Catalina

by Karla Cornejo Villavicencio

was way past midnight, and Delphine decided to crash with me. It felt cozy to know that we were young and could always go somewhere to drink more or watch Pulp Fiction and talk daringly about cocaine but succumb to the reality of french fries

The effect of my withholding on other people was fascinating. Typically, the more distant I was with them, the more passionately they pursued a relationship I’m not even sure they wanted.

I tried macaroni & cheese and meatloaf for the first time. I can’t say that I liked the flavor, but I don’t really think American cuisine is about flavor, it’s like a stand against communism.

Other times, it was not enough, and I felt a gnawing, painful hunger but couldn’t think of a single food I actually wanted. I was so hungry but had already decided no food would satisfy me, nothing sweet, nothing savory. For a minute I wondered if what I wanted was sex, but then realized that what I wanted was to punish everyone who ever laid a finger on me.

“So you’re the famous Catalina!” I felt flattered and humiliated. I wanted to be loved and admired, but I did not want to be talked about.

Feeling nothing for my family made me feel evil. Broken.

The problem with being an object of beauty, a beautiful object, is that you exist only when you’re looked

But I was tired of being so easily able to provide context for everything he did that hurt me.