THE REASON

They say our human existence hinges on the daily choices we carve into the fabric of our lives. These decisions, they claim, sculpt our mental landscapes, guide our evolution, and dictate how we navigate the intricate web of coexistence. But I’ve always felt that choice itself is a phantom limb, a sensation of control where none truly resides. The real question, the gnawing 'why,' is what truly governs us. Why do we choose to breathe each morning? Why do we claw for survival? Why does the urge to extinguish another life flicker within us? Why do we shroud truth in lies? The reasons behind the lives we inhabit are the true architects of humanity's fate, and the consequences of our choices merely furnish us with new justifications for the next turn we take. This isn’t a tale of a single misstep, nor a beacon of virtuous decision. This is the story of a choice made long before my elder sister, Veronica, and I drew our first breaths, a choice that plunged us into a living hell I wouldn't wish upon my most bitter adversary. Our destinies were etched in stone before we even knew the shape of our own hands. All we possessed were the ingrained reasons to endure the life that was forced upon us, silent and uninquiring. Casa Horga orphanage in Mexico City became our reluctant sanctuary. At least, that’s where our mother believed no one would think to find Veronica and me – the very place where it all began. My name is Emma, and Veronica is my elder sister. I was a mere three-year-old that Thursday, the day I’d proudly worn my new elementary school uniform for the first time, when Mom delivered us to those sterile walls. Fragmented images flicker in my memory: the inferno consuming our house, the sharp c***k of a gunshot, two menacing black Escalades hulking in our driveway. I vividly recall Mom’s retreating figure, her clothes stained a horrifying crimson, tears carving paths through the grime on her face. “I’ll always love you,” she choked out, her back already turned. Veronica’s small body buckled with sobs. “Mom, please come back!” she shrieked, her tiny legs pumping as she chased the vanishing silhouette. Veronica never spoke a word about that night, and the unspoken grief became a heavy shroud between us. But the question of Dad remained a persistent ache: consumed by the flames, or still out there in the shadows? The sisters at Casa Horga, aware of the tragedy that had orphaned us, offered a fragile kindness. Sister Lucia, the youngest among them, possessed a striking beauty with her warm brown eyes and petite frame. She didn’t quite fit the image of a nun. Instead, she became our silent guardian, a constant presence, especially for Veronica, who remained isolated and simmering with an unspoken rage that occasionally erupted into inexplicable tears. It was as if the memory of that Thursday night clung to her like a persistent nightmare. She was eight then, and five years later, the faint scars that laced her skin seemed to throb with a fresh agony. “Just let it go, Vero,” I’d often whisper. Her response was always sharp, defensive: “I’ve told you again and again, I’m not holding onto anything!” I used to believe she was the one tethered to the past, but now I understand: the past had its claws sunk deep into both of us. The truth of that grip didn’t fully manifest until my twelfth birthday. I was upstairs, feigning surprise in front of the cracked mirror of our shared room, practicing wide-eyed innocence for the party Sarah had spilled the beans about. Sarah, my best friend, a radiant girl from Chicago with a cascade of dark, tight curls, was notorious for her loose lips – hence our nickname, Sarah Big Mouth. We were inseparable, partners in every childhood escapade. Her loyalty was a fierce, unwavering thing, a comforting warmth even when I was undeniably wrong. I loved her fiercely. The first gunshot cracked the fragile peace, a sound that ripped through the thin walls from downstairs. A tremor ran through me, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. My legs turned to water as I scrambled to hide beneath our bunk bed. Just then, the door burst open, and Lucia rushed in, Veronica’s hand clutched in hers. “Emma!” they both cried. “Sister Lucia, what’s happening?” I stammered, emerging from my hiding place as Lucia swiftly loaded a small, black pistol. Her gaze, when it met mine, was heavy with pity. She reached out, her touch feather-light on my cheek. “They found you both, honey. Your mom and I… we truly believed