A shack was the only word acceptable when describing Rocco's house.
The shack sat atop the hard-compacted red soil, a long stretching indigo sky pressing against its harsh facade - the shack was nothing more than nails and planks, hazardously constructed to resemble a building.
Tumbleweed collected beneath the creaky veranda (a glorified bus shelter, really) and that day was no exception. Dust instantly caught in his throat as Rocco stepped out into the steady morning light. He downed the dregs of his bottle, wetting his throat, and slapped the glass down into his front yard - with a satisfied grunt, Rocco watched the bottle smash upon impact and fragment into glittering pieces.
The day was going to be a blistering one - the height of summer - as the sound of feet reached his ears from in the house's interior. Finally, he laughed harshly to himself, the princess has awoken.
What a hypocrite he had become in his old age. Rocco had had the girl scrubbing the flagstones leading to the shack all the night previously while he drunk himself into a characteristic stupor, and despite the arduous challenge she awoke no later than he did.
The task had been futile, he knew all too well. Looking across the dusty stones, he realised it was more for his own enjoyment seeing her kneel in the dirt and soapy grime, toiling her hands raw; senselessly and blindly.
Had he tried hard enough, Rocco could have derived some nonsense lecture about dedication and discipline, but he had intended to offend her. He would allow her to formulate an opinion on his actions.
"Finally," the mentor commented when the crumbling door leading to the guest bedroom (a mattress and cardboard box) slowly opened, revealing his ward. Rocco watched like a hawk as she journeyed across the abandoned beer bottles and trash that occupied the 'living room' floor to where he stood.
It always struck him how her features never moved. With a delicate, heart shaped face and round black eyes, the apprentice's expression remained in a permanent state of neutrality despite everything he's put before her. Underneath the filth and sweaty matted black hair, she was probably attractive enough – not that Rocco knew, or that Rocco cared. He had been paid to train her, not enjoy her company, as he gestured a fat, greasy finger to the yard.
"Out. Now," He smiled unpleasantly. He held his breath momentarily for a reaction. Nothing. She took the three small steps to the ground and walked daringly out into the sun's gaze. Rocco wasn't entirely sure that day's lesson plan, but he knew it would difficult, unpleasant and degrading.
So, entertaining, right?
He wasn't sure what led him to be such a heel on the human scale of decency and kindness, what led him to be so disgracefully indifferent to others. Maybe it was common sense finally catching up on him.
Rocco pulled the cane from his holster and slapped the back of her knees lightly. Her lips pressed together briefly, before turning sharply to face him. Defensive technique it would be, then.
The cane struck her cheek secondly and her gut thirdly. Each lash left a consequential red welt, protruding and violent against her sallow complexion as she barrelled in his direction. Her fist brushed past his cheek. Sloppy, he mused, sidestepping his student. This wasn't a fight, he would have advised, but after two years of this game of theirs she ought to know.
The cane struck her cheek her shoulder and again on the back of her legs. Blood pooled beneath her skin, bright red like an apple. No noise. He decided to continue until he had those eyes of hers move; her cheeks twitch with discomfort.
Rocco tossed aside his weapon – deciding it hindered more than aided him – and she's stumbling forward when his fingers wrap around her ponytail. It slipped momentarily from his grasp as the greasy black strands escaped his grip, but he easily regained it.
She fell back on his fragmented bottle and cried out finally - in a loud howl of pain - as the glass pierced her bare skin like needles, and the blood which fought to break skin poured pleasantly in the glinting noon sun.
"That's how you sound?" He asks her, his knee against the nape of her neck and her eyes toward the blistering sun; so hot it felt as though her eyes would boil out her head. "I didn't know if you had a voice, mute. Mutie. Is that you? Mutie?"
Her face contorted in agony as she scrambled against his grip but repeatedly lost her footing on the crumbling soil.
He held tight. He held tight, twisting and twisting her black hair so fiercely it threatened to abandon her scalp, and the largest shard from his bottle entered his jugular.
Deep, vital blood spurted across her pained face like a splash of oil paint on a gleaming white canvas, as Rocco took a moment to realise it was his life splayed across her face.
He grasped his throat in a poor attempt of keeping it inside his veins, as she stood.
She stood over him, blood on her face and legs, surrounded by a halo of sunlight.