Alexandra Aleman

Till this day, I was haunted by the memory of Belinda Marín coming back to life. Almost the entire pueblo had clustered around the lake, the hysterical shouts drawing them like moths to a flame. My mother’s murmurs were lost in the commotion, her pleadings for divine intervention prevailed by the commentary. Only I listened—albeit abstractedly—for I was stuck to her side, fiercely fiddling a hole in my shirt. I watched as one came after another to try their hand at resuscitating her. The efforts, however, bore no results. Each person came away with a creased expression, or an exasperated sigh, with Belinda as still as a tomb, her wet, dark plaits splayed out like strands of kelp.    

Time ticked by, the seconds stretching into minutes, the minutes turning into eternity. Mother eventually hushed, opening her eyes. I looked around. Hands wrung and feet shifted. Faces drooped and shoulders sagged. I turned to Belinda’s stiff body, utterly fixated in morbid curiosity.     

Then, Mother set her hands on my shoulder, angling me away from the dreadful sight. But just as Father Ruben started tracing the sign of the cross, Belinda lurched over and let out a sharp gasp. I gawked as the color returned to her face, as the olive tint washed back through her skin. She coughed, sputtered her lips, and retched out all the water in her lungs. Then, with a panting chest, did she glance up, glaring at everyone through red-rimmed eyes. Belinda’s gaze landed on Matias, and when she saw the brawny carpenter shaking like a leaf, she cracked a smile, letting out a spine-shivering laugh.      

# 

After that, things were never the same. Belinda’s inexplicable revival marked us all, the memory stamped into our minds. Time did little to squelch the fuss, for mouths ran, on and on and on, with people voicing their interpretations. Catholics likened the phenomena to an act of God, comparing Belinda to Lazarus of Bethany, the saint who rose from the dead. They embellished the lake as sacred, calling the site holy, its waters blessed. They spoke of dipping aching limbs, bathing in to smooth away suspicious lumps, drinking it even, to cure any foreboding symptoms. Such aggrandizement earned Belinda a sobriquet, the fanatics christening her as Milagrito—little miracle.    

Some, however, thought the contrary, suspecting that the girl was a sprite, the spawn of Satan. These rumors were fueled by the fact that Belinda’s mother—a promiscuous and degenerate young woman—had died in the childbed with not a hint as to who lent the poor wretch his seed. This gave way to another theory, one where Belinda was sired by death himself, inheriting the gift of immortality.     

Mother was neither the starry-eyed believer nor fervent fearmonger. All she disclosed was that I should keep my distance, for Belinda’s mother was the village harlot after all, and she could never condone my befriending someone of such “foul stock.” I thought about our shortcomings—Pa’s fluctuating temper, the alcohol in his breath, the shards of broken bottles littering his lifeless body—but said nothing. Even in my thirteenth year, I knew what not to question. All the same, our pueblo was split in two: those that venerated the girl and those who preached she be burned at the stake. And while these proposals, however fervently presented, did not proceed, the matter remained the same—all feared her.      

Well, except for Camilla Espina.      

It was common knowledge never to meet the bandida’s gaze because once she set sights on you, you became a walking target. She craved attention, did whatever she could to attain it, even if it meant belittling others. Belinda was the focus of all conversations, so Camilla deemed her a threat. As a result, she brazenly persecuted her, spouting snide remarks at her back, shooting spitballs at her in class. The scene often unfolded before me. A squall of pellets would bounce off Belinda’s head, with Camilla whooping whenever they managed to land in her ear. For this reason, I made sure never to attract Camilla’s attention. So, if she so much as threw a glance in my direction, I quickly turned my head and looked elsewhere.   

Others contributed to the tyranny, spurning Belinda in recreo, isolating her from any games and activities. It was usually in the schoolyard that I’d hear the jeers, the tittle-tattle. Belinda, however, was impervious to it all, promenading through the grounds barefoot, as she had a likeness to do.   

“Ugh,” sneered a girl, scandalized by the sight, “what a freak.”   

