His Amour

Chapter 10

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I stand before the portrait of my father, my head slightly hung. My arms tucked tightly behind me. An anger filled smile illuminating my face, my chuckles of contempt filling in around me. A knife grasped tightly in my dewed hands.

"What kind of father were you?" I shout into the silence. The faint echo of my words consuming my mind. The venom in my words so strong, i feel it softly reverbeating in the air. The cold air biting into my skin, as the open window brings in an unwanted breeze. The vest covering me doing little to prevent the chills forming on my skin. The sound of glass on the tile loud around me as empty alcohol bottles roll around me.

"I hate it! I hate it so damn much! I wake up to this shit. I go to sleep with this shit! When do i ever get a break. Death is so much better then this. You're a lucky bastard, arent you? For you to be wherever the hell you are, not giving a damn about what goes on in the Mafia life. You must be lucky!" I yell, bringing an alcohol bottle to my lips.

I stare the potrait, inclining my head up. I stare at the man that was known as my father once. That dies a thousand deaths in my souless dreams. That haunts my every awakening. I picture his death so many damn times. So many times that its no longer every once in a while its an every night routine. Theres no way to get it out of my mind.

He was a good father, at times. Other than the fact that he let a nine year old little bitch kill him. Kill him right on spot. At least thats what i had been told. I remember that day almost like it was yesterday and almost like i had witnessed it myself.

I remember Elizabeth coming into my room and waking me up. Her mascara ruining her gorgeous features. Her eyes usally bright no longer holding the life that i had been so used to. She sobbed that night holding me to her breast. My fathers name hanging on her lips, a mere whisper to the outside world. But, to me? Thats when i began to hate my father.

I hated him because he made me cry like a pussy, into my mothers breast. I hated him for sending my mother into a panic attack. And the fact that i was a junior didnt help much either. Everytime she saw me, niagra falls would resonate. Just my luck.

Over the years i had lost my humanity. No longer caring what others felt, saw, heard. I didnt care. I dont care. I dont care what happens to everyone else. This is my world and it revolves around me. Around me got dammit. Arnaud Agustin.

I bring the alcohol bottle to my lips, letting the burning sensation take over my mind and throat. My senses clouded. Not thinking i throw the bottle across the room, the glass shattering immediatley.

"How could you?!" I roar, sinking to my knees.

I crane my neck as heavy air racks my body. Slow skips coming between my breaths, making me press a palm to my chest. The alcohol, along with my food from dinner, spilling from my mouth. My chest hunched over my thighs as i dont make a move to rush to the toilet.

Wet clumps of throw up cascading down my chin, falling in a heap from my mouth to the ground. Wet sounds echoing loudly in the ground. This continues until throw up no longer comes from my mouth and until i begin to drive heave. A headache crashing around throgh my brain, my chest hurting.

I fall back, angling away from the piles of throw up, and slowly clothes my eyes. The smell of throw up burning my nostrils. That doesnt stop me though, I grab the alcohol and down the rest. Coughing when it gets stopped in my thoat. My head corresponding with the beats of my cough.

The poignant scene continues, until i fall unconscious. My fathers words invading my mind and his death rushing through my dreams. On replay. Death scene after death scene. My mothers cries and screams loud around me as my own mind had made up how the death of my father had been. His red blood staining the cold steal of the Frenches room.