I can’t let him down.
My mother’s sobs echo around the room from her kneeling position on the concrete floor, but I barely pay her any attention. I’m aware she will be covered in filth, naked, beaten within an inch of her miserable life. Raw and exposed for all to see. Used and disposed of.
I’m only too grateful I missed the worst of it. Hearing her pleas as they torture and abuse her never bodes well with me. My father sees it as a weakness, of course, and has insisted on me being present when these things happen and encourages me to engage in the abuse. Something I struggle with immensely, which leaves me torn between him inflicting it on me for not complying or participating in something that causes me to vomit and have nightmares.
Her humiliation is one of my father’s greatest pastimes, and I refuse to give it the attention he craves. Instead, I remain composed when all I feel is brokenness.
My nonna says the battle inside me between good and evil keeps me from becoming the devil incarnate, but sometimes, I wonder if it would be easier to just hand myself over to him fully and immerse myself in the carved path of my destiny.
Why make it difficult for myself when it’s inevitable anyway?
“Benito, please don’t make him do this!” she cries, and her bare chest heaves. “I beg you.” The desperation in her voice is clear, and pointless at this stage, but my father chuckles. “You sick son of a bitch!” she spits with all her might.
He lashes out, gripping her hair and yanking her head back, then he slaps her across the face so hard her skin must burn at the impact. My feet beg me to step forward, but I remain frozen to the spot. Blood and spittle fly across the room, but somehow, the woman I call mother remains conscious as he releases her in a heavy slump.
My younger brother, Czar, fidgets with his hands in front of him; his body radiates angst, and I only hope my father doesn’t witness the action. His emotions always become the best of him, and Father says this proves how weak he is, but Nonna says he’s a stronger man for it, that showing compassion can win you the strength of others too. That you’re seen as much more than someone to fear but someone to believe in.
Instead of recognizing Czar’s movements, my father is too enthralled by what’s to come. He snaps his fingers, and his right-hand man, Vector, steps forward with a black satin pillow, and resting on top of it is a silver revolver.
My father’s eyes bore into me, and I sense the weight of his sinister glare down to my bones.
“Today, you become a man, my son. The devil will rise!” he announces as his gaze swings around the room, and he lifts his hand for his men to applaud me.
Sickness wells in my stomach, and I will it to stay down; surely, there’s no more to expel.
Please, no.
The pillow is thrust in my direction, and my father’s chest makes a rumbling noise before he leans down to myear, and his words are whispered in a violent promise. “You best not disappoint me, boy. Serve your Familia and prove your worth.” He spits out the latter.
My hand shakes as I reach out and grab the hefty metal from the pillow. It seems heavier than ever before, and my heart thuds, unbalancing me as I slowly turn to face my mother.
Lifting the gun has me wanting to cry out, to beg someone to step in and stop me, kill me even, and put me out of what is sure to be a lifetime of misery on repeat.
I don’t want to be the devil.A voice inside me, that’s clinging to my unloved heart whispers—the light. Dimming it by the second.
“Perhaps I should have Vector fuck her with the cattle prod again until she begs for her life to end.” My father chuckles. “Would that appease you, son?” He sneers, and I’m certain my hesitance has pissed him off.
Holding the gun higher, I sense everyone’s focus on me. My pulse races, my knees quiver, and sweat runs down my spine as I battle the urge to cry with my finger on the trigger and my gaze locked on my mother. My beautiful, helpless mother. Her usually bright eyes are dull and full of fear. Blood streaks her face, along with other substances no ten-year-old should be familiar with, and I want nothing more than to wash it all away, to bathe her and cleanse her of her pain, to wipe away the dirt the same way she has done for me. I remain locked in place as memories of our time spent together slip by with each ragged breath I take.
The way her soft hands would cup my face when she spoke to me, and the way she would wrap her arms around me to greet me, and on the odd nights we were allowed contact, she would read me a bedtime story. But I didn’t miss how our father was in the shadows, glaring over hershoulder like the grim reaper, waiting to take her soul. Or was it mine he wanted to crush?
He was always there, waiting.
My mind flashes back to a memory of one of those times. One I’ve played over and over again, unable to make sense of it.
“Azrael, I’m so proud of you. Nonna said you’ve been baking, but wow, look at these!” my mother exclaims. Her green eyes sparkle, and I push my chest out with as much pride an eight-year-old can muster.
“We made cookies.” My cheeks heat. Whenever I have my mother’s attention on me, I become nervous. Mainly because I want her to be proud of me and smile the way she does, but also because my father will become angry at our interaction. He’ll call us both horrible names and make my mother cry, and worse, he’ll hurt her, bad. “They’re for you,” I tack on, shifting from foot to foot, and when she embraces me, I remain stoically still.
The warmth of her touch rushes through me and ignites something unfamiliar but not unwanted inside me, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, I welcome my mother’s gentle touch.
“What the fuck is this?” His demonic bellow sends a tremor of fear skittering down my spine. She steps away from me, and I miss her touch immediately. For some odd reason, I want to clutch her hand with mine. She moves in front of me, and that only angers him further. She should know this already.
“I was just telling Azrael the cookies smell good,” she whispers, and even I hear the uncertainty in her voice.
Does she really think they smell good? She sounds unsure.
I glance over my shoulder to see them. They look good and smell good too.
