Maria's Journey by doll1

Maria’ story could be the tragic tale of any family caught up in the war on drugs, gangs and violence. Caution; This story contains some sex scenarios involving non-consent, violence and force.

Chapter 1

The Honduran city of San Pedro Sula is the city of my birth. My beloved grandparents would cry for what has taken place here. I am thankful they never lived to see that what was once a lush, peaceful city has now turned into a violent, gang-infested nightmare.

I will only use my given name, Maria, for I am ashamed of many of the things I have done in my short life. The slum that I have grown up in has been taken over by a local gang. Barrio 18 rules this entire region. At first, they controlled just the drug trade, so if you avoided that, you were generally left alone. Over the last few years, they have taken over everything. They extort payments from honest businessmen, and they rob and harass people with no fear of the police. They now control the lives of everyone and are hated and feared by all who live here.

My papa was an important man in his time. He was killed by political rivals five years ago. The government never took any steps to avenge his murder. My older brother, Carlos, tried to be strong for Momma and me, but he was only two years older than me. These were violent times, and it required strong, grown men to protect their families.

Since Papa’s death, Momma could no longer afford to live in our old house. She was forced to sell, and now we rented a tiny shack just a few blocks away from it. I think it was actually a converted garage for the larger house out in front. I was always so ashamed of the way we were now living, that I never invited any of my friends over for fear of the look on their faces if they saw our little place.

Our family was even the target of insults by neighbors. They held my papa responsible for failing to take a tougher stand against the corrupt local government officials. Papa was resistant to using his influence to force them out; he preferred a non-violent approach. Giving of his own life was apparently not enough for some people. Crime was now in charge, and corruption within the police allowed the criminals to run free.

I was sent away right after Papa’s death to live with Momma’s sister, Theresa, for almost four years. It was during this time that my body was going through many changes. It was only when I noticed how the young men would look at me that I began to discover the curse that was upon me. I wasn’t like the other girls with plump bottoms and wide hips. My momma had been very attractive in her early years, and from the pictures my aunt showed me, I was the very image of her at that age. Even today, Momma is still quite stunning, but since Papa’s death, she has hid it all behind baggy clothing and unflattering shawls. She never wore make-up to call attention to herself. As a young girl, I had seen her on occasion getting dressed, and her figure would be the envy of anyone half her age.

My beauty would have been a blessing in any other culture or time, too. Somewhere else, I might have even become an important celebrity or at least attracted a rich husband. Here, however, I attracted only the wrong people. Egged on by some close girlfriends, I began experimenting with make-up and some flattering clothing. I really didn’t need it to attract the boys, because everywhere we went, all the boys seemed to focus on me.

My aunt would say to me how my natural beauty was handed down by the ancient ones. My looks reflected my heritage; high cheekbones and full lips were traits passed down from generations long ago. My grandmamma was a full-blooded Ch’orti’ Indian. She was descended from the Mayans, who were known to all as God’s chosen people. Ancient beliefs held that men of these tribes were rewarded from the wind and earth gods with the most beautiful of wives.

I had full breasts and a narrow waist. Any tight-fitting clothing would define the natural curves of my hips. Coal black eyes and brows were features that I must have picked up from my papa’s side of the family. He, too, was well regarded for his classic good looks. My aunt would often warn me that this was both a blessing and a hex.

Unfortunately, I was also becoming a bit of a rebellious teenager. I started hanging around with the local boys who wished to take me out. Honduras is a poor country with slums everywhere, but the one thing the government does do is to supply free birth control pills to any girl wishing them. I was offended, but my aunt marched me right up to the dispensary, and I was given my pills. The government would rather no babies be born than to have still more poor mouths to feed.

I was eventually sent back to live with Momma after my aunt’s husband left her. She didn’t have any income now and could not continue to feed me. Once back in the slum with Momma, I resisted her pleas to tone down my style of dress. Of course, I wouldn’t listen. I had a mind of my own. I was nineteen now, and I felt I had the right to do as I wished.

