MAX.

Chapter Eight: Part Two

Isabella Hamilton. My gorgeous mother. A life that she lived never belonged to a soul like hers. She held so much beauty within her, but on the outside, she was covered with pain.

She shielded us. Loved us. Protected us. The amount of days she'd be locked in the basement, chained to a wall, her unconscious body covered in bruises. Blood stained clothes, drool sliding from her parted lips. These were images that I held. Her half smile staining my memories, as well as her screams. My father punished my mother for the losses he faced. A war between the Mariano family, cause his mind to become more paranoid. He blamed her constantly, hitting her, almost killing her.

And me, young, I couldn't do much to save her from such pain. Given all the information on how my mother grew up, this was nothing new to her.

After each beating, she waited for him to leave. Not one tear would fall from her eyes. She'd stand, focusing her movements over to the vinyl. Bending slightly, she'd select a record to her liking and place the vinyl on the turning table. Today it was Al Green. A legendary musician, who somehow spoke to those he'd never met. The blues and symphony of his voice changed the world my mother lived in. Once the violins played, Al's angelic voice set a lullaby tone. My mother began to swing her hips from left to right. Her hands drawing her hair back, the light from the lamp above on the shelf shinning on her black and blue bruise.

The song echoing her story, as if everything was in slow motion. "How can you mend this broken man..." she sang to the tune. Now.

Her tears began to fall slowly. Her eyes closing. She exhaled, taking in a deeper sob. She held her hair with right hand, turning on her heels. Swaying to the movements of her broken fairytale. Crumbling in front of me. She smiled and cried much harder...

"La-La-la-la-laaaa" singing with Al.

My mom opened her eyes. Removing her hand from her hair, she restarted the record.

She wiped her eyes, turning her gaze toward my direction.

I could vividly remember her face. Swollen...she smiled, her pearly white teeth. Eyes red. Small frame, standing still at just five foot.

She ushered over for me to join her.

I had been hiding under their table by her bedside, crying. I slid from underneath the table, rushing over to my sweet-sweet momma. I hugged her hips, gliding side to side as she'd taught me from before. She joined me, twirling us as Al green spoke to me and my mother.

'How can you mend a broken heart.'
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Anger stems from much of my life. My father being in a vegetable state. My mother gone. All of my weaknesses held in the hands of a man that could no longer affect my life. But yet he did? I couldn't love the same. Relax. Sleep. I found myself constantly floating on a gray cloud, causing havoc on earth. I hurt others to feel more content with myself. With the background I was forced into.

Im irrational. Arrogant. Yet I knew right from wrong, but insisted on doing wrong. I have no heart. No emotions. I would willingly hurt anyone, including myself. Yet I protect my brothers.

I gate-keep my sins, while living publicly as a saint. My enterprise holding ground in America, while its stocks run through Italy, the United Kingdom, and Spain. Known as an enemy.

I've spent my entirety being coached by a man that abused me, my mother, and my brothers. Lucca was able to escape. Antonio eventually became my father's favorite. Leaving behind me and my mother, my father reminded me on a daily that my life would never hold happiness. His task on this earth was to brand his name into each and every one of us. As long as he held breath, he would turn my life into his.

Once my mother left this earth, the pain increased. Her life had left her eyes, the warmth of her body grew cold, and all I could do was hold her hand as her blood pooled around me. Killed. Assassination of her being. It was as if he'd erased my mother from me. The agony.

There was nothing left in my life. My heart didn't beat the same. My breaths became small. Cold from the inside, out. There was no one more important to me than my mother. She was the only thing keeping me alive inside.

Most of the days that passed, I couldn't feel the lashes of my father's belt. I couldn't feel the chains around my bloody ankles and wrists. The cold nights left in the basement. Days I'd be starved, beaten, on repeat. Treated like his animal.

I couldn't feel any of it.

My mind would black out, suppressing all events from ages 11-18.

Alone...