I can hear Snitches voice calling my name. I can feel him hands shaking my
shoulders, his lips brushing my forehead, his tears wetting my cheeks as he
tries to wake me up. But it doesn't work. It never works.
He tries so hard to wake me. Relive me from the pain the wracks my body, and from the humiliation that will follow if I wake everyone up with my hysterical sobs that follow a usual set of these repetitive nightmares. But, he never does completely wake me up. Its like the nightmares are a reel of film-I have to watch the entire thing before I can get up and leave.
~!~!~
The yelling and cursing tears through the paper thin walls of the closet like a knife blade and I struggle against my sisters firm grasp, wanting to push through the walls and make the noise stop. But Nydia holds me tightly, not letting me venture out of our safe hiding place to try and stop the horrid battle going on between our Mama and Zio Luis.
I hate these fights. They last forever-ugly words and palpable hate burning through our loudest prayers and songs and stories. I hate it more when Nydia stops rocking me, places me and our 'picnic'(a dusty bottle of wine and an old loaf of bread) under a coat and leaves the safety of our hiding spot to try and stop them. Just like she's doing now.
When Nydia's not here, I'm cold, tired, scared beyond belief. She told me to pray, or pretend we're in the park for out 'picnic' and when she gets back, she'll have a nice big basket of raspberries for us to eat and we'll be as happy as can be-as we used to be, before Papa died, before Zio Luis came and the fights started. But I can't concentrate on pretend or prayers when her voice joins the battle of words and now fists carrying on outside.
I was scared when she left the closet. I'm very scared when I hear her join in the yelling, her voice gaining pitch and intensity, then cresendoing into an awesome scream of pain, identical to the one no doubt coming from Mamas throat. And I'm absolutely petrified when their screams slowly fade away, but the sound of flesh pounding flesh continues.
Nydia forgot to lock the closet when she left me, so my Zio Luis has no problem wrenching it open and depositing two forms on the floor. He doesn't see me as I peak over the top of my wool cave at him, and feel a knot of deep seated fear tie in my stomach. He has the look of a man gone insane with anger and spite. He is covered in blood, most of it not his own, and he clutches a pair of bloody scissors as he screams at the two lumps on the floor. He says horrible, untrue things about my Mama and how my sister was no better, he was glad they are dead and with half the chance he'd do it all again. With that, the door slammed shut, rattling on its hinges as the key was turned forcefully in the lock.
It's hard to move, now that the small space is occupied by two more bodies.Dead bodies. The dead bodies of the only family I've ever known.
Only.no! They can't be dead! They look so.so peaceful...Almost. Their clothing is torn and through the rips you can see magnificent bruises blooming across their smooth olive skin. Blood oozes from multiple cuts and gouges, spreading and caking around the material of their dresses, in their hair, on their skin.
But they can't be dead. They can't. I call their names, with growing urgency as I tickle Mamas chin and pull on Nydia's braid, things that drive them crazy.And they don't respond. Not even in the slightest. I know their gone now.Gone forever.
The scent of blood stings my nose and mouth. My ears are ringing and I can't see through my tears. I crawl back to my corner and pull the coat up to my chin. I eat the bread. I drink the wine. And I watch nature take its toll on those I loved most in the world. ~!~!~!~
I was in that closet for a solid week before the bulls dug me out and shoved me in the refuge. I met Snitch there, and my life restarted itself, but for a solid 4 years, those dreams were the center of my universe. Whenever I closed my eyes, the monstrous visions would slowly creep into my minds eye and force me awake. Whenever I tried to consume food, all I would taste would be that blood tainted bread and wine. Whenever I tried to sell a headline that involved blood in any way, shape or form, I would start to sell the story of what happened to my family. And whenever I saw a man who even vaguely resembled my uncle give me an odd look, well, you've never seen anyone run so fast.
I would still be like that if it wasn't for Snitch. He helped me a lot, more then I can say in words alone. I met him at the refuge that first night. The story goes that he snuck out of bed and came over to mine to steal however much of my stuff he thought was worth it, and then noticed how badly I was crying and shaking, even though I wasn't awake. I don't know if that's true or not-all I know is that I woke up to a pair of terrified gray eyes and a pair of warm, understanding arms that enfolded me in a comforting hug. We worked out a deal then-I would watch his back during the day, if he would keep an eye out for me at night. And so far, it so far, it's worked.
The nightmares are almost gone now, and I haven't had one in over 2 months. And even though I've told Snitch this a million and a half times over, he still insists we share a bunk-can never be too sure. I think he likes having someone to baby, since we all baby him so often. And I really don't mind. When he's curled up by me, almost around me, I feel safe, like as long as he's there, I'll have someone who will hold me close and love me and not rip me apart at the first sign of weakness. And in our world, a friend like that isn't someone you come across every day. So in a weird way, I'm actually pretty lucky.
