Your Call

Chapter Five

A demeaning experience, I felt like admitting defeat all over again. "What the fuck is your problem today?! Answer the question!". He shouts the whole room echoing, shaking me with fear. My hand covers the entirety of my mouth.

Keeping silent, holding sobs back, from escaping. My mind solely kept with the aching memory of my father. Waiting for him to beat me senselessly to remember why, what I did was wrong.

My hand violently shook, "Aleah" Marco warns more tears falling. If my life isn't taken at the hands of Marco Esposito, tonight. It would be a miracle. "Answer me".

A sinister part of him coming out to the light. He threatened me, I didn't dare to look up and face him. Loud thumping footsteps approaching closer and closer. Before grabbing an entire fistful of my hair. Yanking his hand back, my eyes forcing me to meet him. He watched tears escape and the sobs breaking from my lips.

Something in his eyes shifted. Marco let go of his anger induced grip. "What happened today?" His voice softened his hand, releasing the hold on my hair. The hand he used now used to cup my cheek.

"I don't know...I-...I'm sorry". I sniffled, wiping the stray tears away that fell. The pad of his thumb brushing away a stray tear. What is he doing? Why the sudden change of heart?

"La prossima volta, quando parliamo in italiano. Dovremmo essere piu' gentili." He spoke and I watched him look at me like we had known each other for years. "Non buttarmi di nuovo in una piscina. Allora sarò gentile." I respond, Marco scoffs, turning his head.

"Si, are you hungry?" He asks, my eyes staring back into his green ones. "Kind of", my reply sounding tired and hoarse. Marco stands up dusting himself off. His hands left my face and an emptiness fell over me, why? A hand darted in my direction; I grabbed it hesitantly gaining traction on my feet. His hand never left mine until we reached the kitchen.

The kitchen door opened with force. Slammed against the wooden paneled wall. Marco ignores the loud bang. He grabs one of the bar stools pushing it outward. Beckoning me to sit, I complied. Disobeying is ten times worse than anything I would have to endure.
I carefully watched his every move he made. Marco spent his time rummaging through cabinets and fridge. Coming out with his arms overloaded with ingredients. "When'd you learn to speak Italian?" He begins the questioning.

"Six years old, my father taught me". My voice sounded so exhausted and broken. Just thinking about the man was enough to leave goosebumps on my arms. The sound of sizzling filling the room as Marco dropped something in the pot.

"Italian isn't your first language". I almost chuckle to myself thinking about it. "No, about a year before I met my dad. I spoke strictly German before learning English, then Italian later on". I explain playing with the hem of the soggy robe. Focusing strictly on the granite counter.

I don't think about any part of me. Or anyone in this world would be able to understand Marco. Earlier he and I shared a kiss under the pretense of work. Which later was useless, then, proceeding to get thrown into a pool. Drowning off impact, then being saved by Marco.

Without my mind even being able to process what happened. I sat for many hours in a cold basement cell. If at any mention, just three days prior. Marco complained about not "having" his room back.

Then the next day refused when I said I would switch. Marco had completely switched his entire story. Claiming that he hadn't needed that room. That he "sorted" it out.

Now, here I sat waiting on Marco to make me a plate of dinner. In the same bathing suit and cover, trying to compose myself while Marco made food.

"How long were you with him?" He quizzes, I shoot myself out of a trance. "Six to twelve, my life has consisted of many homes since then." I explained, a normality for me. Definitely was different from others.