The Low family was one of those rusty families for whom time never advances or recoils, but it stops. The real problem with this was knowing when it had started to stop. Each generation inherited the same orthodox and withered mentality that turned them into victims of their surname and pushed them to believe, throughout their lives, that they possessed the only truth, the true way of doing things, "the right way". This type of idea made them lead lives full of abuse, insanity, and lack of communication that was exercised from father to children.

From the beginning of the lineage, the life of each of its members had been, in one way or another, a vicious spiral, a repetitive cycle, a routine life of monotony, weariness, and rage. The cycle seemed infinite and only found an end in death, which wore them without pain or glory, leaving to its heirs the vague memories of an existence that little by little was erasing the dust of the years.

For that reason, there was no doubt that the walls of that house had many stories to tell, although, sadly, none deserved to be remembered. However, the obstinate and persevering nature of the Lows seemed to impose itself from the abyss of death and claimed a very small space in the world of the living through objects. That show of courage, that intimate longing, that effort to stay present in the earthly world, would have been worthy of merit in other families, but for the Lows, that was more of a hindrance, an empty and opaque fact that only deserved the oblivion. In this way, those objects, the last traces of an extinct existence that defied death, were relegated to the darkest corners of the home, deprived of attention, ignored for decades until the name of its owner was lost.

In the case of Jesus Low, Catherine's father, life had not been very different. A man of few words, it was more of strong looks than of samples of affection, more of silences than of advice, more of mechanical relationships, almost artificial than of real feelings. However, Jesus paid attention and care to Catherine, although that seemed more an exercise in obligation than genuine love. Even so, that mechanical affection seemed like the most real and sincere affection in the world to Catherine.

When his father was present, everything was deferential.

When her father was there, Beatriz would not come near. She was limited to being a ghost which wandered around the house looking for some activity and pointed out Catherine's duties very carefully, without reflecting her hatred. In those days, Catherine could enjoy small moments of peace, which she devoted exhaustively to learning to read with the help of her father. Jesus had taken that work with special dedication. Mr. Low had a great appreciation for reading, although he would never have been a great reader. Maybe because his new occupation made him observe that people with money read or simply because it seemed right, for one reason or another, he taught the little girl to read.

He didn’t take long to be surprised

Catherine was learning very fast. She devoured the little stories almost at the speed with which Jesus drank coffee and designed in his notebook. For her, those would be the best days of a wilted childhood full of suffering. It was February. Her father had taken vacations for two months and since then her mother had stopped harassing her. Everything felt like a dream.

For two months, little Catherine spent most of her time in her father's study. Both understood each other. Oddly enough, Catherine had real security when she proposed something. She had gained access to the studio with her desire to learn, but after mastering the basic notions, she entered the studio dressed in her white, blue, black, or brown clothes, sat on the sofa and began to read, as if that would be the most natural thing in the world, as if they had been doing it for years.

Her father didn't seem bothered by his daughter's bold attitude; in fact, it would have been very difficult to know if he cared. Jesus was always absorbed in his desk, his drawings, and his notebooks. He probably accepted his daughter's presence because they both respected and shared that silence typical of the Low family, which could be exasperating for any other person. It also helped that Catherine was not the typical girl who tried to get involved in her father's work. She didn't ask stupid questions, nor did she try to get her father's attention. In fact, it seemed that an invisible barrier prevented them from showing any sign of affection. They understood each other. That is why they respected the routine, the schedules, and never failed to comply.

However, Mr. Low didn't know but, for Catherine, the books became the escape route for their suffering. That forced truce that gave her the presence of her father had markedly improved her life but, deep in her heart, she knew that it would not last forever. That is why whenever she held a book between her hands, she read desperately, almost like an addict, devouring the lines, anxiously searching for the moment in the story where the sadness, frustration, or pain that the protagonist suffered was narrated. That was her favorite part. In those moments she saw herself reflected in those stories parallel to her life, she felt ecstatic, as if in the depths of Catherine’s soul she tried to prepare herself for the many ways in which her mother could inflict suffering on her.