A scoff followed—another girl expressing her agreement. I, as always, opined nothing. I simply watched as she went off to amuse herself, wandering away to the stretch of grass.   

“Tonta!” I heard someone shout.   

I whirled around, catching the ball before it could slam into my face.   

“Don’t sleep on me now!” Roberta teased. I chucked it back, shooting her a bashful smile.   

Most were fazed by the notoriety surrounding my family, but not Roberta Carballo. In fact, her mother, the village tailor, was friendly with mine, always showing up to the tortilleria, keen to exchange a bit of gossip. Roberta was basically my only real friend. I clung to her like a desperate thing, as she was quite the social butterfly, and I hoped to insert myself into her circles. But for all that I tried, I still managed to linger in the fringes. However, I was not discouraged, for I was nothing if not patient. 

I resumed the game, whittling away the time running around the little court. But in the brief moments I chased the ball, I sometimes found my gaze drifting, landing to where Belinda stalked squirrels like a tabby cat. To be honest, I had no idea what to make of Belinda Marín. I was just glad I wasn’t her. 

# 

My village, while one of a small-scale, left barely any breathing space. Everyone knew everyone. And with that, everyone knew about everyone. Word spread like wildfire, with one either airing out their dirty laundry or exposing the skeletons in their neighbor’s closet.

Consequently. Belinda was a customary sight. Although there was one encounter that did leave its impression.  I was attending the tortilleria one early Saturday, wrapping away tortillas while Mother cranked out more. As she busied herself, placing sets of molded disks on top of the wood-fire, I was heeding to Doña Faustina, handing over her order.      

“Thank you, hija,” the anciana said, smiling down at the change trickling into her palm.  I nodded and watched her plod away. Then, a figure slunk forward to take her place. I was startled at their appearance, since I would recognize that impish grin anywhere, but was quick enough to assume an indifferent expression.    

“Buenos Dias,” Belinda chirped.    

“Hi.”    

“Tienen tortillas?”    

I nodded. Yes, we did, in fact, have tortillas.    

“I’ll take a half dozen,” she said, an ingenuous glint in her eye. “If you please.”    

I blinked. “Of course.”    

I snatched the tortillas from the mantled table and wrapped up the stack with timorous fingers. Then, I headed back over, extending the plastic bag through the door grid.     

“Thanks,” she said, grabbing ahold of it, proffering the money with her free hand. I said nothing. I simply palmed the cash and started rooting around my pockets.    

“Keep the change.”    

I shot my head up, swept back an errant lock of hair. “It’s no trouble, really.” I resumed my search, subsequently fishing out a fistful of coins.    

“But I insist.”    

I glanced up. 

 Here’s the thing: I didn’t want to be Belinda’s friend. Associating with her would only aggravate the notoriety constituted by my late father. Because it did not matter whether my mother made the best tortillas in el pueblo, or how much time we were removed from the tragedy—my dysfunctional family life would always precede me. And if I was determined to supersede it, because I was, I could not allow her to think that I was different. That I was like her. I just wanted to fit in, that was all. What was the harm in that?    

“Actually,” I began, “I think I’ll pass on that.” I squared my shoulders and thrust out the pitiful change.  Belinda, however, only laughed her breathy laugh—the sound of rustling leaves.

 “Sure.”   

She turned away, whipping the bag of tortillas in an arc.  I brought my arm down and scoffed, my pride undeniably stung.  Who does she think she is? Cheeky one she was, to dismiss me so smartly. Surely, I was undeserving of such a slap in the face. After all, she was beneath me. Right?   

 “Get off that high horse you so proudly ride.”    

Belinda turned around.   

“People whisper about you, and none of it good.”   

She arched a dark eyebrow as if to say So?    

But I railed on.    

“So, I’d quit your prancing if I were you. Because frankly…” I puffed my chest. “You look like a fool.”   

Belinda didn’t even humor me. She only stood there, shooting me a long, challenging look. I dealt her one right back, holding her gaze for a second before flinging the coins. They rained down and clinked audibly against the ground.   

“Take it,” I snarled, “and get lost.”     

