The little boy is on the floor, and his mother is on top of him.
The knife in her hand glints sharply in the moonlight that pours into the bedroom. Her eyes are black like he's never seen them, dark hair obscuring her face as she leans over him, pressing the knife closer to his chest.
One second, he was arguing with his brother about what they were going to have for dinner—they haven't eaten for days, since Mamma has gotten sicker—and the next, she was bursting through the doors with a terrifying look in her eyes and a kitchen knife in her hand.
It's shocking. Not because his mother is pressing a knife into his chest, but because this is the closest she's gotten. It's the closest his brother has let her get.
It's been years of the little boy trying to get her to love him, years of living in fear and confusion. But this moment, this one right now—he's pretty sure the entirety of his short life thus far has been leading up to this, and that he deserves it.
He must. He's done things—unspeakable things that have put blood on his hands already. He must deserve it.
Nevertheless, the boy cries. He can't stop—even though his father always used to tell him that kind of display of emotion was pointless. Even though he knows he shouldn't cry when he's the one who brought this upon himself. He cries because this is how it's going to finally end and he's realizing he wants to live a little more. Wants to try to make things right this time—really try.
He's given up for a while on trying to be someone else, he'll admit it. He's been bad. But he can be better if she lets him.
Or maybe... maybe it really is too late for him.
He thought he might be able to grow up, help Simo out with their little brothers, but maybe this will be it. He'd been looking forward to his thirteenth birthday, too! Officially becoming a teenager, like that would signify some big, palpable change in his life. It would, though—he never thought he'd make it this far, and apparently, it's not normal for boys his age to think that way.
He's lived a life quite unfit for someone his age. At least, that's what Simo tells him when he wakes up screaming from nightmares about the things his parents have done.
The things they've made him do.
He squeezes his eyes shut as pain erupts in a vicious, fiery knot over his heart. It spreads in blistering tendrils from his chest to every single one of his limbs, until he feels like he's dying. And he swears he is, that he's being engulfed by flames, maybe the flames of Hell. Maybe he's finally going there.
He deserves this.
"Please, Mamma, please stop," the boy sobs, but he knows she won't. She's been wanting to do this since she first laid eyes on him, since he first darkened this house with his presence. The way she looks at him... The things she says to him... He doesn't remember a time that she loved him.
But she is his mother. And her loves her, with that kind of love that will keep begging for recognition and comfort—a kiss to the forehead, a warm hug that lets him bury his face in her soft shoulder—instead of this pain. It's the kind of love Simo has always told him to let go of, because it will never be returned.
But the little boy doesn't want to give up. He doesn't think he can, even if he wanted to.
She screams as she presses the knife in deeper, right over where his heart is hammering in his chest, flecks of spit landing on his face. "Stop! Stop talking to me! Ragazzo demone, il bambino che non ho mai volute. Satana! Satana! I'm going to show them; I'm going to show everyone. You are not my son."
Deep shivers roll through her body and big, terrified tears slide down her cheeks. she's afraid, above anything else. Her terror is so real that recently, he's started hating what he sees in the mirror. He thinks he looks fine, but that young boy staring back at him... whatever he really is, it's something horrifying enough to drive her to this madness.
"Whatever you are," she snarls, "they'll finally believe me when they see. When they see you don't have a heart. Demons, evil spirits—they don't have hearts like the rest of us."
"I didn't mean to, I didn't mean to. I'm sorry, Mamma, I'm sorry. I love you, I love you," he blubbers, wanting her to understand. To at least know that. He isn't sure when he became something that wasn't her son, but fuck, he didn't mean to do it.
A cry pierces his ears. Someone else. The little boy remembers his brother's presence, but he hasn't been able to register Simo's screams through his own pain until right now. And scream he has. The older boy's throat is raw, torn, broken—his voice rips from him as he watches his younger brother die by their mother's hand.
Screaming does nothing. Noise is just noise, and action is required. So Simo wraps both spindly arms around their mother's neck, yanking her back. Unsteady, she falls off the little boy, the knife clattering to the floor. She lunges for it again and the little boy watches in horror, trying to see through the haze of his pain, as Simo wrestles their mother until she's on her back, both hands restrained, thrashing and screaming like a woman possessed.
Maybe she is.
Possessed.
Maybe they all are.
"Santo! Give me the knife," his brother cries.
He sobs, feeling lightheaded. He's bleeding so much. Crying so much. Their mother gets one hand free and puts it around Simo's neck, squeezing. Desperation makes her inhumanly strong, and Simo is only fourteen.
The little boy sobs as he reaches for the knife and thrusts it into his brother's hand. Sobs as the knife goes into her chest with a soft squelch. Sobs as the knife slices soundlessly into her neck next, and she finally stops moving. Her head falls to the side, those lifeless eyes boring into him through greasy strands of hair.
Those eyes. Still hateful, even in death.
The sight of those eyes is carved into the backs of his eyelids, still there when he shuts them. Still there, staring at him, reminding him who he really is. There, forever.
Deserves it, deserves it, deserves it.
Simo falls off her body, unsteady. Her blood seeps into the floor, black and smelly. There's so much of it that the faint but pervading smell of copper crawls into his nostrils as he lays there, wondering if he's bleeding out. He discovered the smell of blood when he was six, but he's never seen so much of it until now. And he'll remember that smell forever and ever. He'll hate it and simultaneously draw comfort from it. Because it means she's dead and she can't hurt him anymore.
And the relief he feels, even layered underneath the grief that he'll never get her to love him now, is so potent. And the blood is both beautiful and horrifying.
How long does it take to die? Will he see his mother when he dies? Will she still be able to hurt him?
Big tears roll silently down Simo's cheeks. He crawls towards the little boy, knife in hand, murmuring brokenly, "I'm so sorry, I'm so fucking sorry I couldn't stop her. What did I just do? Santo, she's gone, she's gone, tell me she's fucking gone."
"She's gone," the little boy smiles in delirium, dragging his hands over the rough carpet to feel something. He's never felt freer than this moment. Both parents gone. It's just him and his brothers.
The older boy rips off his shirt and presses the balled up cloth to his brother's chest, staunching the blood flow. They stay like that for an indeterminable amount of time, the little boy drifting in and out of consciousness. In a moment of clarity, he blinks and feels fear slither through his chest at the look on Simo's face.
"P-Papa told me it would either be me or her," he whispers, wanting to get Simo to look normal again. "He said... he said that's how it would end. Does this mean we'll be okay now? It was her, Simo."
"It wasn't just her," Simo bows his head, and his bony shoulders begin to shake. "It was both of you. You'll live but Santo, it shouldn't have ended this way. We're all going to pay for this somehow. And I... I should have protected you better. I should've just left with you and Nico and Tommaso after father died. I was so stupid."
It's the last time the boy will hear Simo speak in those tones. So broken by emotion. So affected by pain.
Simo brings the knife to his own chest.
A scar for a scar. Two lives connected by immeasurable pain—something much stronger than brotherhood.
The little boy is frozen in horror as his brother's screams echo off the walls.
---
AHH okay what do we think? I'm scared
Now we finally know about the scar on Santo's chest and his tattoo of those mysterious eyes - although there's still so much more to be revealed. We love a good dose of fucked up parents <3
- G