Catalina
Killer.
Monster.
I was called both from the moment I was born.
My father was at a rally, campaigning for a seat in the Senate, when my mother went into labor. By the time he arrived, she had already passed.
There were dozens of photos of my father's tears over the loss of his wife, Alana. And even more articles questioning how he was going to manage in a world without her, especially while trying to navigate life with a newborn.
But Simon Herrera persevered.
He took me with him wherever he could and pushed for new laws to protect children and their families, predominantly for low- and middle-income households.
The press went wild.
There were countless images of him holding a small, smiling version of me wrapped in the prettiest lace and the softest, most sparkling outfits.
Everyone believed I wanted for nothing, that everything I could have ever desired would be placed in the palm of my hand. And it was those images that helped my father succeed to the Senate.
He was a pioneer, a "real man," who put his child first. An authority women compared their men to, saying, "If he can take care of his daughter while running for the Senate, why can't my husband take care of the kids for an afternoon?"
Women supported my father. They believed in him, wanted him to win, because they secretly wanted him.
But it was all a lie.
To them, he was a good, just person. A man dedicated to his family. Someone who loved me more than anything in the world.
They were wrong.
Simon Herrera was a monster—one even worse than me.
As a child, I didn't truly understand my fear of my father. I hardly remembered anything before the age of four, only that the photos which hung in his office—his mementos—terrified me. But there was one summer that no matter how hard I tried, I could never forget.
I’d been dragged to a public rally. My father had chosen a thick velvet dress for me to wear, because it matched his outfit best and had small reflective stones. But he hadn’t accounted for the heat.
Sweat dripped off my brow, constantly getting into my eyes. I kept swiping at them, messing up my short brown bangs. I tried to tough it out as long as I could, but my headache turned into nausea. And then I committed the worst offense of all—I stopped smiling and waving and cried.
My father took me home as soon as he could. And the moment we stepped inside, he loosened his belt, wrapped one end around his fist and said, "I'll give you something to cry about."
He beat me mercilessly, screaming, "This is all your fault," and if I "would have just kept smiling," he wouldn't have had to resort to whipping me.
I begged him to stop, promised I'd never do it again, but he told me he wouldn't. Not until I learned how to smile through the pain and tears.
True to his word, he beat me until I passed out from the torment, covered in tears with the smile I'd forced onto my face.
It wasn't the first or last time he'd beat and abused me, but I’d somehow blocked out the rest.
When I outgrew the clothes he'd bought me at six, he called me fat. When I calmly tried to tell him they were simply the wrong size, he beat me, then locked me in my room with nothing to eat for two days.
After that, I started stealing snacks from the kitchen in case it ever happened again. It did, multiple times, but at least I always had something to eat.
At eleven, my father found a love note tucked away in my backpack. He screamed at me, told me I was a "Disgrace who would never be allowed to date anyone" he "didn’t approve of."
Then he pushed me down the stairs, and I broke my arm trying to brace for the fall. I wasn't able to write for six weeks.
The doctor and nurses asked me what happened, but my father kept reiterating that he'd simply come home and found me at the bottom of the stairs. He told them I was clumsy, always running into things, bumping into walls, showing up with scratches and scrapes with no explanation.
They didn't seem to believe him, though. They kept looking at me to say something, anything that would allow them to help.
But how could I? He was a powerful senator. And even if I said something, would they believe me?
I had been his punching bag for years. He'd hurt me so many times that I rarely felt the pain anymore. If I opened my mouth, if I told them what he'd done, what would they be able to do? And how far would my father go to keep his secret?
I didn't know the answer to those questions, but I did know Simon Herrera would do anything to protect his image, and he was capable of grave violence.
I didn't want anyone else to experience what I had, so I simply nodded along, saying I'd been running through the house and tripped down the stairs.
Oddly, my response had given me some reprieve. My father removed me from school, forcing me to learn at home with a tutor, and for a while, the beatings lessened.
Outside of public appearances, he mostly acted like I didn’t exist. It was like he'd gotten the confirmation he needed, that I had accepted what I was to him—his doll. A pawn to morph and marionette into whatever he required that day.
That hurt the little pride I had, but there was no other alternative. I couldn't escape from him, not yet, but I would one day. I just had to survive to that point.
By sixteen, I'd become an expert in acting.
In front of others, I smiled, waved, danced at soirees where some men leered at me like a hungry lion dying for a taste. I kept my grades up, excelled at everything my father ordered me to, and sang my father’s praises to the masses.
But at night, when it was dark, and I was by myself, I'd let everything fade away except my anger and hatred.
I resented everything my father stood for: the law, politics, government. Sometimes, I was jealous of my mother for dying while I survived only to live a miserable life.
I was certain my father had abused her too. In every photo her blonde hair was in a sophisticated updo. She was always thin, dressed immaculately. The epitome of the ideal wife.
Articles depicted my mother as the perfect hostess at parties and galas, and the first person my father thanked at award speeches. And in every picture, she always had a wide smile on her face—the same one I had been faking for years.
Sometimes I wondered what would have happened if my mother had survived. If my father had been abusing her, much like I suspected he was, would she have escaped with me? Would she have saved me?
I wanted to believe at least one of my parents cared about me. It was the only comfort I had… until I found my mother's diary.
In it, she’d detailed everything. How she’d been forced to marry my father, and that he'd abused her every single day of her life.
From broken ribs to marital rape to constant threats upon her life, she'd gone through it all. My mother’s appearance was always flawless, her behavior impeccable, because if she weren't, she would face unimaginable pain and terror.
She’d never had a moment of peace, and any hope she'd carried in her heart of finally getting it had been drained out of her. In that way, we were the same.
But in a little pocket, hidden at the back of her diary, was a detailed plan on how she would kill herself alongside a letter for me. My mother couldn't bring herself to do it while pregnant, but the moment she gave birth, she swore she'd take her own life. And she did.
In her letter, she apologized for giving birth to me, saying she never wanted to bring me into a world with that bastard as my father, but she had no choice. He had her watched nearly twenty-four hours a day.
A baby would make the media see him as a family man. Exactly what he needed for his campaign, and he wouldn’t let anyone stand in the way of that—especially my mother.
She hoped that one day I would find a way out. That someone would save me, or I'd find the strength to save myself. She apologized for being weak, for not persevering for me, for being selfish.
I refused to read the rest, because she was selfish.
I understood she didn't have a choice, but I couldn't forgive her. She'd left me with my father. And knew her death would put me in the same situation she had been. Yet she still went through with the pregnancy and her suicide.
Did she know how that would affect me? Did she know I would be called a killer?
Did she care?
I'd been mocked, hurt, constantly reminded that I was lower than scum by my father, and I'd believed it. It was my fault, I killed her. I shouldn't be alive.
But she framed me.
She forced me to take the fall for something she did, forced me to live with guilt and shame that never belonged to me.
That wasn't right. That wasn't fair.
That wasn't love.
If I hadn’t become the perfect tool for shaping my father's image, I likely wouldn't have made it past infancy.
But I had, and I was determined to survive.
If I had to keep acting, pretending I loved my father and my life, I would. If I had to worship the ground he walked on, or hide his abuse, I would.
I would do whatever I had to survive, and when I was able, I'd leave him for good.
Yes, he was a senator, but he couldn't stop me once I became an adult.
Then I'd escape.
I'd be free.