Her eyes merely touched the ground before they darted back to me. I waited silently for a response, fighting to keep my expression hard. Then, a muscle in her jaw twitched.     

“You don’t fool me, Inez. Not one bit.”    

I opened my mouth, about to argue, when Mother barged in, wiping her hands with a cloth. “What’s going on here?”     

I spun around, about to launch into explanation. But when I glanced over, Belinda had already left.    

# 

Left embittered by the incident, I reflected over it long after. My frustration, however, was inclined towards myself. Was I that easy to read? I thought about all those times Mother reprimanded me to “fix that look” in those interminable church services. Or when my gaze drifted, landing on the rowdy vagos perched on the cemetery gates. I’d feel a tug on my sleeve, and when I glanced up, I would meet Mother’s sharp, disapproving glare yet again.   

While I was betrayed by my unsurprising nature, the root of my vexation was plain as day: I hated how Belinda unveiled that tender heart I so resented.  As a result, I halted my efforts and resumed to what I did best: making myself scarce. For the first few days, it was easy. I lurked around, completing errands for Mother, sat in for school, and people-watched on storefront stoops. Until one afternoon, I broke out of those shadows.

I was installed in front of Don Aurelio’s venta one sweltering afternoon, sweating liberally in my school uniform. I was fooling around with my slingshot, watching the villagers and hawkers mill past when the trio flocked into sight. Soundlessly, I shrunk behind a crate and watched as they passed around a stolen cigarette. I murmured a quick prayer that they wouldn’t notice me, and fortunately for me, it seemed to be delivered. Each girl was too busy cultivating their vices, coughing out smoke in violent hacks. Then, Belinda came trudging along, listless as ever. I crept out once the squad’s leader prowled forward, the tyrant smirking as Belinda stopped short.      

“Move.”     

Camilla smiled sweetly and crossed her arms. “Now, is that any way to speak to your betters?”     

Belinda only stared, looking extraordinarily bored. She took a step, but another girl came forward, handing her superior the cigarette. Camilla proceeded to take a drag, blowing out a gray swirl on Belinda’s face. Snickers rose, but she hardly even batted an eye.     

“Quien te crees que eres?” Camilla bit out. “I ain’t scared of you, freak.”

Belinda remained as silent as a stump, yet to be incited. A beat of time passed, and the tension thickened. Then did Belinda part her mouth. Her response, however, was anything but accommodating.     

“Move.”     

I hitched a breath. Camilla, on the other hand, was fuming, tapping agitatedly at her cigarette.      

“Best tame that tongue of yours,” she warned. “If you know what’s good for you.”     

Belinda stared back at her with an unflinching gaze. Camilla, however, looked fit to burst, her anger hardly contained. The spell of silence eventually lapsed.

“Yeah. I thought so.”     

One of her lackeys came forward then, pinching Belinda under her arm. Another girl soon joined in, the pinches now escalating to prods and shoves. The two threw Belinda around, grabbing her as though she was nothing more but a rag doll.      

“See,” Camilla grinned, “she doesn’t even fight back.” Then, she turned the cigarette in her fingers, flourishing it like a weapon.

I rose to my feet. Till this day, I could not say what compelled me to make such a move. Perhaps it was that tender heart I so much repelled since that cursed thing only brought me misfortune. All I could remember was my sliding into the scene, coming up behind Camilla like a wraith. And just as she was about to bring the cigarette down to Belinda’s forehead, I stretched back the elastic band and yelled out, “Hey!”     

Camilla whirled around, her eyes wide in the split second before I fired the slingshot. The next thing I knew the cigarette fell to the ground with a hiss. Camilla’s minions abandoned Belinda thereafter, rushing over to tend to their fussy superior instead. I, on the other hand, wasted no time in ushering the girl away, the two of us running off in a cloud of dust.       

# 

I knew my interference came with a price—and I instantly regretted it. But seeing as the next day started just like any other day, I was starting to think I was overstressing. Mother had been sweating over the stove, stirring through a medley of masa, beef, and vegetables. I, on the other hand, pondered so hard over a math problem, I gnawed through my pencil like a feral thing.    

