That Summer in Italy

"Looks like you're going to stay here for a while."

His words still rang in my ear like the strong essence of dull bleach that stung my nostrils. Ah, the scent of a new home. A new rendition of what I called it as Satan's abode. Prison.

The metal bars scoffing at me like as if I was a circus lunatic, making questionable moves like a monkey on cocaine. "You'll never make it out of here!" They howled, making wolf whistles at me, giving rise to the fire that had already died a few hours ago.

"One. Two. Three." I repeated, as a mechanism to extinguish the hot ball of doom slowly growing in my gut, like the stinky and clayey molds tucked in the corners of this metal match-box I was residing in. The rather metallic thunder that was made when the man in blue struck his bat against my only window to the dark and greasy hallway, was like Hercules on a Cool Aid induced sugar rush.

"One. Two. Three." I counted once again, this time shutting my eyes with a sigh.

Now, I was no longer trapped in the clutches of my sewer-like confinement.

I could see Italy. My heart skipped a beat as I imagined the sun kissed place. My home. The sunshine grinning down on me as I rode my pristine white bicycle through the narrow flower laden streets. The hot summer breeze as pleasant as that of a sauna hitting my face as I chased the road that led me to him.

Roger. Just spelling his name even with my rather fancy Italian tongue, set off a spark within me.

"Roger." I said out loud, ignoring the barbaric yells and hisses of the clueless guard. I was too consumed by the spell of Roger, like I was with just a bite of a perfectly homemade cheese to notice the croaking crow right outside my door.

Now all I could remember was a whiff of his white and blue stripped polo shirt tucked deep inside his brown khaki shorts. Almost everyone who passed by him raised eyebrows at how high they were for him. But I never could complain as it instead dragged me closer and closer to him as if he were a magnet. Preferably a horse shoe one, I concluded based off of his long horse like face and his wavy blonde hair.

His eyes reminded me of the clear blue lake moving underneath the lonely bridge where I used to meet him. We used to share just a cigarette and blow the toasty smoke of death right into each other's mouths. It felt like how grapes and cheese would've tasted. Weirdly good.

What had first started out to be an accident went on to be a kind of a tradition. Before we knew it, one thing led to another. And even as I was surrounded by metal and complete darkness all around, I still pondered over the thought of how just a pasta recipe managed to draw his plump yet crusty lips onto mine.

It was the first time I had really gotten a taste of Roger. And it turned out that I was wrong about a lot of things. His masculinity derived from the deep layers of his signature cologne and his built arms was just a perfect illusion to drive people away from him. It was nothing more than a cheap trick. Just like he later turned out to be.

As I felt his warm tongue on mine, my eyes widened as I saw he didn't fight to take control over the pace we were heading in. In fact, he graciously handed me the reigns to himself; entrusting his soul to me.

I thought I had finally won. I really did. I felt victory rush through my veins, like I felt after a cup of Chardonnay and a plate of the pinkest peach. I felt like a man, only for it to be taken away in a matter of just twenty- four hours.

"It's time for your hearing, you piece of shit! Get out now!" The guard snapped, pulling me away from the Roger of my fantasy.

I could now smell fire and gun powder as I felt my hands clench into fists and my heart pick pace with the sharpest words he threw at me. The words pricked even worse than needles and made my heart bleed with despair. I could feel the huge ball of fire make my body so warm that even counting from one to three couldn't make it go away.