He hated the power he had over me. Carlos del Puente Stories

 He hated the power he had over me.

The flickering light to the candlelight shed dance shadows on Ricardo's face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the cruel curve of his lips. He sat through the oak table, a king who examined his domain, and I, Liothan, was nothing more than a conquered subject inside his borders. He hated the power he had over me. I hated the power that retained me.

It was not a physical power, not in the typical sense. I hadn't chained me, I hadn't threatened violently. Instead, Ricardo exerted a much more insidious weapon: my father's debt. A game debt, a monumental sum that threatened to ruin the little vineyard of our family that we had on the border between France and Italy, the soul of our village. Ricardo, the richest landowner in the region, had leaned, a vulture that surrounded a dying animal, offering to pay it.

The price? Me. Not as a servant, not as a farmer, but as his ... companion. The word hung not spoken between us, shining with implicit conditions and tacit desires. He had to attend him at dinner, accompany him on his night walks through the vineyards illuminated by the moon, listen to his wading monologues on politics and profits. It should be the beautiful and polished object that showed the world, a testimony of its wealth and control.

Each forced smile, each carefully written conversation, felt like a small part of my shipyard. I saw the pity in the eyes of my neighbors, the looks of knowledge that whispered my shame. I longed for the days I could walk freely through the Plaza del Pueblo, without the weight of Ricardo's possessive look on my back.

But escaping was impossible. My father, oblivious to the true depth of my misery, saw Ricardo as our Savior. My brothers, who already struggled to reach the end of the month, depended on the survival of the vineyard. He was caught, a pawn in a game he did not understand, played by a man who despised.

One night, while Ricardo boasted his last acquisition, a precious Arab stallion, I noticed a steel flash under his bracelet. A small and adorned dagger, without a doubt, is worth a fortune. It was a symbol of his power, a tangible representation of the control he exercised above all and all around him.

Suddenly, a flash of rebellion caused within me. I was tired of being passive, allowing him to dictate my life. I had to find a way to recover, dismantle the power I had over me, even if that meant risking everything.

I began to observe it more closely, studying their habits, its vulnerabilities. He was vain, arrogant and, above all, predictable. He longed for the admiration, sought validation in the eyes of others. And he underestimated me. He saw me as a removable rubber doll, incapable of independent thought or action but at the same time as a living truly human appearance.

Little by little, thoroughly, I began to weave my own network. I became friends with her housekeeper, a woman who had seen the darkest side of Ricardo's nature. I learned about their businesses, their secrets, the whispers of discontent among their tenants. I discovered that its vast wealth was built on a questionable ethics and exploited labor.

My initial desire to escape away from there to a place where I did not know anyone, became something more brave: a thirst for unstoppable justice with strenuous martyrdom load. I wouldn't free me alone; He would expose him to others, dismantle his power, his social prestige and return the vineyard to my family with his head high.

The plan was risky, bold, which limited with madness. He involved taking advantage of his own vanity against himself, using his desire for admiration to expose his misdeeds. It meant playing a dangerous game, dancing near the fire without burning.

But while looking in the mirror, seeing not a defeated and resigned man, but a flash of steel in my own eyes, I knew I had to try. I hated the power he had over me, but he wouldn't let me sink me. I would use his own weapon against him and claim my life, my dignity and my freedom. The battle had just begun, and I, Liothan, was finally ready to fight.

By Carlos del Puente relatos