The boat started to sink, ever so steadily. She knew how to swim and yet she couldn’t; her arms and legs were frozen. She tried to call for help, but nothing but a whisper escaped her mouth. It sank with her into the dark waters. She saw figures floating around. Figures of people she thought she knew. She could not breathe; she held her breath until she could no longer do so. She could not hold on much longer, she felt her lungs compressing. Her screams reverberated in her head, growing louder and louder and louder still.
With a jolt she woke up on her queen-sized bed, gasping for air with her forehead damp with perspiration. She swiped at her forehead wiping it and sat upright for some time, calming herself down from the horrific episode. She had been having these disturbing images while in deep sleep a couple of times now, often waking up, panting. It was especially bad after she lost Nathan, her husband of 6 years, a couple of months ago. It seems as though the mental wounds and psychological wounds never managed to fully heal, together with her aching heart. Pouring herself a glass of water from the bottle by the bedroom lamp, she steadied herself and reminded herself it was not real; it was a mere figment of her imagination, as she guzzled the cooling liquid.
Her alarm rang and she hit the top button. It was 7am. Her biological clock had gotten so accustomed to the time that she barely needed to rely on her alarm clock; she would wake up a minute or two beforehand. But she set it anyway, for precautionary measure. She placed the glass down and swung her legs off the bed to get up. Walking to the full length mirror she ran her fingers through her short, springy auburn curls. At thirty one, Catalina Rose Valdez had not aged one second. She could still pass off as a woman in her early twenties. She barely wore make up, save for occasion powder and blush. Alas, she did not need to, because her natural beauty spoke for itself. Her well-chiselled nose, almond-shaped hazel eyes and auburn curls were sufficient to make heads turn as she walked the streets.
Catalina grew up under the guidance of her grandmother, who she loved dearly, never knowing who her biological parents were. They had left her at her grandmother’s doorstep and Catalina never bothered to trace them down because her grandmother never made her feel as though she was alone in the world. Her grandmother claimed that the moment she laid her eyes on her, her heart sank at the act at her parents had performed, but she wholeheartedly accepted the bundle of joy. The moment she stared into her hazel eyes, she got reminded of an angel, and hence named her Catalina, which was Spanish for Aikaterine, the greek term for ‘pure’. Catalina called her grandmother abuelita , an affectionate term for grandmother, in Spanish.
Having spent her childhood and teenage years in Salamanca, a city in Western Spain, she was fluent in her mother tongue, or what she would rather call, grandmother tongue, Spanish but her English was never compromised. She studied in a catholic school and grew up with a passion for history, mythology and ancient civilisations. After all, Salamanca was so rich in culture and heritage that it was declared by UNESCO as a world heritage site in 1988. She loved the way things developed and evolved and civilisations grew and got erased from the surface of the earth. When Catalina passed her eighteenth, her grandmother passed on from old age, leaving her what hard-earned money she had from selling self-woven hats. Her grandmother was a breast cancer survivor and gave others with that incurable disease the faith to live. She was a strong woman. Catalina was deeply shattered by the loss of her confidante, her guidance and her pillar of support and was left with no choice but to travel to the states to live with her distant aunt, who she did not even know how she was related to.
In the present day, Catalina freshened up and walked to her kitchen to make herself some breakfast. She felt as though she was shedding weight by the kilos and needed some carbohydrate. Switching on the coffee machine, she scooped in a few spoonfuls of her favourite Arabica coffee beans and dropped two toasts into the toaster and went back to reminiscing. Her so-called aunt Muriel had accepted her into her abode in Los Angeles, near Westwood village, albeit unwillingly. She could sense it from her sourness-laden voice and the way her lips would scrunch up into a frown every time Catalina walked in. Catalina merely shrugged it off, though she felt the pang in her heart every time she thought of her late albuelita. It was then that Catalina decided to study what she was passionate about, history, with a second major in mythology at the University of Los Angeles, California (UCLA). She knew her albuelita would be proud, watching over her from the heavens. The college was a stone’s throw away from Aunt Muriel’s house.