this was the last place they’d look. We were wrong.” Confusion clouded my mind as the door splintered again, and a man in a black suit, his face obscured by a stark white mask smeared with fresh blood, lunged into the room, a compact machine gun clutched in his gloved hands. Before he could squeeze the trigger, Lucia’s hand flashed. The sharp report of the pistol echoed in the small room, and a red bloom blossomed on the masked man’s forehead. He crashed to the floor, the machine gun clattering beside him, firing a wild burst. Lucia shoved Veronica and me out of the line of fire, but a stray bullet ripped through her right shoulder as she twisted to shield us. The sight of the lifeless body sent a wave of nausea and terror through me. “Come with me!” Lucia urged, grabbing our hands. She paused, her gaze fixed on the fallen man, then snatched his machine gun. We fled down the stairs and into the kitchen. Lucia shoved us behind the central cabinet, its wooden surface cool against my back. She positioned herself against the wall beside the doorway, the pistol held steady. The approaching footsteps were a drumbeat against my sanity. Lucia whirled as the figure entered the kitchen, the pistol aimed. “Oh God, please don’t shoot me!” It was Sarah, a kitchen knife clutched in her trembling hand. “Sarah, are you okay?” Lucia’s voice was tight with urgency. Veronica and I stumbled out from behind the cabinets. I ran to Sarah, engulfing her in a desperate hug. “I need to get you girls out of here. Come on!” We followed Lucia through the hallway. Suddenly, another figure, a mirror image of the first attacker, erupted from a nearby room, his hands reaching for Lucia’s throat. The pistol clattered to the floor. Without hesitation, Lucia swung the machine gun and unleashed a brutal barrage into his abdomen. He gasped, his grip tightening on Lucia’s neck, a sickening snap echoing through the hallway as he threw her limp body to the floor. Then, something impossible happened. The bullet wounds on his torso began to close, the torn flesh knitting itself back together. Veronica’s breath hitched. “How… how’s that… how’s that possible?” she whispered, her voice laced with disbelief. I stared at Lucia’s still form, convinced she was gone. Terror coiled in my gut as I looked at the seemingly indestructible man. “So, which one of you am I supposed to pick up?” he sneered, his gaze shifting between Veronica and me. “Let’s go,” he commanded, his eyes settling on Veronica. She clutched my hand tighter. “I said… let… us… go!” he repeated, his voice taking on a chilling edge as he reached for us. “Leave my friends alone!” Sarah’s small form lunged forward, the kitchen knife flashing as she plunged it into his leg. “F*k! You little piece of sht!” he roared, backhanding Sarah with brutal force. She crumpled to the floor. He yanked the knife from his leg and flung it aside, then turned his attention back to Sarah, who was struggling to rise. His boot came down with sickening force on her back. I heard the distinct c***k of ribs shattering. A gurgling cough escaped her lips, and then she lay still. “Sarah!” I cried, scrambling towards her, but the man’s hand clamped around my arm, stopping me. I tried to fight him off, a desperate, futile struggle. Then, another gunshot. His blood splattered across my face as he crashed to the floor. It was Lucia. She wasn’t dead. “Come with me. We have to go. More of them will be coming,” she said, her left hand outstretched towards me. “Please, you have to trust me.” But we were frozen, our minds reeling from the m******e. “We just saw you die,” Veronica whispered, her body trembling as if she were facing a ghost. I remained on the floor, cradling Sarah’s lifeless form, tears streaming down my face. “We have to help her,” I choked out. “There’s nothing we can do now, honey. She’s gone. I’m sorry. Let’s go. We don’t have time,” Lucia’s voice was firm, devoid of emotion. We stumbled outside to Lucia’s beat-up sedan. “Get in and wait for me. I’ll be back.” “Wait! Where are you going? You’re the one who said we needed to leave now!” Veronica’s voice was laced with panic. “I need to clean up the house. I’ll be back. Just wait for me, alright? And if you see anything suspicious, take this.” Lucia pressed the cold weight of the handgun into Veronica’s trembling hand. “What am I supposed to do with this?” Veronica’s teeth chattered. Lucia gripped her hand, her gaze intense. “Veronica, listen to me. Do not hesitate to shoot anyone who tries