Momma tried to pull me closer, but I was foolishly pushing her away. Still, there were quiet times. I’d wake up some mornings to the sensation of her stroking my hair. My eyes would blink away the sleep, and I would find her sitting silently alongside my bed, staring at me. In the soft rays of morning light, I could often see tears in her eyes as she found comfort in my face. I knew that she was seeing my Papa in me. The consoling gaze of my papa’s eyes looking back at her helped her make it through one more day. The wound of my papa’s loss was still as fresh as it had ever been.

Momma only had one sister and one older brother, Enrico. He was a hard worker. He ran a small business doing home repairs. He and his family lived not too far from us, but they didn’t stop by that often. I think he was always busy keeping his business growing to support his wife Sofia and his son Luis. Other than that, Momma, Carlos, and I were now on our own. The tiny shack Momma was living in was an embarrassment to me. Carlos was there, and I had truly missed him. I loved my momma, but I couldn’t live like this.

The gang’s presence in our neighborhood was always felt. You seldom ventured out alone, and never after dark. Yet, I was young and arrogant. I figured my looks offered me some kind of privilege or immunity. Sure, I got the whistles and catcalls, but I just took them as a compliment.

Most of the gang members were losers, and most were ugly. I kind of figured they would be intimidated by a confident girl like me. Most times, my bluff worked too. I found that a couple of the uglier ones actually seemed flattered, that I would even nod a polite recognition of their existence.

One of the higher-ranking gang members was a guy nick-named Lobo. I’d probably run into him a couple of times a week. Actually, I think he was searching out where I might be and was pretending to “happen” to be in my path. I thought it was a little cute the way he was trying to get to say hello to me so often.

“Machismo bravado,” I thought. He struts like a young rooster, yet he is unsure of himself around a girl like me. This little game went on for a couple months. Of course, I knew why he was really checking me out, but I really had no idea as to the seriousness of the game I was playing.

My brother Carlos knew about Lobo and tried to warn me off. Carlos had grown up with some of the gang’s members, and some had even been his friends up until they joined the gang. Once in the gang, however, you only associated with other gang members. Everyone else was “prohibido.”

I was returning from the market carrying a small package one day, and of course I ran into Lobo.

“Hola, buenos dias, “How are you today?” he asked rather timidly.

“Fine, and you,” I said.

“It is a beautiful day for a walk,” he would offer, trying to be charming.

This little verbal dance would continue each time we met. I don’t think he had rehearsed anything more to say past this. In my culture, it was not proper for an unescorted young lady to strike up conversations with just anyone walking down the street, even today. But still, I was flattered. Our shy exchange bounced back and forth like two school kids, with maybe one having a blossoming crush on the other.

He must have finally worked up the courage to actually approach me. He practically took the package from my hand and offered me an escort home. He seemed to already know exactly where I lived. I was totally embarrassed by this because I didn’t want anyone to know that I lived in an old converted garage. He seemed polite in a weird sort of way. He offered his name, and even though I already knew it, I pretended not to. I said thanks in appreciation for his small act of kindness.

Lobo was not really a bad-looking young man. He wasn’t as tall as I would have preferred, and I think that bothered him somewhat. He was always trying too hard to impress me. He always acted so tough if anyone else was in sight, but if we seemed alone, he would lose his toughness, just a little, and become calmer. He always seemed to prefer black or darker clothing laced with steel rivets. His curly hair style looked to be another attempt to try to add to his height and overall physical size.

Momma had no clue as to what I had been up to. I was playing it loose with a major bad guy in the neighborhood, and my luck was about to run out. Carlos’ pleas held no importance with me. I ignored his warnings and would continue to stop and make small talk with Lobo. He really didn’t seem that awful. Maybe he just needed an understanding friend.

I severely underestimated the gang’s power and ruthlessness. Maybe the individual members themselves weren’t all that bad, but all combined they became a pack of dangerous animals. Still, I reasoned that it would be better to at least be on good terms with one or two of them if I could. The day this all changed will stick in my memory until I die.