Memories of a Traumatized Child.

My foot hit the mossy ground as I went running. The wind whipped past my face as my bare feet took me to a distant place. The grassy fields breaking free from the forest hold my gaze. Mother lay at the peak of the hill, blooming flowers surrounding her. Red and white checkered blanket sprawled out, Father standing not too far off, a phone pressed against his ear. I ignored him most of the time, scurrying over to my mother, my bare feet pushing me up the hill. Flopping down on the blanket, the picnic basket sat to the side. “Momma, will Father be actually joining us today?” I held hope, my young stupid mind. 

    She sighed, glancing at the man, he was in his late 40s— my mother being his third wife. You could see the once brown hairs turned gray and white. I didn’t hate the man at the time, I was more disappointed. “I don’t know my dear,” She mumbled, my once grin fading. Mom noticed the tense air as she began to relax me by pulling out our lunch from the basket. Fresh fruits in small containers littered the blanket, pre-maid sandwiches, and small baby carrots— my favorite.

    I ignored the sound of my father bickering on the phone in the background, at that time in my life I respected my father. If I saw him now, blind in one eye due to his beatings I would kill him. I wouldn’t immediately kill him, my favorite knife would draw pictures on the man’s skin. The thoughts of the lovely picnic ended short by a bullet plague my mind. The water sloshed about in the tub, I ran my wet pruney hands over my face. 

    Sucking air into my lungs I lean back into the tub, sinking into the water. The hot water turned my skin pink as it drowned my shoulders, my chin just barely above the surface. My breathing was shallow, the world began to muffle around me. I miss my mother, her kind and tender touch holding me close. Her life was cut short that day, she finally stood from the blanket to scold her husband. Right at that moment, the bullet was quick, way too quick to see coming— it was meant for my father. It was supposed to settle right within his head, the bullet finding a new home lodged itself in my mother’s skull in return. 

    Her screams didn’t even glance at the air, the images of seeing her body fall to the ground scarred the younger version of myself. The mafia didn’t control me then, yet after that— it did. It seemed like Father didn’t even care his wife, my mom, just died. He didn’t care she was shot right in front of his only son. The man didn’t care, I was his heir. His only thoughts were, “Get used to it, boy.” Yeah, a grown-ass man told a mere child to get used to death. 

    After the scene we ran like hell, gunshots followed us like sirens. As I got older I became numb to death, just as I was told to. Petty crimes were my home, rarely would I return to the house out in the fields. I robbed shops, stealing cash, snacks, and necessities. I pickpocketed rich passersby, their pockets lined with wallets, Rolexes, loose money, and sometimes packs of cigarettes. My addiction to smoking started then, testing out the sticks of tobacco from my score of thievery. At first, I hated them, hated how they felt in my chest when I breathed. Yet I soon realized the relief they provided me, the calm still water. 

    The once never-ending ripple of water would slowly and surely disappear though only for a short moment. Bullets hitting the water made it ripple, it made it ripple a lot. With a shaky breath my fingers twitched, the bath water sloshed, and my knees rose to the surface. I unplugged the drain, and my hands grasped the sides of the cold porcelain tub, pushing myself out of the water. The lukewarm water dripped from my stark body as I stepped out— grabbing a towel I begin to dry off. The white towel was soft and fuzzy yet it never felt comforting. It wasn’t warm, it didn’t beat softly as I clutched it to my chest. 

The only warmth and light is her, my beautiful daughter. Her stunning locks of hair were always curly and stuck up in every direction possible. In this cruel line of work, she was my hope and joy. My eyes caught sight of the reflection in the mirror. The shell of a man stood before me, skin turned tan from the exposure to the sun, scars littered about like an unfaithful art piece, and tired drowsy eyes staring back. This man felt unlike me, he seemed lost yet who says I also wasn’t? This role of a leader was a living hell, having thousands of grunts, flunkies, lackeys, whatever you want to call them— breathing down your neck for a new assignment. It was maddening.

Changing into a brand new dark confusing blue I lock eyes with myself again. The bags under my eyes were worse this morning than usual. I didn't know if I was ready for the day. It already felt agonizingly long and it had just started. I had no work today at the office but it didn't help the situation. Personal business meetings needed attending and I didn't care to bring Noah into it. Although I would definitely need him for things like this in the future he.. admittedly, needed time off.

His usually stoic eyes shining with fear plunged deep into my heart, forcing it to constrict painfully. I didn't understand it really, I felt numb usually. Yet seeing the deep and unknown fear course through him made me undoubtedly bothered. I don't necessarily know his home life or at least what it was like. All I can understand is that if my father died I wouldn't bat an eye. If possible I would bring the damned man back to life just to kill him myself. Watching the life drain from his cold eyes would give me the peace I desperately chase. 

Opening the door for the steaming bathroom to air out as I grab a brush and get to work. Applying products to help tone down the wild waves of red as I brush. Flinching at the pulls and tugs of knots, it desperately needed to be cut and I felt lazy, not wanting to do the annoying task.

With a couple of finalizing brush strokes, I tie my hair into a tight bun. Fixing any and all loose strands sticking out of place. I slip my dress shoes on, apply some deodorant, and before stepping out of the bathroom; a loud knock sounds on my bedroom door. "Lucio, we have to head out or we're going to be late." Tokala's gruff morning voice called out through the hard wooden door. I slam the door open and he jumps back startled, “What’s got you in such a bad mood?” My glare hardens, “Nothing.” He hums softly, “Sure, sure… Well if you’re ready we should get a move on.”

He raises his eyebrows and turns away walking off with a brief wave of his hand. Its good Tokala knows I’m now in a bad mood, although it won’t excuse me if I possibly snap at him it will be understandable. With a loud huff, I spritz some cologne on before stepping out and shutting the door behind me. The soft click echoed through the desolate hall, my own heels now pittering against the wooden floors. 

My anger felt like a brewing storm within my chest and nothing had caused it besides thinking of Father. This pure undeniable rage came from just a few small thoughts. I flinched at the lights of the chandeliers glistening ahead. The streaks across my vision hurt slightly for how bright it was. “Lucio.” I snap my head down to the voice, catching my eyes on Nico. “How long will this shit last?”

“Not long enough if we don’t hurry!” Tokala shouts from downstairs, and vulgar language follows from the party with him. Nico and I make our way down the stairs to meet with the impatient man along with Giovanni and Ajax at his side. “Let’s go." My second-hand man huffs before we all retreat out the front doors.