I wonder if I even look human anymore.
Both my eyes are incredibly swollen, with one eyelid completely busted. That leaves only one good eye I can actually see through. My cheek is radiating with pain, and I guess it could be fractured. I shouldn't even think about my nose because it took most of the direct hits.
The knife wound had been a surprise, or as much of a surprise as it could be coming from father. I hadn't expected he would go for an out of commission type of punishment, but I really went far this time.
Farther than before.
I'd stood up to father, and I'd firmly told him I wouldn't be joining him on his weekly bordello visits, nor would I engage in any type of licentious behavior.
My reasoning had been pretty simple. I just need to get my act together so I can be worthy of Catalina.
I was sure Rocco knew about father's activities, and implicitly mine, and that meant he would never agree to give me his daughter's hand in marriage. There is one thing among made men that is frowned upon, and that is frequenting bordellos – not that it would matter to father. But for any other self-respecting capo, it wouldn't be acceptable to have his daughter married to a philanderer who could embarrass her and implicitly his name.
While Rocco himself is no saint, his tastes run more towards kept women rather than paid women, even though the difference is very slight and it could be argued that it's the same thing.
But when you consider father's proclivities... I don't think there's any man out there who would willingly give his daughter in marriage to someone associated with such debauchery.
And so I'd had my work cut out for me. It's not as if it's a hardship for me to give that up, given that I've never enjoyed it. But if I'm being honest, more than anything, I want to do it for Catalina.
I want to be worthy in her eyes. Someone who she wouldn't be embarrassed of... someone she might learn to love...
And so I find myself wandering close to the Agosti home.
Father hadn't been pleased when I'd refused to go with him week after week until he'd finally had enough. He'd said he was just teaching me a lesson. That my actions were reflecting on him and that I made him seem weak.
He'd had his soldiers hold me down, while he'd hammered my face with his fists. It hadn't been enough that I'd nearly passed out from the pain, so he'd completed the punishment with a knife wound.
I groan at the slicing pain. He'd stabbed me right between my ribs, knowing the perfect position to not damage any vital organs but to maximize the pain.
When I'd gotten out, I hadn't really been thinking straight. I'd been too focused on the physical pain to think lucidly. I'd started walking, meandering.
And now here I am...
I think deep down I must have hoped to catch a glimpse of Catalina. It certainly would dull the ache.
I don't dare go to the front of the house, though. That would mean asking for another beating, and I think I've had enough for today.
Feeling a little dizzy, likely from the blood loss, I walk a little more towards the back of the house. The big fence surrounding it ensures I cannot step inside – not that I'd want to in my state.
I spot a small corner in the nook of the fence. I can see the back garden of the house from that angle. It's good enough for me as I prop myself down, breathing harshly. I shift a little, trying to find a position that will not send more sharp pains in my side.
Anyone passing by would assume I'm a homeless man. With my dirty clothes and my blazer soaked with blood, I would too. I pull my hood even further down my face, and close my eyes, drifting off to sleep. Maybe I'll even dream of her...
I don't know how long it's been, but at some point I feel something poking at my shoulder. I'm startled awake, my first reaction to decide between fight or flight. I lift my head a little, and I squint my good eye, trying to adjust to the light.
Fuck!
Everything is so blurry. I hope there is no permanent damage.
"Are you ok?" A sweet voice asks, and I slowly turn around.
It's her.
Catalina.
She's on the other side of the fence, but because the pickets are not close together, she can fit her hand through the space. Enough to touch me...
"I..." I'm speechless as I take her in. I have to ask myself if it's my brain conjuring her, or if she's actually real.
"You're hurt!" She gasps when she sees the state of my face. I lower my head in shame.
What was in my mind to come here?
With great difficulty, I stand up to leave, not wanting to see pity in her eyes.
"Wait, please! Don't go." She says, her voice so magnetic I'm stuck on the spot.
I turn to her.
She's wearing a yellow dress. So bright...
"Do you need anything?" She asks, her eyebrows drawn up in worry.
I shake my head a little.
"Please, just... wait here. Wait for me." She pauses for my reply, and as I give her a nod, she dashes towards the house.
I'm rooted on the spot, trying to figure out if she's a dream or not.
But then she's back.
"You didn't leave." She huffs, breathing hard. "Can you come closer?" She motions me towards the fence with her hand, and like a faithful servant, I obey.
"Here." She says and sneaks a small bag through the space in the fence.
I hold out my hand to take it, intentionally brushing my fingers against hers.
"Oh," She seems surprised, but doesn't move back.
I look inside the bag and find a sandwich, some fruit, and a small bottle of water.
I immediately snap my head towards her.
"Why?" I croak, my voice husky from the pain.
"You need to take care of yourself." She smiles, a gentle smile that touches my very core.
"Thank you..." I say, still in awe that she'd do this for me – for a stranger.
I don't think anyone's ever given me anything.
I look back at the contents of the bag, and I feel wetness coming out from my good eye. I sniffle a sob.
"Thank you." I whisper again.
"You don't have to thank me. Anyone would do the same."
No one's ever done the same. Not to me...
"Can you come closer?" She says and takes out a white cloth.
"What's that?"
"You need to clean your wounds, make sure they don't get infected." She explains and beckons me even closer.
I stick my face through the pickets, and she touches the cloth to my skin, softly moving it around and cleaning my wounds. She applies a little disinfectant, and I jump back a couple of times when it stings me.
She giggles.
I stare at her in reverence.
No one's ever cared about my wounds before – and I've had my fair share.
I don't know what prompts me, but I stop her hand as she's about to reach for my eye. I bring it to my lips and lay a chaste kiss on her knuckles.
"Thank you." I don't care how many times I say it, or how this makes me look. But I'm grateful to her in a way that I'd never thought possible.
She blushes, but she doesn't remove her hand.
We sit like that for a while before she tells me she has to go. But before she does, she asks me something that shocks me to the core.
"Will you come again?"