 “Inez.”    

Snapped from my reverie, I locked eyes with hers—and subsequently wilted under her scrutiny. I proceeded to pluck the pencil from my mouth. Mother only shook her head.   

“Ven,” she quickly amended, “Que me faltan unas cosas. Be a good girl and fetch them for me.”  

She disclosed the few missing ingredients and counted the coins on my palm. I was just on my merry way when a grisly sight stopped me in my tracks. Dumped on my doorstep was the carcass of a cat. I stumbled back, shot my arm against the stench of roadkill. Three days later, I was assaulted yet again, my house bombarded by a squall of stones. It started with a patter—a thump here, a thump there—until it amplified to a racket impossible to ignore. Curious, I foolishly went to inspect. I managed to creak the door open before Mother hurried over and shoved me away. But it was in that moment before she slammed it close, that I saw, through that sliver of view, a flurry of dusty sandals and dark ponytails, followed by a brief turn of a head, a flash of a smirk.     

School was just as troubling. In recreo, voices lowered to whispers at my appearance, the murmurs following me through the schoolyard. Then, my eyes found Roberta, who laughed and chattered within a cluster of girls. Initially, I was intimidated by the sight of so many assembled at once, but seeing as it was Roberta, I carried on.  

“Hey.”  

She turned, her eyes not quite meeting mine. “Oh, hi Inez.”  

Then, as if on cue, backs turned. Hands cupped over running mouths. I looked over at Roberta, but she only bit her lip. Instantly taking the hint, I gave a resigned nod. It was true that I was quiet, but I was no simpleton.   

“I guess I’ll see you around then.” 

And so, I walked away, not even bothering with a backward glance. 

#

The rest of the time, I found myself straggling, lingering near knows of girls in endeavors to meld in with them. None of them, however, would have me. I even suffered the awkwardness in waiting to be picked for a game of fútbol. Many glances were thrown my way, the sharp glares lancing like arrowheads. And still I remained, clinging to the hope that I was not yet doomed. I silently watched as the teams assembled, until finally, it came down to the dregs waiting to be picked.

I was starting to think myself an idiot for hoping I even stood a chance when a shout roused me from my brooding. I whirled to the source—only to find a finger pointing straight at me. I could hardly believe my eyes. Someone was choosing me to join their team. Beaming, I started forward, my feet moving as if walking on air. Then, Estefania brought up a hand, her face creased into an ugly scowl.    

“No, not you.” She lashed out her arm, indicating someone past me. “I meant her.”   

A chorus of chuckles ensued. Blushing, I dropped my eyes and hurried away. I snuck a glance at Roberta and noticed her pitiful stare. I tore away from them, only to latch onto Belinda’s. She only stared back at me from where she loitered, smacking away at her gum.

#

In class, spitballs pelted down, littering all over my desk. Sometimes, they managed to land into my ears. I resisted in turning around. But I did so anyway.  There was a threat in Camilla’s gaze, a look that said something awaited me. Rather than settle in the recesses of my memory, I could still conjure the image with terrible ease. It was blazing enough to burn so vividly in my mind, even after all these years. And so, I entered an intermittent state of paranoia, glancing over my shoulder in my walks home, alert to any movement, any sudden flicker in the bushes. In recreo, I positioned myself in full view of the schoolyard, where nothing could surprise me. I navigated my days with wariness, since I was always conscious of the impending danger promised in Camilla’s eyes. 

Alas, I was at the lake when it came. 

Wash day had arrived, and I took to the site bearing the washboard, the hard soap, and a basket of dirty laundry. I was close to turning on my heels at its deserted sight but quickly discarded the idea. I immersed myself into the chore with ease, aided by nature’s gentle frequencies. Branches creaked in the faint breeze. Insects rubbed their wings in song. And in the sky, birds wheeled about, chirping. I started to hum a tune to fill these gaps when a rustle sounded in the bushes.

