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A kick to the side of the bag causes a small tear in the leather. I don’t care if the stuffing comes out. The skin over my knuckles is raw, on the cusp of tearing just like the bag. It’s not the first time my skin’s been broken, and it probably won’t be the last.
...
18 Years Ago...
Rrrrrmmm!
Breathe, Alessandro. Breathe.
Mmmff!
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
The pain is blinding as the cold steel blade slices into my back like a hot knife through butter. My eyes bulge, all cried out as the scents of my own bodily fluids fill the air. Duct tape covers my mouth and one of my eyes is swelling shut. Blood drips down my face as I try to figure out where I am.
I was three blocks away from the train station that would take me into Manhattan. Once I was in the city, I’d transfer to the 1 or R train to get on the Staten Island Ferry. Another bus and transfer would get me to fucking Eltingville, where I’d live with my Uncle Oscar for who knows how long.
Only, I never made it to the train. I saw some guy getting thrown around in an alley and stepped in. I may not be able to fight my father, but I wanted to do something to not feel helpless. When I got close, I was grabbed from behind. The sweetest odor flooded my senses before I passed out.
The scent of Coney Island is back in the air. Sweetness from funnel cakes, the sound of the Cyclone’s rickety tracks shaking in the distance, and fireworks explode into the night. It’s late, after nine. At least, it’s still the same day. It’s the last day for fireworks before school starts. Seagulls caw and...
FUCK! Another slice into my back has me ready to pass out.
“I’m going to pull this tape off your pretty little mouth, Alice-Andrew. And you’re going to tell me what I want to know, Cob peach? Is that how yous guys say it?” He drags and exaggerates an Italian movie accent, managing to piss me off even more than I already am.
When he pulls the tape off, I hock a wad of blood and saliva at the weirdo who snatched me out of an alley. All that gets me is a punch to the gut.
“You fuckin little shit. I’m just trying to finish what I started and you’re making this difficult. Tell me where your father’s going.”
I spit again, but this time onto the floor. There’s sand and dirt under my feet. My duffle bag is in the corner of the dark room, and my arms feel like they’re about to pop out of their sockets. This lunatic has me hanging, bound by my wrists about three inches above the floor. The irritation of being so close to standing but unable to is torture in itself.
“Untie me and hit me, you fuckin’ pussy.”
“I’m having way too much fun peeling you like a grape.”
“What kind of psycho peels grapes?” I ask with every breath harder than the last.
“I am not crazy or psychotic, asshole. I’m focused. I finish what I start. No matter what.”
“Fuckin’ kill me already, then. I don’t know where my father is or where he’s going. I have every piece of clothing in that bag. Do you think he gives a fuck about me? Sending me to live with my uncle. Why the fuck would he tell me where he’s going?”
“Beg.”
“For what?”
“Your life. I’ll think about letting you go if you beg me.”
“I don’t beg, and I’ve seen your face. You’re not letting me go. Fuck you, you fucking piece of shit. Macchia di merda. Mio padre ti ucciderà se non ti uccido io prima.”
“In English, you fucking peasant.”
I mumble the translation under my breath. The effects of whatever he knocked me out with are wearing off, which has my body’s adrenaline surging. I just need him to get closer. He leans in just enough for me to scream in pain as I grab the rope binding my wrists to a beam above me. Pulling my own body weight up, I’m able to wrap my legs around his torso. He flails, jerking his arms up and down to get me off, but my legs haven’t been touched.
He manages to stab me once in the thigh, but I squeeze tighter until he drops the knife. Once he does that, I twist and contort my body in a way that smothers his face until I hear the sounds of his jaw crushing. He stops moving, and I drop him.
Out like a light.
