Chapter 7 Fragments

Night settled into the room like some living and breathing entity. It was neither loud nor oppressive. Just… present.

Lucia sat on the floor beside the bed, her back resting lightly against the mattress, her knees drawn in slightly, not out of fear, but habit. The necklace lay in her hand.

The small metal pendant felt heavier than it should. L.R. Her thumb moved over the letters slowly, again and again. As if repetition might turn them into something real. Something recognizable or something hers. Unfortunately, it did not.

But her chest tightened anyway. It was not exactly in pain. Just… pressure. Like something inside her was trying to rise and didn’t know how.

She closed her eyes and this time, she didn’t try to control it. The first thing that came wasn’t fear. Rather, it was confusion. She remembered light, too bright and the noise too loud.

Voices talking over each other. A child’s voice....Her voice, asking something. Again and again. But no one answered and no one explained. No one told her what was happening.

Her small hand had been held at first. She remembered that. A woman, warm, familiar and safe. Then....Gone. Lucia’s fingers tightened slightly around the necklace.

Her breathing remained steady, but slower and deeper now. Because this part? This part still didn’t make sense. “I didn’t understand,” she whispered. Not then and not even now.

The next memory came like a break in something soft. A door closing, a different room, different faces and a different language. People talking about her, not to her.m but over and around her. As if she wasn’t there.

She remembered standing in the middle of the room. Looking from one face to another. Waiting for someone to explain. For someone to say: “It’s okay.” Yet, no one did.

Lucia’s throat tightened slightly. She swallowed it down. Instinct. Always instinct. “I thought…” she murmured. Her voice was quieter now. Almost distant. “I thought I had done something wrong.”

That was the part that lingered the longest. Not the fear or the violence but the confusion and the quiet belief that....Maybe this was happening because of her.

Her hand lifted unconsciously, pressing lightly against her chest. As if steadying something inside her. The next memory came sharper and faster. Hands pulling her and voices raised.

Her feet were dragging against the ground as she tried to stop....tried to go back, to where she didn’t even know anymore. “Wait....” She had said that. She remembered that clearly. Over and over. “Wait....wait...wait...” But no one waited.

Lucia’s eyes opened suddenly. The room came back into focus. The silence pressed in again. But her body...Her body remembered. Even when her mind didn’t want to.

She exhaled slowly. Shaking it off. Not because it didn’t matter. But because she had learned long ago, that staying in it too long made you weak.

Mexico came next. But not as a place. As a feeling. Noise, heat, too many people, too many eyes and too much movement. She remembered sitting somewhere...A corner. Watching. Always watching. Her arms wrapped around her knees. Hungry and tired. But quiet. Very quiet.

Because she had learned something important. Very quickly. Crying didn’t bring help. It brought attention. And attention?Attention was dangerous.

Lucia’s lips pressed together slightly. Her gaze lowered to the necklace again. “So I stopped,” she said. “I stopped asking.” That was when the shift happened. Not all at once but slowly. Piece by piece.

She began to watch instead of react. Listen instead of speak. Learn instead of hope. That was how she survived. Her gaze drifted toward the mirror. She stood slowly, walking toward it. Her reflection stared back. Calm, controlled and unfathomable.

But she remembered the first time she didn’t recognize herself. A shard of glass. Cracked and dirty. But enough. She had stared into it for a long time. At the bruises. At the dirt. At the fear in her own eyes.

Then, without thinking...She had touched her face. Moved her fingers along her cheek. Pressed here. Smudged there. Watched how the shape changed.

It had been small and insignificant. But something in her mind had clicked. “If I don’t look the same…” She whispered it now. Softly. “…they won’t see me.”

That was the beginning. Not art. Not skill but survival. Lucia’s fingers moved unconsciously along her jaw now. Tracing the perfected version of something that had started as instinct.

“They liked it,” she said quietly. Of course they did. She had expected punishment. Had braced for it. Prepared for it. But instead...They watched, encouraged and provided. Not kindness. Never kindness. Use.

“She became useful.” Lucia didn’t say I. Not this time. Because that girl...That version of her...Felt like someone else. Different names. Different faces. Different versions of the same person. No identity. Only function.

Her gaze hardened slightly. “I learned fast.” Languages came the same way. Not taught. Rather, absorbed. Listening, repeating and understanding. And the best part? “They never knew I understood.” A faint, humorless smile touched her lips. Gone just as quickly. That had saved her. More than once.

Russia came last. That memory didn’t come in fragments. It came in weight and cold silence. Eyes that watched too closely. That place had been different. Harder, even.

She had almost…Lucia’s hand lifted suddenly to her throat. Her fingers pressing lightly. As if remembering something her mind refused to show.

Her breath hitched....Just slightly. Then steadied. “I didn’t break,” she said. Quieter now. But firmer. Because she couldn’t. Because breaking meant disappearing. And she had fought too hard to disappear.

The room returned fully. The silence settled again. Lucia turned back toward the bed slowly. Her movements were controlled and measured. But something in her eyes had changed. Not weaker. Never weaker. But deeper.

She picked up the necklace again and held it tightly. “L.R.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Is that who I was?” The question lingered yet remained unanswered. But this time....It didn’t feel empty.

It felt like the beginning of something. A truth. A name. A past waiting just beneath the surface. And for the first time, Lucia wasn’t just surviving. She was searching.