Page 1 of Crowned In Blood
Prologue
Catalina
Killer.
Monster.
I was called both from the moment I was born.
My father was at a rally, campaigning for a seat in the Senate, when my mother went into labor. By the time he arrived, she had already passed.
There were dozens of photos of my father's tears over the loss of his wife, Alana. And even more articles questioning how he was going to manage in a world without her, especially while trying to navigate life with a newborn.
But Simon Herrera persevered.
He took me with him wherever he could and pushed for new laws to protect children and their families, predominantly for low- and middle-income households.
The press went wild.
There were countless images of him holding a small, smiling version of me wrapped in the prettiest lace and the softest, most sparkling outfits.
Everyone believed I wanted for nothing, that everything I could have ever desired would be placed in the palm of my hand. And it was those images that helped my father succeed to the Senate.
He was a pioneer, a "real man," who put his child first. An authority women compared their men to, saying, "If he can take care of his daughter while running for the Senate, why can't my husband take care of the kids for an afternoon?"
Women supported my father. They believed in him, wanted him to win, because they secretly wanted him.
But it was all a lie.
To them, he was a good, just person. A man dedicated to his family. Someone who loved me more than anything in the world.
They were wrong.
Simon Herrera was a monster—one even worse than me.
As a child, I didn't truly understand my fear of my father. I hardly remembered anything before the age of four, only that the photos which hung in his office—hismementos—terrified me. But there was one summer that no matter how hard I tried, I could never forget.
I’d been dragged to a public rally. My father had chosen a thick velvet dress for me to wear, because it matched his outfit best and had small reflective stones. But he hadn’t accounted for the heat.
Sweat dripped off my brow, constantly getting into my eyes. I kept swiping at them, messing up my short brown bangs. I tried to tough it out as long as I could, but my headache turned into nausea. And then I committed the worst offense of all—I stopped smiling and waving and cried.
My father took me home as soon as he could. And the moment we stepped inside, he loosened his belt, wrapped one end around his fist and said, "I'll give you something to cry about."
He beat me mercilessly, screaming, "This is all your fault," and if I "would have just kept smiling," he wouldn't have had to resort to whipping me.
I begged him to stop, promised I'd never do it again, but he told me he wouldn't. Not until I learned how to smile through the pain and tears.
True to his word, he beat me until I passed out from the torment, covered in tears with the smile I'd forced onto my face.
It wasn't the first or last time he'd beat and abused me, but I’d somehow blocked out the rest.
When I outgrew the clothes he'd bought me at six, he called me fat. When I calmly tried to tell him they were simply the wrong size, he beat me, then locked me in my room with nothing to eat for two days.
After that, I started stealing snacks from the kitchen in case it ever happened again. It did, multiple times, but at least I always had something to eat.
At eleven, my father found a love note tucked away in my backpack. He screamed at me, told me I was a "Disgrace who would never be allowed to date anyone" he "didn’t approve of."
Then he pushed me down the stairs, and I broke my arm trying to brace for the fall. I wasn't able to write for six weeks.
