Isabella | TeenInk


February 15, 2011
By Jonathan_Peraza SILVER, Lilburn, Georgia
Jonathan_Peraza SILVER, Lilburn, Georgia
9 articles 1 photo 8 comments

The rain poured endlessly that one night. The night that would mark Isabella for as long as she lived.

She was completely soaked from her old, color-fading dress to her white restaurant apron. She wore the clothes of a poor immigrant dish washer.

The city of Los Angeles was rumored to hold all the opportunity of the world, but Isabella didn’t have that kind of luck. But the job of a dish washer at a pupuseria was better than the jobs most women in El Salvador worked. The job of a dish washer could barely support a single woman, so how would it be able to support a woman and her bebe?

Isabella could not afford to raise a child, so she would have to make one of the hardest decisions of her life. She did not care whose child the baby was, even if the baby was the son of a lustful desgraciado that dared take advantage of her. Her son was the product of rape, but he was no mistake whatsoever, this Isabella knew. He was still a fruit of her womb. Flesh of her flesh. The child was not at fault for any of what happened. So Isabella chose a brighter path for him.

She was slowly coming closer to the front gate of the home of one of the richest women in Los Angeles, California. She was a guera that was the head of a renowned cosmetics company. This woman could give Isabella’s hijo what Isabella could never give him.

In her arms she cradled a cooing bundle. Wrapped in the blue sheet in her arms was a beautiful baby boy just a few days old. This child was unaware of his mother’s suffering.

Isabella shielded the baby from the cold rain with her upper torso as she hunched over him.

She put the child on the other side of the gate through the openings between the bars. Afterwards, she quickly climbed over the fence like she did when she was a pequeña in El Salvador.

She quickly picked up the baby when she was over and ran to hid in the bushes closest to the front door. No security guards watched the premises like Isabella saw at other mansions.

Isabella was going to put the baby on the door step with a note explaining who he was, not the fact that he had a cowardly mother that could not give him a better life. The note said his name, his date of birth, and where he was born. His authentic birth certificate was enclosed in the envelope to confirm what was the in the note to be true.

The birth certificated said his name was Angel, like the city where he was born. His last name was Isabella’s mother’s maiden name, Campos. His father wasn’t listed, but the name of his mother was listed to be Juana Felipa of El Salvador. Isabella knew it wasn’t so, she knew who the proud mother of the beautiful niño was.

The night was only getting darker and the hours were ticking away. Isabella stopped hesitating. She finally approached the door step. She caressed the smooth, pale forehead of Angelito. She kissed both of his plump cheeks and put him in front of the door. He broke out crying. Isabella did the same. On top of him she placed the envelope that enclosed the note and his birth certificate. She rang the doorbell and ran to hide behind the bushes.

Isabella choked down her tears as she waited to hear someone open the door and take in her child. She knew the guera would take in the child. She seemed like a kind woman.

Isabella heard two women gushing over the baby someone had left on the doorstep. One of them was probably the cosmetics lady and the other was probably her maid.

The lady called out into her front garden, but no one would call back to claim the child. The only things that occupied the garden were Isabella and her pain. When the woman was satisfied with silence, she closed the door again.

Isabella sat behind the bush weeping for some time. After a while, she got up to leave. She tried as hard as she could to not turn back. She left with her heart in her hand and the burden of losing her child. The rain felt like stones.

The author's comments:
This is my first longer piece compared to poetry in a long time, so my writing ability is very rusty. But please bear with me. Honestly, I'm proud to have written this tragic story. It's alright for my first short story in so long.

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