My Flower

Cataleya. My flower. Does she know all the things I have done for her? Does she know the danger I put myself in to bring her one step closer to her goal? Does she know I set aside my loyalty to Don Luis, sent my children to Europe, and set up my own men? I’m sure she doesn’t. I’m sure she wouldn’t care even if she knew. To her, I will always be the man who killed her parents.

But I didn’t kill them, did I? Her beautiful mother, her foolish father. Oh, no. I didn’t kill them. One of my men made that mistake. Does she know I tortured him to death for her pain? There was such agony in my beautiful flower’s eyes. Such pain for one so young. She seemed fragile, broken beyond repair, but I was a fool then.

My Cataleya has razor sharp barbs. Every time I close my hand, I feel the knife between the bones. It made me furious then, but now it reminds me of her. I welcome the pain. I am more than thirty years her senior, but my passion for her is beyond anything I have ever known. When she was a child, I needed to protect her, to hide her from Don Luis.

She escaped to America, beyond my reach for years, living with her uncle. I hid his location from the Don as long as I could, buying her time, praying she would finish her work. I think I could feel her agony the moment she found her family slain. It was a sharp pain in my chest, and for days my hand throbbed.

I know she is in the house, now. I can feel her, but I won’t give her away. She will kill the Don’s men, she will kill me, and I will let her. When I am dead, she will finally kill the Don and have peace. She will have peace. I pray that all the death will be enough.