Catalina
Killer.
Monster.
I was called both from the moment I was born.
My father, Simon Herrera, was at a rally, campaigning for a seat in the Senate, when my mother, Alana, went into labor. By the time he arrived at the hospital, she had already passed.
There were dozens of photos of my father's tears over the loss of his wife. How was he 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 families.
The press went wild over him.
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 in his goal.
He was a pioneer, a "real man," who put his child first. He was 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 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 specific instance I did recall.
`I had attended a public rally with my father in the middle of summer. He'd 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 for my father 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 I began to cry.
My father took me home as soon as he could, but it wasn't out of care or concern for me. 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." And he did.
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 didn't stop until I eventually passed out from the torment, covered in tears with the smile I'd forced onto my face.
Although I’d somehow blocked out the other times, that wasn't the first or last time he'd beat and abused me.
When I outgrew the clothes he'd bought me at six years old, 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, even fantasize over anything for anyone," he, "didn’t approve of."
I thought he would merely beat me again, as he normally did, but he pushed me down the stairs instead. I broke my arm trying to brace for the fall and wasn't able to write for six weeks.
The doctor and nurses asked me what happened, but my father always intercepted, constantly 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 on my golden skin with no explanation.
They didn't seem to believe him, though. Instead, they kept looking at me to say something, anything that would allow them to help me.
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 two things. 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'd simply nodded along with his excuse that I'd been running through the house and tripped down the stairs.
Oddly, that response had given me some reprieve. Once I healed, my father removed me from school and forced me to learn at home with a tutor.
For a while after that, the beatings had lessened, and outside of public appearances, he’d 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 the anger and the hate.
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.
She was the perfect hostess at parties, the first person my father thanked at award speeches and always with a wide smile on her face—the same one I had been faking for years.
If my mother were alive, would my life have been different? Would someone have finally loved me? Would someone have saved me from this torture?
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.
Alana had been forced to marry my father, and 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.
My mother never had a moment of peace, and any hope she'd carried in her heart of finally getting it had eventually been drained out of her. In that way, we were the same. But unlike me, she had taken the easy way out.
In a little pocket, hidden at the back of her diary, was a detailed plan on how she would kill herself. My mother couldn't bring herself to do it while pregnant with me, but the moment she gave birth, she swore she'd take her own life. And she did.
My mother had also left a letter for me. She apologized for giving birth to me, said 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. It was 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 didn't bother 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. She knew that by dying, I would be 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? How many times I would be called a killer?
I'd been mocked, hurt, constantly reminded that I was lower than scum by my father, and I'd believed it. I understood it was my fault, that I killed her and shouldn't be alive. And now, sixteen years later, I found out that I’d been framed by my own mother.
She’d forced me to take the fall for something I never should have had to. I’d lived with guilt and shame that had never belonged to me.
That wasn't right. That wasn't fair. That wasn't love.
No one had ever shown me what love was, but that wasn't it. This wasn't how a parent was supposed to treat their child. They were supposed to care for, nurse, worry about, guide, and protect them. But nobody had ever done that for me.
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.
Then I'd be free.
