Chapter 2
"Ms Russ, Silvestro?" The receptionist called out into the waiting room, getting heads to lift, and only one to remain up.
"Ah," Silvestro sighed, closing the pointless magazine and getting to her feet. "That's me, yeah."
The ex-militant woman trudged into the General Practitioner's office with a yawn, her hand smothering her sleep-depravity before she was startled into silence by an amused laugh.
"Good morning, Capitano Russ," Doctor Orazio chuckled, a cup of pitch-black coffee on his desk beside a hefty looking folder. "Have a good night's sleep?"
"Like hell I did, Doc," she huffed, dropping down on the examination table, already knowing she'd be moved there at some point in the examination. "There were a bunch of teenagers street racing outside, God, I was going to go down there and key their cars, I swear."
The local doctor smiled at her, already very used to the woman's nature, having been her go-to doctor since she had learnt about her right to confidentiality from the age of 15.
Doctor Orazio was a man with a friendly face and a calming voice, hair greyed out from the years of medical school and old age, but he bore it with a dignity that many could not accomplish. His nose was a prominent characteristic upon his face, round and blushing with circulation, while also doing a rather good job of holding up his circle-frame glasses where others may have let them slip.
"Well, we'll get this appointment done quickly and then you can head on back to bed. Shirt please, Silvestro."
The woman grunted before grabbing the nape of her shirt and pulling it up over her head, allowing the doctor to unravel her bandages and peer underneath the many salves slathered MediSil patches. He hummed and gently applied pressure, asking for whether she could feel it, getting soft affirmations or negations.
"The bruising seems like it's healing up quickly," Orazio commented, pulling out a roll of fresh bandages and patches for reapplication. "And the scarring is less than expected," he laughed a little and paused his attention. "But then again, I think we need to make an exception to 'normal' for you, Silvestro. Stubborn as an ox, body and soul, you are."
"Thank you, I take that as a compliment," she huffed, giving herself a once over and shifting around in her new wrappings, before shrugging on her shirt.
"Keep applying the patches to the scarring for another six weeks," he instructed, going back to sit in his chair, body groaning from old joints. "And now, onto some looming topics: Silvestro, when am I going to get invited to a wedding?"
The military woman let out a suffering sigh, having fully expected the pestering doctor to launch into his tirade.
"You're a twenty-seven-year-old woman, Silvestro, nearly thirty! You'll be too old to have strong children soon!"
"That's a societal exaggeration, and you know it," she grunted, picking at a scab on her cheek.
"Perhaps, but society is a powerful thing, my dear girl, and we may know this but not everyone puts stock into it. Good men are hard to come by at your age."
Silvestro swallowed her rebuttal and massaged her shoulder silently, lips pressed thin.
"Do you still want a family?"
"Yes," she answered slowly, "but I don't know how much of a reality that can be when I'm 'crippled'."
The Doctor Orazio frowned at her, but only sighed and rolled his chair over to the bed, a hand coming to lay on her knee in comfort.
"You've always wanted a family, Silvestro, and losing an arm isn't going to take that from you. Neither is your age, you know that I'm only teasing - though, Giulio and I would love to have vicarious grand-kids. But I can't help but wonder, are your hesitations stemming from your own parents?"
"Heh," she snorted, her smirk forcibly humoured. "You and your husband love nosing into my love life."
"Or lack thereof," he joked with a raised eyebrow.
"Now you're just being rude, Doc."
0 0 0
Silvestro rolled her shoulder as leaves crunched underfoot, the stump still a bit offended by its weaponisation against the assailant yesterday and was making it known even when she was trying to sleep. Her apartment building peaked over the tops of the trees and allowed her to let out a relieved sigh, the cold nipping at her exposed nape.
The sounds of feet colliding with cobblestone reached her ears, and she moved to the left side of the path, intent on letting the rushing person dash past, but instead, let out a grunt of pain as a rock crashed against the back of her skull.
"Useless cripple!"
"Don't you know? You lost that arm for a reason!"
"Should'a stayed in the kitchen!"
