Beneath the Mask

I woke and found myself lying in a narrow, rickety hospital bed, one leg raised and my head wrapped in mummy-like bandages. I was hooked to an IV, God knows what chemical dripping into my veins. To my surprise, I was free of pain.

I peered around the well-lit, sterile room. A turned-off TV sat on a stand in the corner. Juliana appeared in my field of vision. She bent over, tears brimming in her hazel eyes, and kissed my bruised lips. Strands of her dark hair fell over my face, and I breathed in the familiar scent of her citrus shampoo. She looked great in her pink pantsuit.

“Rosita, mi amor,” Juliana said, taking my hand and giving it a squeeze. “¿Quién te hizo eso?” Fuming, she sat on a chair beside my bed.

When I opened my mouth, nothing but a little burp emerged.

“I’m confused.” Juliana arched an eyebrow. “They said the first aiders had found you in a Halloween costume.” She pointed her chin at a mask on the bedside table: a red devil with horns and fangs. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“Some guys followed me after I closed up,” I said after a long pause. I helped out at my parents’ taqueria between my classes. “They jumped me downtown.”

“What were you doing all the way out there?”

I said nothing. I closed my eyes, faking pain.

“Why did they do this to you? Who were they?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t get a good look at them.”

“So, you don’t know who attacked you.”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I feel like I have a target on my back.” I rolled my eyes.

“Mi amor.” Juliana glared, not appreciating my frivolous tone.

“I got picked on a lot as a kid,” I said. “I had to learn to defend myself.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“There’s this guy in my calculus class who talks shit about me,” I said. “Earlier this week, he made fun of my accent.” I was born in Guanajuato. My parents brought me to America when I was seven, and I grew up speaking Spanish at home. “I stood up to him, and he went nuts. He told me to go fuck myself and go back to where I came from.”

“Pinche racista de mierda, ¡es el colmo!” she spat. She would swear in Spanish whenever she was angry. “I’m gonna sue his ass!”

“Between him and the men who attacked me, this week has been pretty awful.” Sighing, I took Juliana’s hand. Juliana worked as a paralegal while putting herself through law school. Our meet-cute happened six months ago at a free legal clinic on campus when she helped me with my immigration papers. I had only dated men before her, and she was my first girlfriend. Things had been going really well, except for a few hiccups.

“You should call your mamá,” Juliana said, handing me her phone.

“Was she here?” I asked, frowning. “Did she see me like this?”

“Of course,” she said. “I had to let her know. She was so worried, but she couldn’t stay because she had to go back to work.”

“Was she rude to you again?”

She nodded, and I sighed. Mamá refused to acknowledge Juliana as my girlfriend, treating her instead as my “mejor amiga,” despite the fact that I was affectionate with Juliana in front of my family. It was a point of contention between Mamá and me, driving us apart. Papá, on the other hand, demanded we give him a couple of grandkids while he was still in his forties. Every time I brought Juliana home, he repeated like a brain-damaged parrot: “Settle down and start a family.” That was a whole other problem, since neither of us was ready for that..

I called Mamá, but it went to voicemail after several rings.

“Mamá, estoy bien. Nos vemos al rato, entonces. Besitos.” I hung up after leaving a sign of life and handed the phone back to Juliana.

“¿Oíste eso, mi amor?” Juliana asked as she scrolled on her phone.

“Last night, the police arrested some homophobes,” she continued, “harassing customers outside the Scissors bar.” She sighed, shaking her head. “They were quickly released from custody—no surprise there—but they got beaten to a pulp hours later.” She paused. “By a red devil.”

“A vigilante like Batman?” I imagined myself as a superhero squaring off against an invisible opponent and began to shadowbox. “Good for them.”

Juliana stared at me. Our gazes locked, and I was the first to look away.

“Gosh, don’t you hate the haters?” I chuckled. “They should grow up and leave us alone.”

“Didn’t you say you were interested in martial arts when you were little?” she asked.

“Yeah, my abuelita practiced jujitsu. She was a bit like Mr. Miyagi. She ran a dojo in Guanajuato. She later trained luchadores and befriended El Santo.”

Juliana remained silent, still pensive. The silence between us thickened, threatening to choke me.

“Hey, put some music on,” I finally said, hoping to avoid any more questions.

Juliana turned on Spotify, and Chappell Roan’s voice punched from her phone’s speakers.

“Oh, I love this,” I said. “Turn up the volume, please.”

It was a cute love song. In it, the pop star sang about talking a girl into sleeping with her, promising the best sex of her life.

“I didn’t know magic until I met you,” I said, referencing the song’s NSFW lyrics. “By the way, you’re the one who showed me how to use a wand,” I teased, pursing my lips.

Juliana smiled, waving her hand in the air. Her laughter filled the room.

“You know you’re my first everything,” I continued, breathless. “I shall forever remain grateful to you for giving me my first orgasm.” I gave her a flirtatious wink.

“You’re being cheeky, Rosita,” she said. “What did they give you for your pain? Maybe you’re high on something.”

I blushed. She leaned forward to kiss me, and the bed creaked.

Juliana stayed overnight and left at dawn.

While I nibbled a stale hospital muffin for breakfast, a middle-aged woman in a white lab coat came into my room. She introduced herself as Dr. Rodriguez. She poked and prodded me, asking me questions.

“You’re healing really fast,” Dr. Rodriguez said, smiling. “We were able to move you out of the ICU a few hours after your surgery. Remarkable. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Thank you.” I nodded, not knowing what else to say.

“Here’s the bad news: Head trauma has irrevocably altered your brain, and there’s nothing we can do. I’m so sorry.”

“What does that mean? Am I brain damaged now?” I broke out in a cold sweat. “How will that affect my life?”

“We don’t know for sure. Maybe you’ll be able to ease back into your normal life without issue. We’ll check back with you periodically, so there’s no need to worry.”

I nodded, only half-convinced.

The following day, I was discharged, and my parents took me home. I quickly healed like a newt or Wolverine. To Mamá’s chagrin, when I came off my crutches, I moved in with Juliana. One morning, running out for class, I accidentally slammed my hand in a car door, but I felt no pain.

A few weeks later, I went back to the hospital for follow-up care. I told Dr. Rodriguez about injuring my hand—the odd absence of pain even when my fingers swelled—and she ran a series of tests on me.

“You’ve developed a high pain tolerance as a side effect of the attack,” she told me, looking at the results. “You’re now almost immune to pain.”

“Like Kick-Ass?”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind,” I said. “In other words, I’m too dense to feel pain,” I joked, and we both laughed.

Great, I thought, without a smidge of irony. Pain immunity was my superpower.

Alone in our apartment one afternoon, I put on the red devil mask in front of the full-length mirror. I practiced my signature move—punching smug faces—in my leather mini skirt, fishnet stockings, and four-inch stiletto heels. I looked damn hot in the skimpy outfit.

Diabla Roja. That was my superhero moniker. I was ready to fight bad guys.

I copied Wonder Woman’s fighting pose, and I mentally transported myself back to that dark alley. Me surrounded by six homophobes. They would laugh at my outfit and try to rip off my devil mask. They’d catcall me like horny construction workers, move closer and closer like mindless zombies. I’d put my fists up. I’d ask them, “Any last words?” And my grin—if they could see it—would be as wicked as my fiery right hook.