When was the last time you marched into the unknown with only the soft glow of a motive you strongly believed in?
Anna was 7-years-old when her father, John Blackwood, was suspected to have been murdered, but right before she turns 18 she receives a...
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WARNING: This chapter contains child violence and domestic violence. I will make one more warning in the part that goes into the explicit detail in case you decide to skip.
The streets of Rome were vibrant with crowds of tourists roaming freely around the city. They swarm around the corners of the ancient streets filled with history, that now is narrated by a man holding an umbrella, speaking into a small microphone so that a group of Asian tourists can hear the story about Michelangelo and his ties to the Medici family. Despite the cold January weather, the city was warm with life and the bustling sound of laughter and chatter echoing through the narrow cobblestone paths as more people flooded the streets, each with a different purpose— some pausing to take pictures of the architecture and shops, others would stop to read the daily menu and enter the restaurants, and groups of young Italian teens laughing and teasing each other about their latest crush. As I walk along these roads of Piazza dei Crociferi, a smile would surges into my lips as I recall my last walk here. I once roamed these streets freely, without a worry, like these tourists.
This city, with its vibrant life, used to be my home. Now, the feeling of life felt distant to me, like a lost memory slipping out of reach. The faintest recollections of the time it felt like life flickered in my mind, they were moments spent with my family here—fragments of a past I had nearly forgotten, and yet clung to, as the only source of happiness in a life turned cold. I remember the boy who once ran through these streets, carefree, with toy in his hand and parent trailing behind, never thinking he would stray too far. After all, he loved them, there was nothing that could make him want to leave them. But he had to.
That boy was me. And I had to leave them behind along with the boy I once was.
This was the first time I had returned since that night. A tightness gripped my chest, suffocating as the memory resurfaced, uninvited, to the forefront of my mind. This was why I had never come back to Rome. I did not want to be reminded of their deaths, how I did nothing but hide under my bed, too afraid to act. My older self would have done anything in his power to save them, now that I am more brave and stronger.
That night, my parents were returning from the opera. I was waiting for them eagerly from my bedroom, hoping to run and embrace them, to bury my nose in my mother's hair as she would hug me whenever she would come home, breathing in her sweet vanilla scent. I wanted to ask my father to put me to bed, even though my nanny had already done that, but I had pretended to be asleep. I had been too excited for them to come home.
The nanny left as soon as they arrived, explaining to my parents what we had done that evening. Once I heard the door close, I suspected she had left my parents alone at last. Before I could make my way downstairs, I heard a loud crash, the sound of someone slamming into the floor. Then my mother's scream split the night. A men's voice broke through her terror, telling her to shut up. Another man barked orders, demanding that my father be tied up, then my mother. Fear flooded me as I ran back to my room and hid under the bed. I was so afraid I tapped my ear shut to block hear screams. I could faintly hear their words: "we don't have it...please take it and leave it...Don't hurt her..." Then a gunshot shattered the air, followed by another. Soon after, running footsteps and the approaching wail of sirens were more evident.