Spreading marmalade on her toast she threw a glance over at the easel next to the couch. Resting on it was a canvas block with a portrait of her late husband Nathan Smith painted onto it using Acrylic paint. She loved painting as it helped her go into pensive and put things into perspective. She dreadfully missed Nathan and she remembered his face all too clearly. His dimpled smile, his wavy dark brown hair, his well-chiselled jaw line and his twinkling eyes which lit up when he spoke of what he loved. She smiled wistfully as she recollected the day she met Nathan at UCLA. He was three years her senior and was majoring in forensic science and did a minor in mythology. They met at mythology lectures, sharing a common interest. They would study together at the Powell library on campus and have long chats in the cafeteria with scoopfuls of Baskin-Robins and occasionally do crosswords together. Chocolate chip cookie dough was their favourite. As the quarterback of the university American football team, he was popular, yet down to earth and had his eyes set on no one but Catalina.
After graduating, Nathan joined the Los Angeles Police Department, to become an LAPD officer. He had always wanted to serve the society, wanted to replace the bad with good, wanted to instill peace in the neighbourhood. A humanitarian, he always served when he could, be it at charity organisations or fundraisers. As an LAPD officer, he stuck firmly to his duty and was always ready to serve. He wore his badge with pride and Catalina wore him as a badge with pride. When Catalina was in her final year, Nathan proposed to her in his uniform in the middle of a luscious field on campus. He knelt down on a knee and pulled out a velvety red box which drew Catalina’s breath away and when she saw the ring she nodded without him having to utter a single word. They got engaged then and married the next day at a small catholic church. Catalina used to tease him, saying that his surname, Smith, did not go well with her first and middle names and Nathan used to reply cheekily that if that was the case, he would change it the next day to what she deemed fit.
After they tied the knot, Catalina shifted out of Aunt Muriel’s house, kissed her goodbye on the cheeks, hugged her one last time and thanked her for everything before moving into Nathan’s house. They built a home together and he urged her to follow her dreams. Upon graduating she decided to contribute back to her alma mater and teach what she loved. He believed in her and that made her believe in her capabilities. He used to joke that she would make a fabulous female president if she wanted to. Now he was gone, she thought to herself as tears filled her eyes. She wiped away her tears as they trickled down her cheek and ate what she could of her breakfast. She poured her coffee into a thermos flask and collected the notes which she burnt the midnight oil drafting. World history: a spotlight on Europe. She gathered her papers and carefully inserted them into her briefcase, which usually rested at a permanent spot on her couch. Throwing on a shirt and a pleated skirt, she took one final glance at her reflection and tried to muster a smile and she ran her fingers through her curls. She could do this - her first lecture for the semester. Although she was one of the youngest teaching staffs, she was well-revered by her colleagues and students.
Collecting her briefcase and thermos and swinging her handbag over her right shoulder she took one final glance around her apartment and left her flat, locking behind herself. She heard the joyful bark of her neighbour’s dog Powter as it pawed at her skirt until she delivered a pat to his head. The fox terrier was being taken for a morning walk by the neighbour living across her, Maurice, the sweetest sixty year old lady she ever knew. She knew she could never replace her albuelita but she deeply respected her and since she had been widowed at a young age, they could empathize with one another. She had only Powter and Catalina in her life and she loved Catalina like a daughter she never had. She smiled broadly as she saw Catalina and asked her to come over for some sponge cake and Himalayan tea, her speciality, in the afternoon. Catalina nodded and smiled back as she bade goodbye. ‘Hasta pronto see you soon’, she uttered.
The class was larger than she had expected, but the moment she entered and saw eager faces smiling back at her, she felt herself ease and introduced herself as Catalina Rose Smith. And so it begins, she thought to herself, as she smiled both internally and externally.
In a distant part of downtown Los Angeles they slapped him hard across his face. He was gagged and tied to a structure and looked like he had aged by decades. The light above his head swung precariously. He sat defeated and without an ounce of energy within him to struggle any longer. The figures in front of him snorted and spat distastefully on his face. He thought this was one of his better treatments he had gotten. In the pale light, red slashes of blood and gashes could be seen across his face, arms and body, some fresh, some dried. They ungagged him momentarily to force water down his throat and when they untied the cloth, he begged, ‘please, let me go. My wife needs me. He’s free now, what do you need. I’ll give you what you need. You already killed my son. Please let me go. Please.’ It hurt for him to talk, it hurt for him to move but nothing hurted like the pain inside of him. One of the figures laughed as he barked back ‘she thinks you’re dead. She thinks you’re gone. It’s over.’ He glanced over at the other figure as they laughed silently and gagged him back.
