Ill-Gotten Memories

16. The Fall of 1959

As much as I could try to pretend, it wasn't love at first sight. I knew Barbara in passing long before I fell for her. On most occasions, she was just... there. Like every other girl. I'd see her across the hall or sitting at her desk, sometimes. We were two completely unmatched individuals who shared a couple of the same classes. It wasn't her fault. I was invisible at the time, much like a chameleon blending in to its environment, and I was content to do so.

When I was eighteen, chasing after pretty girls was the last thing on my mind. But that wasn't to say I was oblivious to them. The curiosity was plentiful. I had... desires, and impulses, and urges like any young man at that age. I only lacked the proper mental capacity.

The store my father owned had become the sole responsibility of my mother and I in order to keep a roof over our heads. This, and earning a decent education, were my main priorities.

Cesare offered to help us financially on multiple occasions, but since my father had been brutally murdered in a senseless act of violence, and his case remained unsolved, she declined. She said she didn't want his "blood money" or any part of it. Secretly, I knew she suspected that the family's organization was the cause of his death.

His help would have been a tremendous relief, but some part of me didn't fault her for the way she handled it, even though my understanding of the situation was so limited.

... But then the weeks turned into months. And the months turned into years. And my life never seemed to get any easier. For what seemed like forever, we were on our own, and we were desperate.

The rigid routine of going straight to work after school was grueling. I could hardly sleep at night. My studies were nonexistent. Classes, draining. The pressure of it all was driving me to a point of despair. We'd hardly leave the store before midnight every single day. I was exhausted. I was angry. But the worst part was... I didn't have a dad anymore. And all I could truly remember about him—all I could even think about—was his body on the floor. His blood, everywhere. His face, mutilated. The image was carved into every crevice and corner of my mind.

I was in so much pain, until the day she spoke to me... and I realized I wasn't invisible after all.

***

September, 1959.

Howling beneath my closed hands, an ache in my stomach stirred memories of the last decent meal I enjoyed. Soup and bread. It wasn't much, but it was delicious and filling. I was skin and bones, as they said, so nobody would notice if I didn't eat.

The rest of the room was served buttery corn, spaghetti, and a roll for their lunch... and I didn't have to look at another kid's tray to know what was on it. The smell gave it away.

I was laying face-down on a table in the back of the cafeteria, slumped over to reduce the noisy protest of my mid-section. It helped to bury my head; it cut off the aroma of food.

I couldn't have been more off my guard then at that moment, when the most innocent, unassuming "Hey," tip-toed to my ear. I didn't realize at first she was even talking to me. And maybe I hoped that she wasn't.

"Hey... Johnathan?"

It was her. The pretty girl from History class had approached me, and she knew my name?! I was almost too embarrassed to look up, fearing she would lob an insult or use me as the centerpiece of some humiliating spectacle. Most people at school thought I was weird, and that it was fun being mean to me.

But I was used to it.

From the table, I slowly lifted my head. "This must be a mistake," I thought. The bustle of other kids laughing, and talking, and eating dogpiled on top of me. It was too loud in there and I wanted to run away. To rest.