs burned and my legs ached, but I would not stop. I would find my own voice, even if it shook with fear. I would learn to love myself, even with all my scars. I would become someone my mother could be proud of, someone who chose kindness over silence.

Later that night, Mom found me drawing. She sat beside me on the bed, her presence a comforting weight.

“What are you drawing, mi hijo?” she asked softly, using her favorite endearment.

I hesitated, then showed her the picture. “It’s just… a boy running away.”

She looked at the drawing for a long moment; her eyes filled with a sadness I knew too well. ”Sometimes," she said, her voice barely a whisper, “running is the bravest thing you can do.”

I looked at her, searching her eyes for answers. “But where will he go?”

She smiled sadly. “Wherever his heart leads him, my love. Wherever he can find his own voice.” She brushed a stray hair from my forehead. “Just promise me you’ll never stop drawing, okay? Never stop creating your own world.”

I nodded, clutching the sketchpad to my chest. ”I promise, Mama.”

That was a promise I intended to keep.

My art was my escape, my voice, my rebellion against the silence. It was the one thing my father couldn’t control. It was the one thing that was truly mine.

And as she turned off the light, I realized—some promises are made in whispers because the world isn’t ready to hear them. And some secrets are kept in the dark, to protect us from the truth.