"Why did Mamma do that?" I sniffle, watching through teary eyes as my brother grips my wrist lightly, guiding it under the cool water of the faucet.
Mo doesn't look at me. He's all tense, and I hope he's not mad at me. "She didn't mean to, Santo. It was an accident."
I wince, trying not to cry any more at the lingering sting of my palm. I've already cried far more than what Papa says is acceptable for a Son of Serpentine. I'm not one yet, but he says I will be soon. He says he knows I'll do a good job.
The other day, I told Mo I was excited for my initiation and he got angry with me. But I can't help it. I think this is the right thing for me. I just have a feeling—and it's not because of what Papa says. I don't care that I'm six, I still know stuff, and I know this.
My hand is bright red, and that makes me nervous. This time, I don't think this injury will go away in a couple days. "But she held it there. She didn't let go and I was screaming—"
"Mamma is sick. She doesn't mean to hurt you."
"She's sick?" I gasp. "What does she have?"
Mo doesn't answer me for a long time. "I don't know."
"Is it contagious?" I grimace, then a new thought occurs. "Will she die? Is it—"
"No," he rolls his eyes. "And don't ask so many questions. It's annoying."
"But who else is gonna answer my questions, Mo?"
"I told you not to call me that," he rolls his eyes again, and I crack a small smile. He flicks some of the water into my face, and I laugh.
Massimo is my person. He's the only one who really talks to me, who looks out for me, and I'm the only one who does the same for him. Even though I'm younger, and even though he says he's supposed to do all the protecting. I'd do anything for him. I'd protect him from anyone or anything and he better know that.
My laughter fades as I look at my hand and the angry red welt. There are more and more things lately that even my brother can't control, questions he can't answer. I want to know why we're not allowed to talk to Papa when he gets home from work and why Mo can't get a cat like he's wanted for years.
I want to know why Mamma held my hand to the stovetop today when I told her I loved her.
"You're like my Papa," I say, and I realize after a few seconds that I've said the wrong thing. My brother is looking at me funny. He looks sad and something else.
"We have a Papa," he eventually says. "And besides, I'm two years older than you. That's impossible."
"But he's mean to you." I frown. Fathers aren't supposed to be mean. "And anyway, you're the one who helps me when Mamma hurts m—"
"I'm not your father." He sounds angry, and I recoil, not wanting to make him upset. "I'm not your father, but I will take care of you," he continues, softer now. "I promise."
+
My brother isn't here—he's not here and she's hurting me.
I know it's going to make him really sad. Last time she hurt me when he wasn't here, he cried. I told him it wasn't his fault, but he felt really bad. He told me that whenever she hurts me, she hurts him too.
I think my brother is really sad all the time, and I hope it's not because of me.
I don't know what I did wrong now. I heard her crying in the kitchen so I came in because I wanted to make sure she was okay. She said she wanted a glass of water. But when I handed it to her, she grabbed my arm and started twisting it back. She said she wanted to see how far it would go. She said I wasn't her son.
A door slams, and heavy footsteps stomp towards us. Through the blinding haze of my pain, I hear a sudden slap, then her scream. I only realize she's let go when I can stumble away. A searing pressure shoots from my shoulder down my arm, feeling like knives.
"Maria, what are you doing?" Papa's voice is always so controlled, even when he's angry. He never yells—it's not the way a man gets things done, he says—but he yells at Mo a lot. I can hear them in his office sometimes. I hug my arm to my chest, needing to get out of the room. I want Mo. I want to get away from them.
"The demon tried to poison me!" She screams. "I asked for a glass of water and he gave me poison! You have to believe me," she dissolves into sobs, "he tried to kill me. He tries to kill me every day."
Papa's voice becomes soft, soothing. "I know. I know, my love. I just need him to be in perfect shape for his Serpentine initiation tomorrow, and now he isn't. You knew that and you still couldn't ease up for one fucking day." His voice becomes venomous and then she starts gasping and crying harder.
I know he's hurting her but there's nothing I can do. I turn my face to the wall, wishing I could dissolve into it like a ghost and live there forever where nobody could see me.
+
Blood.
It's a new sight. At least, this much of it is.
I've seen it before in cuts and bloody noses and things that happen when Mamma or Papa get angry. I've spent hours scrubbing it off my clothes so nobody will ask questions, so they won't know what happens in this house. I've cleaned it off my brothers—even Tommaso, who is only two.
But I've never seen this much of it. You can't clean this.
