My husband abused me every day. One day, when I lost consciousness, he took me to the hospital and said I had fallen down the stairs. That's when everything broke down.
My name is Luciana Herrera . And for many years I kept silent, because silence was safer than telling the truth.
Daniel wasn't a monster in the eyes of others. He was polite, hardworking, and knew how to smile. He could appear calm even when he systematically destroyed me at home. He never hit me visibly. He learned how to do it. He aimed his blows at places covered by clothing. He chose his words carefully, slowly, with icy calm.
"You're exaggerating."
"You're too sensitive."
"If you had obeyed me, this wouldn't have happened."
Soon I began to doubt myself. My own memory. My feelings. I worked a few hours a day in a small shop, but the money went into his account. I checked my phone. Friends gradually disappeared. I told myself it was because of exhaustion, because of life, because of adulthood. In reality, it was isolation, a carefully constructed cage.
Behind the closed doors of our house there were no witnesses. Only the silence that hung in the air after each explosion.
The night everything changed didn't start out in any special way. I made dinner. Daniel tasted the food and, without warning, pushed his plate. It smashed against the wall. I knew what was coming. Even so, I stood there. Maybe I was too tired, maybe I hoped it would end differently this time.
I don't remember that moment exactly. Only the cold of the floor, a high-pitched ringing in my ears, and his voice, distant and calm, as if he were commenting on someone else's movie.
"See? You brought it on yourself."
I tried to move. My body didn't respond. Darkness enveloped me.
