Mischief Managed

24: Magic Dies

I'd be lying if I said it didn't hurt. All my memories of that day come in flashes, moments of images and snippets of noise, that together paint a picture that stole a part of my soul.

Some part of me that used to be there before is gone . It's with you. Forever.

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His arms hung limply off the edge, and there were cuts, awful cuts, across his face and every bit of skin that wasn't covered by the hospital gown.

The hate was carved in rose-pink trenches over his cheeks over his hidden dimples, the kisses, the smiles. Beneath the layer of pink, his facial muscles were relaxed. As if he were sleeping. Resting.

His eyes were closed, and even his eyelids were cut with tiny, cruel slices. I fought the urge to vomit.

The man in front of me was so deathly white he could have been carved from marble.

That's your dad. Your dad.

Beneath it all, beneath the paleness, beneath the cuts, the silence, he was still there, wasn't he?

My legs collapsed, and I fell to my knees.

Shaking, I wrapped my fingers around his stone-like hand. His fingertips were scorched with shriveled, sunken holes as if someone had burnt them as he played atop the strings of his cello.

I rubbed my thumb against his palm, trying to summon strength as I saw him, years ago.

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The sun's grip was slipping. The reds were beginning to squash the oranges, which were sandwiched by the yellows, who were being pressed onto the most vivid color, a vibrant mix of the three crowded paints above it.

A blonde woman hummed to herself as she drained thin spaghetti noodles. She nodded her head to a silent beat as she stirred a pot full of sauce. The sauce's color was not quite right despite the fact that the chef had an open, family-worn cook book that lay open to a sauce recipe. Though the steps were written in Italian, a translation was written about in tiny, neat, masculine letters.

The woman ran a hand through her knotted hair and squinted at the minuscule print.

"Niccolo, darling, the sauce isn't right! I swear to Merlin I added the right amount of garlic, but the color-"

A loud, unsurprised laugh, sounded from the living room.

"Amelia, I warned you that recipe is difficult. You were the one who insisted on choosing it anyway."

Amelia crossed her arms and huffed loudly. "Well, you know what, if a woman in Italy can make this ridiculous sauce, then so can I," she paused and sniffed. "And I will. It will be ready any minute now. Mark my words, Niccolo."

The man's lips were still upturned and his cheeks were still dimpled when he finished calling to his wife, and his coffee eyes lost focus for a moment as he was momentarily lost in his happiness.

"Daddy," a little girl whined. "Hurry, play something else before Mommy finishes dinner."

Niccolo smiled at his daughter, his eyes filling once again with love.

He lifted his cello from the tattered ebony rug and rested the body of the instrument against his chest. "Anything for you, sweetheart." He slipped his fingers around the bow. "Any requests, my lady?"

The girl grinned, her eyes sparking with mischief. "Play...the hardest song you know."

Her father made a frown then laughed as he said, "It would be a pleasure."