Chapter Text
FOREWORD
Before You Begin
You've read the tags. You've read the warnings. You clicked past the Dead Dove.
Here's what that means:
This is a story about multi-generational incest, grooming through fabricated identity, and systematic abuse enabled by institutional failure. There are no heroes. There is no rescue. There is no moment where someone "wakes up" and everything gets better.
You're supposed to hate these characters.
Rafael is a rapist who grooms his own daughter by inventing her dead father. Rosa enables him by weaponizing her disability to deliver victims. Carmen's silence—meant to protect—becomes the weapon used against her daughter. Esme makes choices that will make you sick.
If you're already uncomfortable, stop now. It gets worse.
This is psychological horror. The horror isn't just what happens—it's how it happens. How protection becomes complicity. How silence becomes weapon. How institutional systems designed to help instead facilitate abuse across decades.
If you're looking for:
- Likeable characters
- Moral victories
- Someone to root for
- Redemption arcs
- Justice
- Happy endings
This is not that story.
If you're here for:
- Unflinching psychological horror
- Generational cycles that feel inevitable
- The slow-motion car crash you can't look away from
- Dark content that doesn't flinch
Welcome. You're in the right place.
One more thing: This is horror. You don't rate a horror movie low because the killer is unlikeable. You rate it on whether it scared you, whether it got under your skin, whether it did what it set out to do.
Same principle here.
Last chance to back out.
Still here?
Then let's begin.
— Kinjite
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CHAPTER 1: THE LETTER
I was on my seventh take when Abuela called for me.
My phone was propped against the textbooks, camera flipped so I could watch myself. I'd been doing this for half an hour. Thirty-two minutes, actually—I'd been watching the timer in the corner, watching myself fail the same eight-count over and over.
The problem was my hips. They didn't move like Maya's. Hers rolled, liquid and easy, like her body knew something mine didn't. Mine just looked wrong. Stiff. Like I was performing "sexy" instead of being it.
I hit record again.
Snap on one. Shoulders back on two. Turn and—
My crop top rode up and I yanked it back down. It never stayed in place—too tight across my chest, too short for my torso. I'd bought it because Maya had one, but on her it looked casual and cute. On me it pulled at the seams and showed too much and made everything obvious.
I tried the move again. Hip snap, shoulders back, turn—
The fabric rode up again. I could see it on the phone screen. My bra showing at the edges. Everything on display.
I yanked it down too hard. My elbow hit the phone. The whole thing clattered to the floor.
"Fuck."
The word came out louder than I meant. I scrambled to pick up the phone, checking for cracks. The screen was fine but the video was ruined. Obviously.
Delete.
My reflection stared back from the black screen. The eyebrows I'd overplucked last week—too thin now on the left side. The pimple I'd covered with concealer this morning visible now that my foundation had sweated off. Hair frizzing despite the gel I'd used, despite the twenty minutes with the flat iron.
Brandon Martinez was never going to notice me.
Maya's video already had two hundred and seven likes. I'd checked three times in the last hour. Watched the number climb. Watched the comments pile up. Watched Brandon's username appear in the likes and then in the comments—"🔥🔥🔥"—three fire emojis that meant everything and nothing.
I hadn't posted mine. Couldn't. It looked wrong every time. I looked wrong every time.
My phone buzzed.
Maya: did you post yet???
Maya: esme i swear to god
Maya: brandon literally just asked me about you
I pressed my palm against my belly. Swallowed.
Me: what did he say
Maya: POST THE VIDEO FIRST
Me: WHAT DID HE SAY
Maya: he asked if you were gonna be at Jessica's party friday
Maya: which means he wants you there
Maya: which means you need to POST so he sees you can actually move
I stared at the screen. At the cursor blinking. At the evidence of my thirty-two minutes of failure sitting in my camera roll, unposted, unwatched, safe.
Brandon Martinez wanted to know if I'd be at Jessica's party.