Young boys, of course. Too much testosterone and too much time on their hands caused their idle minds to become a playground for unsavoury actions and thoughts.
Silvestro brought her hand to the back of her head and touched it, there wasn't any wetness from blood, but the heat that radiated spoke of swelling and an incoming bruise. She turned and was met with a small squadron of teenagers, five of them from the ages fifteen to seventeen, taking up the pathway with cigarettes in their lips and lighters between fingers.
Her mahogany eyes trailed over their faces with hints of miff, before she paused on the one who had his hand wrapped around another rather grisly looking rock. She recognised this one; he lived down the street from her apartment building, across the road.
"Are you the one who threw this at me?" she asked bluntly, voice a careful monotone.
He seemed bothered by her unaffected manner, teeth-gritting openly as he clutched the projectile tighter.
"Yeah? So what if I did? What are you gonna do about it, one-armed lady!?"
The boys behind him were eyeing the situation with humour, laughing with his taunts, egging him on with cheers and puffs of nicotine smoke.
Silvestro withheld the urge to raise an eyebrow and began to close the gap, her boots thumping against the path, and with every step, she could see the boy slowly begin to wonder about his choices as she finally towered over him.
"I'm going to take you to your mother," she huffed, before clamping her hand down on the back of his collar and dragging him across the street, thin townhouses looking old and well-loved as she counted their numbers and yanked the boy up onto a patio.
The boy was making a mighty effort to get away from his impending doom but Silvestro kept a merciless grip in his jacket, possible stretching the fibres as she kicked the base of the door to gain the attention of the woman of the house. The thudding of her call rung into the building and the sounds of an approaching being made her stop and take a step back, dragging the fussing boy further into the view of the house.
"Hello, who is-"
"Your son threw a rock at my head, ma'am," Silvestro said bluntly, shoving the boy into his mother's arms.
"Quinto!" she blurted, rounding on the youth who shrunk under her glare, "Did you really?!"
"Well, um, Mama, I-"
"Apologise to this nice lady, now!"
The boy, Quinto, pulled a face before looking to Silvestro, his frustration obvious as he glowered at her. His mother grabbed him by the ear and he gave a yelp, before sputtering out a fearful 'I'm sorry!'
"Room, now!" the matron snapped and pushed him down the hall, both women watched as the teenager fled to lick his wounded pride.
Quinto's mother sighed after a moment and turned to Silvestro with a worn and apologetic expression, her face young but tired as she fiddled with the strings of her apron with delicate hands. Her hair was a pale blonde and left to fall in a shiny curtain around her shoulders, flashes of pearl earrings peering through her locks. She was a short woman, with a thin and fragile frame, but her posture spoke of skill and confidence, training in some sort of fine art reflecting.
"I'm so sorry about him, he's been acting out lately and...oh, it's so cold, would you like to come in? I can apologise properly when you're settled down with something to drink."
Silvestro blinked blearily at her, the wind sending leaves scuttling along the porch, before nodding slowly and stepping into the warm house, taking off her overcoat as the door was closed. She turned and gave her coat to the mother, lips thinning when she saw milk chocolate eyes staring at her hollow sleeve.
"Yes...Your son noticed that too," she uttered, snapping the woman back into focus, who let out a sheepish laugh.
"Sorry, I shouldn't have stared. Why don't you head on into the living room? Just through there, I'll be with you in a moment."
The ex-militant nodded before heading where directed and slowly lowering herself into a soft couch that had its fair share of occupants. The room had a warm fragrance about it, with flower pots and drawn curtains keeping the room in a balance of cosy and open, a bowl of goldfish circling in the corner. A small cup of coffee was placed down on the little wooden table before her before she was joined by Quinto's mother, who smiled at the thanks that slipped out.
"I should introduce myself first, yes?" The blonde woman laughed lightly, offering Silvestro a spout of milk. "My name is Amelia Maddalena, my son, as you know, is Quinto."
"Silvestro Russ," the soldier hummed, twitching a polite but tense smile into place. "Pleasure to meet you."
