I had even prepared by taking ibuprofen for the impending headache. But alas the medicine hadn’t succeeded.
Planes are already an issue in itself for me. Not being in control sends my mind into a frenzy. Having to blindly trust another human to operate an airborne object makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
Control. Routine. Structure.
Three things woven so incredibly deep in me they’ve become a part of my DNA. I don’t know who I am without them. They’re the only things that keep me relatively, for lack of better word, sane.
In my mind I’m very well aware I’m not the average neurotypical person. There’s too many differences to count. And quite frankly I’ve never been interested enough to care to gain more knowledge as to why.
Psychologists would say my upbringing would have a hand in how I feel. Perhaps they’re right.
My childhood is dicey at best. Pieces come and go. What I do remember is mamma and pa fighting over mypeculiarbrain. As he would remind me all too often in a derogatory fashion. I was too different, he had said. A son who would’ve been better off dead. From my delayed speech, to lack of imagination and once I did start talking I was far too blunt. I questioned too much. I criticized his way of thinking, just as I did the whole world. Pa never seemed to understand the need for my questioning. I had to know the why behind things. I needed the clarification for it to make sense.
And when the world was too much, from being too loud to routine going awry I would shut down in isolation and silence. Which my father did not appreciate. Not in the slightest bit.
Carina and I had both suffered by our respective father’s. She bears the scars on her back as well as the emotional wounds the eye cannot see.
I carry the scars on my flesh, all hidden beneath clothing. I’m a canvas of pa’s frustration and hatred. His contempt and anger.
His abuse, mental and physical, I don’t think of. Once in a blue moon. Maybe my brain had decided it was best to keep the demons of my pa locked away. Rationally I know I can’t change anything. My brain sees it as it is. I suffered. It’s done and it will never happen again. No point in dwelling about things that cannot be changed.
“We should have brought snacks,” I hear Pietro whine beside me in a hushed tone. We’re currently on the outskirts of The Murphy Estate. We’ve steadily been closing in for the past two hours. Seamus’ property extends far from the structure of the home. Owning nearly thirty-five acres of land there’s much to cover. All heavily surveilled with traps to catch intruders.
With my tactically gloved fingers I pinch the bridge of my nose. “How is it you’re still talking?”
Maybe I can sew his mouth shut.
He snorts, clapping me on the back. The bulletproof vest takes the impact. “Good one. I knew there was a funny bone in there somewhere.”
I cast him a side glance. Eyes vacant as always, my voice just as detached, “If you are referring to the humerus it’s spelled differently. And we all have one.”
His snort transforms to a cackle that’s most unpleasant to my ears. “See! That was funny.”
Pietro’s jovial mood is one that isn’t infectious. At least where I am concerned. For a man who kills for fun and lives in a world society would deem as dark and gritty he is quite the blithesome Made Man.
His lack of seriousness, as much as I hate to admit, is his greatest strength. Enemies underestimate him. And in turn they lose against him every time.
No one expects a fool to be cunning or a master in their craft.
“Pietro.”
“Si?”
“Stop. Talking.”
From my peripheral vision I see him roll his eyes. “You can be rude as fuck, you know that? I guess it’s a good thing we’re friends and I can look past that.”
“Pietro,” I repeat his name.
“Fine,” he simpers. “Consider me as quiet as a mouse.” As if he can’t help it he mutters under his breath in our native tongue,“ancora maledettamente affamato.”
“Constantine and Carina are right. You are worse than a child.”
“Hey!” He feigns offense. “I’m their child. Only they have the right to insult me as such.” Pausing for a moment, he ponders before snickering, “That makes you the uncle.”
If I argue with him it will only feed into his antics. Yet my brain will not allow me to not correct him. “By blood relation. None of us are of blood relation.”
“No,” he agrees easily before adding sincerely, “we’re a chosen family.”
