The Arthouse

Stefano

"We have to spend the night in the airport?" I ask, flabbergasted. "I don't want to spend another night in this stupid place. Detroit."

"Stefano," my mother places her hands on my shoulders. "I know you're angry, but-"

"Don't talk to me." I brush her arms away. I find a corner of the room by the gate to the flight we should be on and sulk. I just crumple up like a piece of paper in a waste basket. I don't cry, I just brood.

After a bit, I pull out the photo album I brought with me. As I look at all the pictures I took the day before I left, I realize that I have a knack for photography. Don't they have specific museums just for photographs? What about arthouses? Isn't that just a fancy word for museum?

Lost in thought, I didn't notice my mother lay down next to me. She lays on her side, her arm propping up her head. She looks like she just came out of a Renaissance painting.

"I remember when you were younger, back when we still lived in Florence, I took you to one of the art museums there. I don't remember which statue it was exactly, but you pointed to it and asked, 'Why is he not wearing pants, mommy?' I tried my best not to laugh. It was a serious question, after all. I replied, 'Well, sweetie, it's art. And it's hard to sculpt clothes.' Then you asked why you had to wear pants, so I told you that the artists wear pants. You smiled and told me a moments later that you painted on the walls again."

I chuckled, remembering that day in vivid detail. She was wearing a white dress that was covered with cherries paired with a red cardigan. That was always my favorite dress growing up. She doesn't wear it anymore, ever since we moved to Venezia. I didn't notice, though. I was too enamored by the water.

"Well, I remember one time we were at a restaurant and you realized that you had misplaced your sweater. So, we left the restaurant in a hurry to retrace your steps. We stopped by the dentist. No luck. After that, we went to my school and the art museum. Still no luck. Finally, we stopped by a department store you had stopped at that day. You then realized that you were wearing a sweater the whole time. You check the dressing room you were in anyways. You came out, tears streaming down your face because you were laughing so hard. In your hand was your sweater. The sweater you were wearing was one you tried on earlier that day. You told the sales clerk about how you accidentally stole a sweater. She found the story so amusing that she paid for the sweater for you."

My mother giggled throughout the entire story. I smile. It's been a while since I've heard her laugh, a sound like balloons bumping up against a window. That's when I realized something. We've moved before. It's happened before, and now it's happening again. Sure, the setting changes, but we'll never change. My mother and I, we've made it through this before; and though we're worse for wear, we've survived. And we'll survive again. Our circumstances might knock us down, but we're still here.

I mentally roll my eyes. Ugh. I'm turning into a cliché.

After retelling memories for a few hours, my mother finally falls asleep. She looks so peaceful when she's sleeping. I imagine that's how she always looked before my father hurt her. She's so beautiful. Why would anyone ever want to hurt her? I would never hurt her.

Will. I will never hurt her. For as long as I live, I will make sure she never feels pain ever again. I will kill anyone who dares lay a finger on her. I'll design a dagger, a perfect dagger, long and sharp and made of titanium, a perfect dagger for throwing and stabbing. Light enough to throw but strong enough to stab through shoulders. Just enough to shatter the clavicle at least...

I wake up to my mother lightly shaking me.

"Stefano, our flight leaves in five minutes."

The morning light shines through the window, making a halo out of her hair. She looks like an angel. Scratch that, she is an angel.

I will never hurt you, mom.

I promise.