Brandon Martinez, who sat two rows behind me in English and had shoulders that made his t-shirts pull tight and a smile that did something to my insides every time he used it near me. Who'd never said more than "can I borrow a pencil" in two years of being in the same school.
He'd asked about me.
"¡Esme!"
Abuela's voice cut through the apartment. Sharp. The way it got when she'd called more than once and I hadn't heard.
I shoved my phone in my pocket. The screen was still warm against my thigh as I left my room.
Abuela was at the kitchen table. Both hands wrapped around her coffee mug. She did that a lot lately—held onto things like she was afraid they'd disappear if she let go. Her eyes were aimed vaguely in my direction but not quite at me. That milky cloudiness at the edges. Legally blind, the doctor had said last year. I still wasn't totally sure what that meant except she couldn't read anymore, couldn't watch her telenovelas, had to hold things an inch from her face just to make out shapes.
The envelope sat next to the mug. White. Official-looking. Wrong against the faded floral tablecloth.
"What's up?"
She turned toward my voice but missed by about six inches. "I need you to read me something, mija."
I crossed to the table. The linoleum was sticky under my socks. Nobody'd mopped in a week. Mom was working doubles. I was supposed to do it but I kept forgetting.
"What is it?"
"A letter." She pushed the envelope across the table. Her hand shook slightly.
I picked it up. The paper was thin. Cheap. The return address was squeezed into the corner in tiny print.
Greenhaven Correctional Facility
Drawer B
P.O. Box 4000
Stormville, NY 12582
I turned the envelope over. It had already been opened. The flap torn carefully, like she'd tried to open it herself before giving up.
"It's from Rafael," Abuela said. Her voice changed when she said his name. Went soft. Young. "Mi hijo."
"Uncle Rafael?" The words felt strange in my mouth. I barely remembered having an uncle.
"Sí."
Rafael went away when I was five. That's how Abuela always said it—"went away"—like he'd moved to another state for a job instead of prison. I had exactly one memory of him: a tall shape in the doorway, backlit by the hallway light. And the way Mom's whole face had gone hard when Abuela mentioned his name last Christmas.
Mom hated him. That much was clear. But she'd never explained why.
Abuela was trying to unfold the letter. Holding it so close to her face her nose almost touched the paper. After a few seconds she made a frustrated sound and set it down.
"I can see there's writing," she said. "But the words..." She trailed off. Her hand went to her right ear, adjusting the hearing aid. The one that was always giving her problems. "Read it for me?"
I pulled the letter out. The paper was thin enough to see through. The handwriting was neat, careful, each letter distinct. Slanted to the right like it was leaning toward something.
"Mami," I read out loud. "I hope this letter finds you in good health."
Abuela went completely still. Just her chest moving. Breathing.
I kept reading.
"I'm writing with some good news—after ten years upstate, they're finally transferring me to Greenhaven. I know you haven't been able to visit much because of the distance. Greenhaven is only two and a half hours away by bus—much closer than the six hours it took to visit me upstate."
Her hands tightened on the mug. The knuckles went white.
"I know it's been hard for you, Mami. I hate that I've been so far away. But now maybe you can visit more often. I miss you. I miss home. I think about you every day."
My hand pressed against the table edge. I didn't know why. I didn't even know this person.
"I heard Esme is fifteen now. In high school? I can't believe it. She was just a baby when I left. I'd really like to meet her properly, if that's possible. I know it's a lot to ask, but I'd like to know my niece. I've missed so much of her life."
I stopped. Looked up.
Abuela's eyes were wet. Not crying, not quite. Just wet. The light from the window caught them and made them look like glass.
"What else?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.
I looked back down at the letter.
"I love you, Mami. I hope to see you soon. Your son, Rafael."
I folded the letter carefully. Not sure what to do with my hands. Abuela just sat there, staring at nothing, smiling and crying at the same time, and I felt like I'd walked in on something private. Something I wasn't supposed to see.
