Chapter 2

Joshua

Mother was a quiet person. She hated noise. Any noise could stir her anger. I grew up tiptoeing on eggshells, always careful not to make her mad. Dad, at that time, was afraid of her, too. He was afraid she'd leave him. He couldn't bare that. She was his only one, or so he believed.

            “Colpo di fulmine! When I first saw her a thunderbolt hit me,” he told me.

            If colpo di fulmine were true, I'd curse it.

            Love blinded dad. It blinded him that he couldn't see what mother was doing.

            The playroom filled with Lego blocks, action figures, rubber mats, and any other toy a boy could imagine didn't quite distract or ease me when a tall, white figure stood on the corner of the room. My breath hitched and my hands trembled.

            I knew mother was there watching me. I could just see her half-slit eyes, and the sadness and anger in them.

            The tower I built with the wooden, toy blocks dad gave me tumbled to the floor. I knelt and picked the blue blocks first and then the red ones. I couldn't look up, as much as possible, I forced myself not to look up.

            I busied myself by slowly picking my blocks and rearranging them into a tower again. Whatever type of distraction she would do I mustn't pay her any attention. Not a shake of my shoulders or a slight turn of my head.

            The hair on my arms and back stood on end and I listened to mother’s heels, which clicked and tinkled against the marble floor of the playroom.

            “Joshua,” mother whispered. Her heels tapped once and I felt her standing next to me, breathing down on my neck like a hungry dog. Her hand rested on my head and drummed her fingers. “Look at mother, Joshua. Look at me, boy,” she hissed.

            Slowly, I turned my head to the left and stared into her black eyes—empty and blank. “Y-yes, ma'am?” I croaked.

            “Ah, such a handsome boy! You look like your father, Rafael.”

            “Yes, ma'am.”

          “Marco,” she cooed. Her fingers raked through my hair. “You were supposed to be named after him.”

            I flinched and turned away from her. I built my tower again, three blue and seven red blocks for the foundation. I stacked each and every block carefully and made sure they were all aligned.

            Mother’s heels clicked, and before I could finish stacking the third layer of blocks of my tower her red stilettos flew and knocked my tower down.

            Again, I picked and gathered my blocks, and resumed building my tower. I had to distract myself, or face mother’s rage again if I showed fear.

            “Joshua,” mother barked. “Face me, Joshua!”

            I dropped my blocks and a chill ran through my whole body. I stood on attention in front of mother, who towered over me for what seemed like miles. I hung my head low because she liked it when I looked smaller than I usually was.

            “Get my shoe, son,” she said.

            I looked over my shoulder and found her stilleto near my pile of blocks. I hurriedly picked it up and offered it to her without looking into her eyes.

            She patted my head and put the shoe on. She knelt and grabbed me by the arms. “Beautiful Joshua,” she said, “you are precious to Rafael, and he knows I hurt you.”

            My teeth chattered and my muscles tensed. I felt mother’s fingernails digging into the sleeves of my shirt and into my tender skin. “M-mom, I-I didn't tell dad. I promise you; I didn't tell him anything,” I cried.

            “Shh! I know you didn't, son.”

            “Mom, you're scaring me again.”

            Mother smiled—a smile which showed off the dimples on her cheeks and the shine in her brown eyes. She was beautiful, even more beautiful if she smiled.

            “Tell dad I'm sorry,” she whispered. She moved closer and kissed my cheek. “And Joshua—”

            “Y-yes, ma'am?” I croaked.

            “I tried, son, I really did, but all I feel is regret.”

            “M-mom?”

            “I'm sorry I didn't try hard enough to love you. Instead, you became my outlet, which is wrong, I know.”

            My heart squeezed. I knew mother didn't love me, but hearing it directly from her hurt more than her punches or slaps. I knew, then, a part of me died. The part which still believed mother could eventually love me disintegrated.

            The backs of my eyes stung. “M-mom,” I whimpered, “d-don't say that.”

            “I'm sorry,” she whispered.

            Mother let me go and stood. She gave me a wink before exiting the room with her heels clicking. She went to the room across from my playroom and left the door wide open.

            I watched her dig through her armory drawers and smiled when she found dad’s small gun. She stood by the door, blew me a kiss across the hall, put the gun against her temple, and fired.

            My ears rang for moments until I saw dad run from his office to where mother was. I shook my head and watched as a pool of blood surrounded dad while he knelt beside mother and screamed.

            “Isabella. Why?” dad shouted as he put mother’s head on his lap. A tear escaped from his eye.

            “Dad,” I yelled.

            Dad looked at me once and kicked the door close. Once I heard dad’s wails, a weight lifted off of my shoulders, and I knew dad and I were free from mother’s volatile sanity. Knowing that, I smiled and rebuilt my tower.