It creeps across the floor like it has a mind of its own, pressing against the tips of my toes and chasing them when I try to scramble backwards, away from it. It's thick and warm, and I gag when I touch it. There's no escaping it.
The body across the room stopped moving just a minute ago. He groaned for a few minutes as he bled, and eventually he just stopped making noises. That's how I know he died.
I stabbed him in his throat. I killed him.
I wanted to.
I feel a sharp pain in my palm and look down, seeing the knife cutting into my own skin. I didn't know I was holding it so tight. But I welcome that pain. It grounds me for a moment, reminds me where I am, that my father is just outside and he'll come in soon. He will. He'll come get me, explain how this all went wrong, how this wasn't supposed to happen.
I failed. I failed my initiation. This can't be what he wanted. It was a test.
"I'm proud, son."
Tears fill my eyes as the door opens and he's here, he's here.
"Little to no hesitation. It's... it's remarkable." He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck in awe. "Santo, what the fuck was that?"
I stare at him. He never curses. "H-he was there. I—"
"He was there?" Papa roars. I startle, then realize he's laughing. Not angry. "You walk into a room with an unarmed man, and your first thought is to gut him? Santo, he didn't even do anything. He was just sitting there."
My throat feels like cotton. I try to tell him that I thought he was a bad man, because most of Papa's friends are. I've seen the way Papa deals with bad men. I try to tell him that I'm sorry and I don't know why I killed him and I want to do it again and what is wrong with me?
He steps through the blood like it's rainwater and crouches in front of me. "How do you feel right now?"
I scoot back from the sharp interest in his face. My hand not holding the knife starts tapping the floor nervously. The blood isn't warm anymore. I can almost forget it's blood. I flatten my palm in it.
"Hey," Papa murmurs, gently tipping my chin up. "Answer me."
"Was he a bad man?"
"What's a bad man?" Papa's eyes flash. He doesn't like that I didn't answer his question. "It isn't so simple. He was good, and he was probably bad, too. Now—"
"Probably?"
His hand tightens on my chin. "I don't know every man I drag in off the street, son. Answer what I've asked you now."
"Fine. I feel fine."
I'm not sure of anything, except for the fact that I don't want Papa near me right now.
"Let me tell you something," he starts, and the knife trembles in my palm. Suddenly I'm not sure I can listen to him for another second. "When Massimo did this, it took two hours. Two hours! And even then, I had to show him how it's done. All your brother did was sit in the corner and shake. That boy's weakness astounds me every single day." He trails off, seemingly lost in his disgusted thoughts before refocusing on me suddenly. "But you, you took two minutes."
The sweetness of his cologne smells wrong in this room, the smile on his face unnatural. I don't know if I'm breathing as he leans in closer. "I used to think the whole lot of you were useless. But today, you've done a very important thing. You have it in you, whatever 'it' is. Hell, your nutcase mother may be onto something," he chuckles. "You might actually scare me if I were a weaker man."
I feel my heart racing in my chest. I don't feel right. I thought I would feel better somehow once he came in because he's my Papa but I'm realizing—
"If you can survive this, what comes next," he breaks off, grinning too widely to speak for a moment, "well, you're my last hope for Serpentine. Santo, you've helped me today more than you realize. Hey. Look at me."
This man is no father to me.
"Something is going to happen now. You'll know when it happens. Feel that, right now? That confusion? Panic? Anger?" He closes a warm palm over my trembling hand. I've been rubbing it in small circles, spreading the blood. "You're going to remember that when I'm gone."
I look slowly down at my knife. My father stands with a breathless chuckle, murmuring, "my son. A killer at six. Absolutely incredible!"
I wrap my hand around the blade again until my blood drips onto my pant leg. Drip drip drip. If that man wasn't good or bad, what does that make me? Drip drip drip. It's not like it matters, because he's dead, and Papa is proud of me for the first time. But something is drip drip dripping into my soul and it feels a lot like everything my mother has been telling me lately.
A normal child wouldn't be able to do what I have done.
A normal child wouldn't be fantasizing about taking this knife and plunging it into his own father's throat because, suddenly, this man is not my father. He is my tormentor and I am everything that is wrong with this world.
I suppose, then, that I deserve to suffer too.
---
Little bit of a different chapter! The next one is also in Santo's POV so keep those seatbelts onnnn. It gets worse before it gets better hehehe.
Thank you, as always, for every read, vote, and comment.
- G