"He wants to meet you," she said finally.
"Yeah. I mean, I guess."
"He's been asking about you, mija. In his letters. For years. But the facility was so far—six hours upstate on three different buses. I couldn't make that trip, not with my eyes like this. Not alone. And your mother..."
She didn't finish. She didn't have to.
Mom didn't talk about Uncle Rafael. Ever. The few times Abuela brought him up, Mom would just leave the room. Get very busy with dishes or laundry or suddenly remember she had to call someone back right now.
"What's he like?" I asked.
"What?"
"What's he like?" Louder this time.
"Ah." Abuela reached for the hearing aid again. Pressed it deeper into her ear. The feedback whined for a second before she adjusted it. "He's smart, mija. So smart. And funny—he could always make me laugh, even when things were bad. He made some mistakes when he was young, got involved with the wrong people, but he's a good man. He loves his family."
"Why is he in prison?"
"What?"
"Why—" I raised my voice, trying to project toward her good ear. "Why is he in prison?"
She waved a hand like she was brushing away smoke. "Wrong crowd. Gang things. He was young and stupid, but that was a long time ago. He's different now. Prison changes people. He's learned."
I looked at the letter again. The careful handwriting. Each letter perfectly formed, like someone who'd had nothing but time to practice.
I'd really like to know my niece.
Nobody had ever said that to me before. That they wanted to know me.
Not Mom, who was always too tired to ask how school was, who worked sixty-plus hours a week and came home too exhausted to do anything but collapse on the couch with her phone.
Not Maya, who mostly just talked about herself and boys and TikTok drama, who asked "how are you" but never waited for a real answer.
Not my teachers, who looked right through me unless I forgot an assignment.
But this man—this uncle I didn't remember—wanted to know me.
"Can we visit him?" The words came out before I could think them through.
Abuela's whole face changed. Lit up like someone had turned on a light behind her skin. "You want to?"
I shrugged, trying to act like it wasn't a big deal even though I was squeezing my hands together under the table. "I mean, he's family, right? And if he's closer now, maybe it would be... I don't know. Nice. To meet him."
"Your mother—"
"Mom doesn't have to know." The words came out fast. Certain. "Not right away. We could just go once, see what it's like, and then tell her after."
Abuela was quiet for a long moment. I could see her thinking it through. Weighing it. Her fingers worried at the handle of her mug, tracing the chip where I'd dropped it last month.
She missed him. That much was obvious. It was in every line of her face, every tear she was trying not to let fall. She'd been missing him for ten years. And now he was close enough to reach.
"I'll think about it," she said.
But I could tell she'd already decided.
Mom didn't get home until after ten.
She was supposed to be off at nine, but her shift at the clinic always ran late. Someone called out. A patient coded. The system went down. There was always something. She still had her scrubs on when she came through the door, her ID badge swinging crooked against her chest. The coffee stain on her shirt had been there since this morning. She'd either stopped noticing or stopped caring.
She saw the letter before she even looked at us.
It was still on the table where I'd left it. The white envelope almost glowing against the dark wood.
She froze in the doorway. Her whole body went rigid.
"What's this?"
Her voice was flat. Completely flat. The kind of flat that meant she already knew the answer and hated it.
Abuela didn't say anything. I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
Mom crossed the kitchen in three steps. Picked up the letter. Her eyes moved over it fast, scanning, and I watched her jaw lock up. Watched the muscle jump. Like she was physically holding words behind her teeth.
"No."
"Carmen—"
"I said no." She looked at me. Really looked at me. Her eyes were wet but her voice was hard. "You don't need to meet him, Esme."
"Why not?" It came out sharper than I meant. Defensive. "He's my uncle."
"He's—" She stopped. Closed her eyes. When she opened them again, they were still wet but the tears hadn't fallen. "He's not someone you need in your life."
"He's my son," Abuela said quietly. "And he's close now. Two and a half hours instead of six. I can actually visit him without—"
"I don't care if he's down the street." Mom's hands were shaking. The letter trembled in her grip. "Esme isn't going."
