Undaunted Hearts

25: Wounds That Never Healed...

 XXV: Wounds That Never Healed...

Angelo Tallerico

It had been three days since he had come back. I hadn’t seen him since but I knew he was still out there, just waiting to make his move on me. when he did, I was going to be ready for him. He wouldn’t take me unawares again, he would never hurt me or my family.

 

Gisele snuggled closer to me on her bed looking for warmth but I was much too cold to be of much help to her. There was a ringing in my ears and a crick in my neck.

 

“Angelo.”

 

I raised my head to see who had called my name. the voice came from a tiny child in the doorway. Before I could open my mouth to ask who he was and how he had gotten into Gisele’s bedroom, I did a double take. His hair was black, full, glossy and curly, his eyes were golden butterscotch, his mouth worked and two dimples appeared. The tiny child who bore an uncanny resemblance to me stepped forward into the room and I winced at his appearance. His black glossy curls were disheveled and his nose was bleeding, his mouth was cut and his face was streaked with tears and blood. There was a red blue welt on his neck, disturbing evidence of a serious beating.

 

The Angelo child of my dreams stepped forward, looking me in the eye. His mouth worked as though he was going to cry, but he didn’t. There was fear and hurt in his eyes, but also an anger that seemed dangerous.

 

“Do you remember?” he asked me softly. When I didn’t respond he asked me again, “Do you remember? Do you remember how it was?”

 

I remembered. I remembered everything. I remembered every dehumanizing and self- esteem stripping comment he aimed at me and my mother. I remembered each whipping, every slap, every cut and bruise and every welt that marked my skin. I remembered the ones I took whenever I tried to stop him from hitting Mamma; I remembered the beatings I took on Arianna and Giulian’s account. I didn’t regret those, I would have gladly taken a thousand more if it meant that they could escape hi cruelty.

 

“Do you remember?” the Angelo child asked me again. This time, he pulled on the collar of his shirt to expose the welt that marked his shoulder and neck.

 

I touched the spot on my own neck. Mamma had used aloe- vera and shea butter on the injury so that there would be no tell tale bruise that would arouse questions and so the skin would not scar.

 

“Yes, I remember,” I whispered.

 

I went back to the night I had gotten that particular injury.

 

I’d have to have been seven, almost eight.