to take you and your sister. Aim for the head to kill, or the heart to buy you time so you can escape. If you’re lucky, you won’t have to use it today.” We scrambled into the car, slamming the doors shut. Lucia turned and walked back towards the orphanage. At first, I didn’t understand her cryptic words about “cleaning up the house.” Then, a blinding orange glow erupted from the windows, licking at the night sky. Lucia had set our supposed sanctuary ablaze. The heat hit us first, even through the closed windows of Lucia’s beat-up sedan. It was a dry, suffocating heat that seemed to press against the glass, distorting the familiar shape of the orphanage into a shimmering, infernal mirage. Then came the light, a violent, pulsating orange that painted the night sky in shades of hellfire. Tendrils of flame, like hungry, luminous serpents, writhed up the walls, devouring the familiar brick and mortar. The windows, once dark and comforting, now glowed with an unbearable intensity, revealing the skeletal framework of the building being consumed from within. A collective gasp escaped Veronica and me. My breath hitched in my throat, a knot of terror tightening in my chest. It wasn't just the sight of the fire; it was the sheer audacity of it, the finality. Casa Horga, the only home we had any real memory of, was being erased in a brutal, incandescent spectacle. We huddled together in the backseat, our small bodies trembling uncontrollably. It wasn't just the encroaching heat; it was the icy grip of fear that had burrowed deep into our bones. The world outside the car windows had become a terrifying, alien landscape. The comforting sounds of the night – the chirping of crickets, the distant hum of the city – were drowned out by the furious roar of the flames, the snapping and crackling of collapsing structures. Each popping sound felt like another piece of our already fractured lives shattering. Tears streamed down Veronica’s face, mirroring the fiery trails licking the orphanage walls. “Why?” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the inferno’s hungry growl. I had no answer. My own mind was a whirlwind of confusion and terror. Was this the only way to keep us safe? The thought was both terrifying and strangely reassuring. We watched, transfixed and horrified, as the roof of the main building began to sag, groaning under the relentless assault of the flames. Sparks, like angry fireflies, danced in the air, carried on the rising heat. The smell of smoke, acrid and choking, began to seep into the car despite the closed windows, stinging our eyes and scratching at our throats. It was the smell of loss, of everything we knew turning to ash. Minutes stretched into an eternity. The inferno raged, casting long, dancing shadows that writhed and twisted like the demons from a nightmare. We remained huddled together, two small figures swallowed by the vast darkness, illuminated only by the horrifying spectacle of our past being reduced to embers. The silence within the car was heavy, punctuated only by our ragged breaths and the distant, furious roar of the fire. We were adrift, cast out into a night that suddenly felt infinitely more dangerous than the familiar confines of the orphanage. Just when the despair began to feel absolute, a figure emerged from the fiery glow. Lucia. She moved with a grim determination, her silhouette stark against the raging flames. Her clothes were singed, her face smudged with soot, and her hair was slightly disheveled, but her eyes, even from this distance, held a fierce, unwavering intensity. The relief that washed over us was immediate and profound, though it was quickly tempered by a fresh wave of unease. She reached the car, her movements quick and efficient. She yanked open the driver’s side door, the sudden intrusion of cooler night air a stark contrast to the oppressive heat radiating from the burning building. Without a word, she slid into the driver’s seat, her gaze fixed straight ahead. She started the engine, the rumble a jarring sound after the silence. Her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, For a long moment, she didn't speak, her eyes still fixed on the rearview mirror, as if ensuring the destruction behind us was complete. Then, with a suddenness that made us jump, she put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb. The burning orphanage receded in the rearview mirror, its fiery glow casting long, distorted shadows that danced alongside us as we sped into the darkness.