"Why?" I was standing now. When had I stood up? "What did he even do that's so bad?"
"Esme—"
"No, seriously. He made bad choices, fine. But people change. He's been in there for ten years, and Abuela misses him, and I've never even met him properly, and—"
"Enough."
The word came out cracked down the middle. Broken.
The kitchen went quiet. The kind of quiet that made my ears ring. The refrigerator hummed. Somewhere upstairs someone's TV was too loud. But in our apartment—nothing.
Mom set the letter down. Very, very carefully. Like if she moved too fast it might explode.
"I'm going to bed." Her voice was barely above a whisper. Hollow. "And we're not discussing this again."
She walked out. Down the narrow hallway. Her bedroom door closed. Not a slam. Just a soft click that somehow felt worse.
Abuela and I sat there in the silence.
"She'll come around," Abuela said eventually. She was fussing with her hearing aid again. Adjusting. Readjusting. "What?"
I hadn't said anything.
"She'll come around," she repeated. Louder. Like she was trying to convince herself. "She just needs time. Your mother—she carries things. Holds onto them. Always has. But she'll come around."
I didn't answer. I was thinking about the way Mom's hands had shaken. The way her voice broke on that one word: enough. Like she'd used up everything she had just getting it out.
Something was wrong. Something more than just "bad choices" and "wrong crowd."
But nobody would tell me what.
That night I lay in bed with my phone, scrolling Instagram without really seeing anything. Maya had posted the dance video, obviously. Eighty-three likes now. Brandon Martinez's fire emojis in the comments. Maya had responded with a winky face and three hearts.
I kept thinking about Uncle Rafael's letter. About his handwriting, careful and slanted. About how he said he wanted to know me. About the way his words had made me press my hand to my chest without meaning to.
I'd really like to know my niece.
I'd never had that before. A man—family—who was interested in who I was.
Dad was dead. That was just a fact, like the sky being blue or water being wet. I didn't know what he looked like. Didn't know his voice or his favorite food or whether he would've liked me. Mom wouldn't talk about him. Refused to keep pictures. And after a while I'd just stopped asking. It was easier. Less painful. If I didn't think about him, he was just an empty space instead of a loss.
But Uncle Rafael existed. And he was asking about me.
My phone buzzed.
Maya: brandon literally keeps looking at your profile
Maya: POST SOMETHING
Maya: ANYTHING
Maya: omg he just liked that pic from august
Maya: ESME
I turned my phone face down on the nightstand.
The water stain on my ceiling looked like a face if you tilted your head right and squinted. I'd been staring at it since I was little, back when I used to wonder if Dad was up in heaven watching me. I didn't really believe in heaven anymore. Didn't really believe God was paying attention to a fifteen-year-old girl in Washington Heights who couldn't even get a TikTok dance right.
But sometimes I still looked at the stain and wondered what it would've been like to have a father.
To have someone who wanted to know me.
Mom would be so mad if I visited Uncle Rafael. She'd probably ground me for a month. Maybe more. Maybe forever.
But she couldn't watch me every second. She worked sixty hours a week between her day shifts at St. Mary's and the weekend overnight shifts at the urgent care clinic. And even when she was home she was exhausted—half-asleep on the couch still in her scrubs or locked in her room with the TV too loud because she needed the noise to drown out whatever thoughts she didn't want to think.
And Abuela wanted to go. I could see it all over her face. The way she'd lit up when I asked. The way she'd folded the letter carefully, like it was something precious.
I rolled onto my side. Pulled my blanket up to my chin. The radiator clanked and hissed, the way it always did around midnight. The upstairs neighbors were fighting again—muffled shouting through the ceiling that had become white noise.
Tomorrow I'd tell Abuela I wanted to visit.
Mom would hate it.
But maybe, just once, I could do something for myself.
Maybe that was allowed.