She wanted to be prepared.

Despite being a girl, Catherine had very deep thoughts that surpassed her age. Among the words she found refuge Thanks to those paper friends, who narrated the stories of their lives, they made her feel, just for a brief moment, that her suffering was not the only difficult life. Reading comforted her soul. Reading made her think that all this suffering was going to be temporary, that she had to put up with everything a little more because her salvation would soon come. One day that pain would vanish, she was sure of it. Those days would become a memory of the past and she could start to be happy. Happy, as in the stories...

... someday.

Mr. Low had always been a man who took care of the fields, worked the land, and lived the life that his family's inheritance allowed him. However, after the death of his father, he had decided to break with all that. He entrusted workers to take care of their fields and decided to dedicate himself to a passion that was natural to him, a talent that was part of himself although he had never accepted it. He didn't know very well where that came from, that passion, but he had a fantastic ability to decorate with curtains.

He had set up a small business and the business soon caught the attention of the majority of the people, especially the wealthy people whose manor houses deserved exhaustive work. After a year he had taken those vacations but April arrived very soon.

It was Sunday, April 17, but Catherine was not ready. That day, she understood that she could never be ready. After returning from the church, Jesus went to work in the city. That day began a new routine for him, which consisted in leaving every Sunday, after the mass, and returning on Tuesday. Then he returned to the house but went every day to work in nearby areas. In this way, he only had Saturdays to be fully at home.

Catherine didn't have time to say goodbye to her father, nor to see him leave in his gray two-door car. She didn't have time to thank him for those months. No. While Jesus was driving towards the city, Beatriz was walking in the opposite direction accompanied by her daughter. They were heading to the nearby forest, which was about fifteen minutes from home. Between both, there was a marked distance. Beatriz's steps were much longer, so Catherine almost had to run to keep up with her mother.

The forest was thick, the trees had large and solid trunks that drew strange and terrifying shapes before the eyes of little Catherine. The different shades of brown from earth, trees, and leaves mingled with the sound of animals. There were thousands of trees whose roots sprouted, sometimes, from the ground. The distance between the trunks formed rows of trees and looked like small corridors where they walked.

Catherine's little hands were frozen, her white dress was hooked with the branches of some bushes and was breaking little by little. Catherine was exhausted, but she could not look away from all those colors and shapes, so, without realizing it, her mother disappeared. She turned around herself, looking for her with her eyes, but could not find her. Then a silence emptied her inside. A painful silence. A silence full of sounds of the forest, of the small whispers of nature. She was alone. Tears began to slide down her eyes. She couldn't scream, or ask her mother for help—, all that was part of a plan, Catherine had no doubt about it.

She stuck to the trunk of a tree and dropped on the ground. She curled up and hid her head between her knees. Waiting, eyes closed, with the fear in every fiber of her body. She expected. Expected the arrival of her punishment, but she didn't know what it would be. Her mother’s words didn't hurt anymore, Catherine had learned to face them through books. Maybe the fear she was feeling was her punishment. Yes, that was the most horrible thing she had done to her.

But Catherine was wrong.

Beatriz emerged among the trunks of the trees, her gaze fixed, her body rigid, her hair loose. In her hand, she held a rod that ended in a leather strap. It was a homemade whip, very well made. Catherine raised her head. Her deep black eyes, as if they were the abyss of loneliness, were horrified to see the frantic, almost sadistic look that her mother possessed. Beatriz grabbed her by the arms. She knelt her daughter on the floor and tore her dress. Catherine's pale, virgin skin was nude.

Catherine wanted to run, she felt like she was going to die. Her heart was beating at an absurd speed. She was horrified, begging forgiveness amid tears, but when the first lash ripped her skin, her pleas became cries. The palm of her hands hit the ground, but then followed another whiplash and another, and another... and another. Too quick to react, to think, to do anything. The strength escaped her body, her screams became more and weak until they became small whispers. Soon she stopped resisting, her body fell to the ground, motionless. Everything became dark.

Catherine lost consciousness.