I almost dismissed it for a scurrying creature were it not for the snap that followed. I spun around. Figures parted the surrounding shrubs, emerging from the foliage in shadowy shapes. I shot to my feet and began to gather my things. I was sure to escape, making it as far as to the line of trees, when Camilla appeared, barring my path. She smirked down at me, her expression twisting against the eyepatch over her face. 

“Going somewhere?”       

I made for the left.     

“Ah—ah—ah, I don’t think so,” she quipped. “I believe we have some unfinished business to settle.”     

Hands clutched onto my shirt, seized my arms, the mass of clothes falling into a heap on the rocks. The girls began to belt out a crude drinking song, blatantly enjoying themselves. I twisted animatedly against their clutches, but my efforts availed nothing. I was being led towards that cursed lake. Camilla’s eyes glinted the whole time as she watched me thrash in despair. Her face was the last thing I saw before the water rushed over, and the world went blank. As I flailed about, I thought fleetingly about my father. Was this what he felt as he transcended into the unknown? I beat my arms, pushed my feet. I hoped I would never know.  

Eventually, I managed to break the surface, taking a painful gasp. Then, summoning every bit of strength, I clawed to the shallows, only to find Camilla there, looming over. She jumped, arms and legs splayed, the slam of her weight eliciting a painful huff. Water swashed as we rolled and grappled. And while I did what I could to wrest away from her, Camilla successfully mounted over me. I gritted my teeth at her, but the little mettle I had soon dissipated at the stone clutched in her hand. A hefty thing, it was solid enough to knock someone out cold, or better yet, put out the light from their eyes. I had never been certain of anything else in my life—I was going to die.   

Then, in the space of a blink, a shadow toppled her down. I lurched over, only to find Camilla brawling with Belinda. Where Camilla fought like a tiger, all teeth and claws, Belinda was a fox, maneuvering against the former with astute fluidity. Camilla, however, managed to overpower her, forcing her flying limbs down. Then, much to my horror, she grabbed a hold of Belinda’s head and started to dunk her forcibly into the water. At this point, the other two girls fled, as they no longer wanted to be a part of what was to come. Panicking, I looked around. My eyes scoured until finally, they settled on the abandoned stone. I reached for it, and without a second thought, began to wade through the lake. The following moments would forever be branded in my memory: the crack of Camilla’s skull, the stunned look in Belinda’s face, the water running red.     

Once night fell, a mob besieged Belinda’s shack. Father Ruben stood in the vanguard, his crucifix glinting in the fading light. The fearmongers gloated upon the charlatans moments prior, but when they stormed in, eager to exact justice, the “unholy abomination” and her grandmother were nowhere to be found. The bed was dressed, and the rusted dishware was stacked neatly on the shelf. There was not even a chair askew to indicate a sign of any rush. The mob rummaged through it all the same. It was not until they turned it inside out, throwing all its meager furnishings to the dirt road, that they finally set the shack on fire. Solemnly, I clutched onto my handlebars and watched as the blaze ate through the corrugated tin roof.  

“Serves them right,” I heard a voice say. I turned around. Roberta stared back at me, leaning against a car with the ease of a spectator. “I mean they had it coming, right?”  

I said nothing.

She soon deflated under my gaze. “Inez?”  

I snapped my head around and shifted in my seat. Then, by way of dismissal, I rode away.   

# 

As the years passed, Belinda became something of a myth, a story told over and over again. It was said that she returned to the lake, where at night, the dark waters rippled with the presence of the ungodly. Mothers warned their mischievous children not to get too close, for fear of the sprite who liked to seize one unaware, only to pull them into the water and drown them. The lake was now frequented by wandering drunks and audacious teenagers come to wreak havoc. They liked to cluster together and place dares—a way to determine who could wake the monsters sleeping in its depths.  

But that was just folly.     

They were wasting their time, chanting satanic nonsense around a dull body of water—for that was what it was. Though they would never believe me if I said so. They couldn’t see the stain that had worn well through time, however much I wished they could. It drove me mad, for I could never get rid of it, couldn’t glance down without seeing it. It would always be there to remind me what happened. What I did.     

The blood in my hands.