Viale Omicidio

Just as Poeniteo broke his gaze from the mystery man, he heard a knock at the barn door. He froze, his blood turning to ice. He was sure he was the only one who knew about his abandoned barn in the woods in which he renovated into a killing chamber, but the knock said otherwise. 'What would the townspeople do if they discovered this? It would be our biggest scandal.' Poeniteo thought. He lived in a small town on the countryside of Italy. At its size, it was nearly a village. Best case scenario, the people behind his door were teenagers exploring. Even still that would be a nightmare. Poeniteo could tell them not to come in, but teenagers never seem to have an ear for the word 'no'. He was certainly not partial to killing kids, but if it had to be done to protect his liberty, then it just had to be done.

"I know you're in there, and I want you to let me in," said an all too familiar feminine voice. It was shaky but self-assured. A feral thought crossed Poeniteo's mind: 'Could it be the moon that brought her to me?'

This particular voice had never failed to ebb his worry, for it was practically identical to that of his mothers. It was the first thing he noticed as soon as she began to speak. Even through the thick, barn door, her intonation was unmistakable. The only difference between this voice and his mothers was that his mother had a cold and demeaning cadence to her. She was everything a woman wasn't to Poeniteo. His mother always made him feel inadequate, juxtaposed to the voice he heard in this moment. Even through the wobbly lilt of her voice, he still heard her admiration. It was his beloved sister.

His sister, who he was now reminded of, was the spit of their mother. A real chip off the old block. As much as Poeniteo appreciated his little sister, he could never let Mallory all the way in. This was because of the invidious grudge he held against her for years. Mallory was the apple of Mother's eye, incapable of any wrong-doing. As protective as Poeniteo could be over Mallory, growing up, he often fantasized about how satisfactory it would be to shove her face in a pillow while she writhed and begged for air until her body went stiff. Alas, he could never go through with laying a finger on her. For a brief moment, Poeniteo felt like a saint for not killing the only child their mother wasn't embarrassed to call her own. 'Write Mama's boy on my grave,' he thought wickedly.

"Audacious of you to drop by after the fight we had, Mallory," Poeniteo said, almost amused. The two were prone to getting into tiny spats. Even as adults. Poeniteo found himself entirely perplexed at how Mallory found his killing chamber. He never gave the slightest reason for her to suspect this was where he spent his days and nights.

"Please let me in, Teo," Her words sounded anguished and distressed which made Poeniteo disoriented. He hadn't expected her to sound so desperate.

She whimpered softly as Poeniteo contemplated what he should do. If he had one weakness, it was his little sister's tears. He cracked the door open just an inch to look her in the eyes and tell her she was going to be alright. What Poeniteo expected to see was a ruddy-complexioned Mallory, and perhaps a nasty wound that she earned, hiking through the woods. What he saw was nothing of the sort. Poeniteo's eyes were first drawn to the shotgun held tightly to Mallory's temple. Her thin lips mouthed,

'I'm sorry." Then Poeniteo's eyes were drawn to the towering hooded figures who possessed the gun. They were ready to kick his door down.

The world seemed to stop spinning on its axis; time was at a standstill for Poeniteo. His eye started to twitch and he gulped hard within his throat. If he closed the door now, they would surely blow his sister's brains out. But if he let them in as they wanted, there's no telling what would happen. 'At best, these people call the police on me, the cops come running, then they lock me uptight, and throw away the key. At worst, these people round up all my bodies and leave me bloodied and mangled,' Poeniteo thought, 'Oh to be the selfless man who sacrifices himself for his beloved's,' his disposition was dismal. 'I respect this man, but he is not me.' Call him selfish if that's your will, but Poeniteo knows nothing if not to protect himself.