The woman's delicate face brightened at the gentle introduction, perhaps having expected a more brutal result, before she smiled and took a sip of her latte.
"Please forgive my Quinto, he's not been having the best time and since his father left, he's been finding friends with some of the worst kids. He's just trying to find himself, so he's acting quite rough and stupid, but he's a good kid at heart."
Silvestro paused mid-drink and glanced to the stairwell, lips thinning when she saw the boy sitting at the top, an air of protectiveness emanating from him. She smiled despite herself, before sighing and lowering her cup.
"Very well, I know how hard it can be, for both of you. Being a single parent in times like this isn't the easiest, and the kids tend to get the repercussions of the situation," she breathed, nodding gently at Amelia.
"Oh, thank you. Despite that, his behaviour was unacceptable, and I'll have him be very aware of that, I assure you."
The women chatted for a little while longer, sipping at coffee while it began raining outside, the radio crackling songs in the background. They laughed a bit as Amelia gave stories of her son's baby antics, and became sombre as the runaway father of Quinto came up, the mother swearing she'd castrate him if she 'ever saw that bastard again!'
"What about you? Got anyone back home?" she asked, nibbling on biscuits that had been brought out.
Silvestro smiled and shook her head, a sigh slipping out as she read the engraved print on her cup.
"No, I just came back from service. My parents and I haven't ever really been close, so my mum's off in Palermo, dad's in France, Bordeaux. We still talk though, letters."
Amelia watched her guest for a moment, taking in the medical patches and bruising, before smiling at her warmly.
"Well, you can always pop in for a chat if you want, and if you need help around the house, Quinto's available."
"Mama!" came the boy's indignant call, making the mother let out a loud, happy laugh.
0 0 0
Silvestro paused at the low wall of mailboxes before her building, fingers trailing until she felt the No.27 box, an envelope peeking out, crisp white and a bit soggy at the corner from rain. Her stomach was still warm from the coffee and food Amelia had all but shoved down her throat, happy smiles and all, and she felt the most relaxed she had in months, the ache in her shoulder all but forgotten.
She pulled the letter free and rushed into the building, feeling droplets begin to come down on her dark crown. Her hand played with the envelope and flipped it over as she climbed the stairs, before a frown touched her lips, the sender's name smudged by rain, but readable enough to smother the once happy mind.
From: Goffredo Russ
The stairs ended four floors up, and she shoved her letter into her pocket before moving on, rathering not to read it and spoil her mood. She paused, however, and blinked in caution and confusion as she came upon a rather curious group of paper bags sitting at her door. She approached them and crouched down to peer in, a sound of bafflement escaping as a large bottle of milk and two cartons of a dozen eggs showed in one, loaves of Shepherd Loaf bread and other assorted pantry necessities whose price made the woman choke on her tongue.
She looked around the hall, trying to see if someone had just put it down and was coming back to get them, but found it empty, doors closed. A frown tugged at her lips and she knocked on the doors immediately around her, asking the people within if they had left groceries out, most of which answered a sincere 'no', one slammed the door on her, and the old lady asked her to repeat the question nine times before she gave up and excused herself.
Silvestro rubbed her nape awkwardly, before unlocking her door and taking in the bags, carefully putting them down on the little table near the kitchen window. She began looking through them again, hoping to find some sort of identification, like a receipt or a list, but instead, in the last bag, she came upon a pot plant with a little note tied to it.
I am most apologetic for allowing my drunken brute of a companion ruin your day; it was horrendously unsightly of me to allow for such a travesty to take place on my watch. A Roman Gladiator must have their fill and you, my lady, are no exception. So please, take these gifts as an apology, and these Peace Lilies as a sign of goodwill from this blundering fool.
- R.
Silvestro stared at the note for a moment, supremely confused, before gently taking out the plant and placing it down on the windowsill with the cracked glass, causing the light to refract oddly upon the thin, green leaves.
The next day, Silvestro's kitchen was heartily stocked and little, white bulbs were reaching for the sun's shine.