You Can't Hurt Me

Antonio?

When Antonio was four, his mother was hit by a bus. She really shouldn't have been walking there, but he cocky carefree attitude led her to step on the road without looking both ways.

Antonio with his grubby little hand grabbing his dads shirt, watched her body splay the ground, blood dragging away from her soft black locks of hair. He could remember his dads scream and the run he took to caress her body, he could remember the dark pools of blood staining the grass and concrete, he could remember the blood splatter across his face, yet he couldn't remember the smile she made before she took her fatal step forward. Truth be told, the only thing Antonio could really remember about his mother was her distinct lavender smell. He believed the image of her spine sticking out of her body, a red dress which once was white that haunted his nightmares didn't count as a memory, more of a curse.

His life seemed to run on triple speed, moving, coursing along. Truthfully he had little to no account of the events, he assumed lots of technical stuff was going on. But if you had asked him, the day had collapsed on itself and reopened a few weeks later at her funeral.

The funeral was small, most of their family had died in Italy after getting involved with the wrong Mafia. A few coworkers came as a curtesy. They had decided to burn her, and spread her ashes along her favorite tree in their favorite park. Still Antonio had a small bright red necklace with a bit of her ashes he always hung over his window, in the sun where she belonged. Shielded away from the trash and dirt clouding his room.

Life seemed to move fast but tedious when someone you loved died. Birthdays stopped mattering and Christmas was a reminder of the life he lost. So he and his dad slowly stopped celebrating.

After a year, life almost fell into normal, he wasn't entered into school, instead opting to stay home and help with his fathers real-estate job. Antonio was good at going into random peoples homes and finding out the lies they told him. Often a simple "can I use the bathroom?" Would work, he could easily inspect while his dad chatted. It was a fine way of living.

As he stayed home, came up the rule list. It was a chalk board hung on the wall, Antonio's Rules, he called them. They were the bane of Antonio's existence. They clouded his thoughts, and stranded out in the room like a bloody man on the wall. Antonio hated them, he hated them so fricken much he once erased them off the very wall themselves.

That hadn't gone over well.

He then learned to respectfully fear them, they were the inevitable and he was the victim. He could live like that. He did live like that.

On the off time, he would watch the horse races. Study them like a fine art, a fine wine. As a young child he found the mistakes one could make exhilarating, they danced along his pacific eyeballs, with their strong muscles and the smooth click of their hooves. It was classical music to Antonio, and he studied it like a jigsaw puzzle.

He got good at it, could tell you with an eye close and a sparing glance who would win. His dad started bringing him around the horse races and telling him to bet 200 dollars on his horse. It worked charms, often people would replace bets when they saw a barley six year old put their bottom dollar on the one with the shorter legs, but Antonio saw past that. He watched their behavior, their spunk. He started watching them roll in, watching them be brought out. His bets were his canvas. Soon he got the name Racetrack, Race for short.

He loved it. It was more him than his actual name Antonio.

Race put the cigar in his mouth, coughing a bit at the burly taste. "Number 7"

His dad lit the end, smiling proudly, "you sure?"

Race smiled up at him and licked his lips, letting out a short cough. "He's got the best muscles, but more importantly I watched 5 and 9 kick the stalls for 30 minutes before being pulled out here, they're tired. And the food his owner gave him is better, he's an older horse but the raw food will keep him better."

"Atta boy" his father said, ruffling his hair.

Race was now 7, starting online school. It was tough but he stood strong. Started smoking at 6 and while it didn't burn, it still clogged his lungs, made them cloudy almost.

The races started and while the younger horses had the burst, lucky number 7 held strong and pushed through. Winning with seconds to spare, Race held out his hands for the cash he was promised, they all groaned and put it in his hands, he counted through it with a smirk.

"Y'all shouldn't put youse noses in a rose bush if y'all can't smell. Youse just get cut." He giggled, and walked back to his dad.

His dad pocketed the money and rubbed Races head, "youse a lucky charm you hear that?"

"I'm luckiest kid there is out on them fields." Race said just as exited. His fathers pride boosted him up, the sky was reachable and the stars fell down. In the end, he was a winner in his dads eyes. What else could he ask?

"Now go back out there, remembers it's youse first time and youse call the horse 'Cute'"

Race nodded like he was given an important mission, and ran off away from the similar looking man, off into the gambling world.

He passed a man with a pretty golden watch, pulling out 300 bucks he put it on the table and frowned.

"My dads left me cash to gamble sir, but I got no one to gamble with."

"That so?" The greasy man laughed, eyeing the money with a smirk.

"Yeah, I really wanna gamble on pony 4, she's so fluffy and cute!" He babbled. Four was a bold mood, smaller and stouter than the rest, but Race never fought an instinct, his instinct was never wrong.

The man smiled slick, like he had stole lollipops from a baby, or more importantly, money from a child. "How's about I bet you then! 400 dollars and this gold watch, on just that 4 won't win."

Bold. Risky. His dad would say no.

Race liked it.

"Deal!" Race said laughing and turned around.

Fours muscles pulsed, bulging out, but his legs were fast, faster than the rest, his body pulled itself far with quick strong movements and speed across the race. The man had no chance, and Race took get joy in his falling wrinkly face.

Race snatched the money up, "thanks!" And sped off. The man angry got up to chase him, and almost did, until one of his friends arrived, and sat him down.

Race counted the money, smirked, and grabbed his dads hand.

"Just made 400."

His dad smiled proudly, "that's my boy."