My name is Michael Lucci. This is why I am the way I am. How about you?
He tries so hard to wake me. Relive me from the pain the wracks my body, and from the humiliation that will follow if I wake everyone up with my hysterical sobs that follow a usual set of these repetitive nightmares. But, he never does completely wake me up. Its like the nightmares are a reel of film-I have to watch the entire thing before I can get up and leave.
~!~!~
The yelling and cursing tears through the paper thin walls of the closet like a knife blade and I struggle against my sisters firm grasp, wanting to push through the walls and make the noise stop. But Nydia holds me tightly, not letting me venture out of our safe hiding place to try and stop the horrid battle going on between our Mama and Zio Luis.
I hate these fights. They last forever-ugly words and palpable hate burning through our loudest prayers and songs and stories. I hate it more when Nydia stops rocking me, places me and our 'picnic'(a dusty bottle of wine and an old loaf of bread) under a coat and leaves the safety of our hiding spot to try and stop them. Just like she's doing now.
When Nydia's not here, I'm cold, tired, scared beyond belief. She told me to pray, or pretend we're in the park for out 'picnic' and when she gets back, she'll have a nice big basket of raspberries for us to eat and we'll be as happy as can be-as we used to be, before Papa died, before Zio Luis came and the fights started. But I can't concentrate on pretend or prayers when her voice joins the battle of words and now fists carrying on outside.
I was scared when she left the closet. I'm very scared when I hear her join in the yelling, her voice gaining pitch and intensity, then cresendoing into an awesome scream of pain, identical to the one no doubt coming from Mamas throat. And I'm absolutely petrified when their screams slowly fade away, but the sound of flesh pounding flesh continues.
Nydia forgot to lock the closet when she left me, so my Zio Luis has no problem wrenching it open and depositing two forms on the floor. He doesn't see me as I peak over the top of my wool cave at him, and feel a knot of deep seated fear tie in my stomach. He has the look of a man gone insane with anger and spite. He is covered in blood, most of it not his own, and he clutches a pair of bloody scissors as he screams at the two lumps on the floor. He says horrible, untrue things about my Mama and how my sister was no better, he was glad they are dead and with half the chance he'd do it all again. With that, the door slammed shut, rattling on its hinges as the key was turned forcefully in the lock.
It's hard to move, now that the small space is occupied by two more bodies.Dead bodies. The dead bodies of the only family I've ever known.
Only.no! They can't be dead! They look so.so peaceful...Almost. Their clothing is torn and through the rips you can see magnificent bruises blooming across their smooth olive skin. Blood oozes from multiple cuts and gouges, spreading and caking around the material of their dresses, in their hair, on their skin.
But they can't be dead. They can't. I call their names, with growing urgency as I tickle Mamas chin and pull on Nydia's braid, things that drive them crazy.And they don't respond. Not even in the slightest. I know their gone now.Gone forever.
The scent of blood stings my nose and mouth. My ears are ringing and I can't see through my tears. I crawl back to my corner and pull the coat up to my chin. I eat the bread. I drink the wine. And I watch nature take its toll on those I loved most in the world. ~!~!~!~
I was in that closet for a solid week before the bulls dug me out and shoved me in the refuge. I met Snitch there, and my life restarted itself, but for a solid 4 years, those dreams were the center of my universe. Whenever I closed my eyes, the monstrous visions would slowly creep into my minds eye and force me awake. Whenever I tried to consume food, all I would taste would be that blood tainted bread and wine. Whenever I tried to sell a headline that involved blood in any way, shape or form, I would start to sell the story of what happened to my family. And whenever I saw a man who even vaguely resembled my uncle give me an odd look, well, you've never seen anyone run so fast.
I would still be like that if it wasn't for Snitch. He helped me a lot, more then I can say in words alone. I met him at the refuge that first night. The story goes that he snuck out of bed and came over to mine to steal however much of my stuff he thought was worth it, and then noticed how badly I was crying and shaking, even though I wasn't awake. I don't know if that's true or not-all I know is that I woke up to a pair of terrified gray eyes and a pair of warm, understanding arms that enfolded me in a comforting hug. We worked out a deal then-I would watch his back during the day, if he would keep an eye out for me at night. And so far, it so far, it's worked.
The nightmares are almost gone now, and I haven't had one in over 2 months. And even though I've told Snitch this a million and a half times over, he still insists we share a bunk-can never be too sure. I think he likes having someone to baby, since we all baby him so often. And I really don't mind. When he's curled up by me, almost around me, I feel safe, like as long as he's there, I'll have someone who will hold me close and love me and not rip me apart at the first sign of weakness. And in our world, a friend like that isn't someone you come across every day. So in a weird way, I'm actually pretty lucky.
My name is Michael Lucci. This is why I am the way I am. How about you?