The Italian Touch

Your Father, Leonardo

Cole Leonardo Marino. Cole was my father's name, you know? When you were born 15 years ago, your mother looked at me and weakly whispered your name. Me and your grandfather were speechless. I'm sorry I had to do this. You were my world. But with my death, comes more responsibility for you, as the man of the house. But they're not what you think. Go into my bedroom. In my sock drawer, there is a single white sock with three red stripes down the front and sides. On the heel, you should feel something stitched into it. Cut it open. There will be a silver ring in there. Take it out and put it on. Let it guide you. Listen to it. Trust it. And tell no one. It's time for you to know. History has its eyes on you. Please don't let the world down. I love you, son. Goodbye. Your father,
Leonardo

I've probably read this note at least 30 times. I found it on my fathers dresser earlier this night. Right next to his corpse laying in his bed. He stabbed himself a few hours ago, while my mother and I were out. When we came back to find him dead, my mother immediately called the police and sent me to my room with the note. What did she want me to do in bed? Sleep? Ha. Like I could. I'm just sitting here, on my bed reading this note over and over and over. There's a knock on the door.
"Come in," I mumble.
The door cracks open.
"Hey, son."
There's an officer at my door.
"I'm not your son."
"Sorry, boy."
"Cole."
He nods and enters my room, pen and notepad in hand.
"Why would I stab my dad?"
The cop looked surprised. "I never said you would."
"You were about to ask. I'm not dumb."
"Look, son-"
"Don't call me that."
The cop came closer to me and leaned down. "Don't get smart with me."
I could smell the alcohol on his breath. Beer, specifically. And the bread crumbs on his mustache.
I would've said sorry, but that'd be lying.
"Now, does your dad drink?"
"No."
"Smoke?"
"No."
"Did he have relations with another woman?"
I sighed. "No." This guys was getting on my last nerve.
"Did he ever hurt your mother?"
"Sir, with all due respect my father was not a bad man, in-fact he was the greatest man I knew."
"Well son, now he's dead so-"
"Officer, please. I believe I told you my name."
"You did, but who says I have to call you by your name, or respect you at all?"
"Who are you?"
"Lieutenant Barry Anderson, Son."
"Call me son one more time!"
I can't stand this guy any more. I get up and brush past him. He lunges to grab my collar as I walk out of my room, but I dodge him just in time. He breaks into a run after me, and I do the same. My house is huge, as my parents work for the government. Clearly this man let himself go since police academy, he probably couldn't keep up with my grandmother, huffing like a slow steam engine. I reach my mother, who's talking to the chief officer. I stand next to him as Officer Anderson slows to a walk, panting.
"Sir, I'm sorry but I believe Officer Anderson has been drinking lately." I interrupt the chief talking to my mother.
"This boy is wild, I have no clue what he's talking about." Anderson places his hand on my shoulder with a strong grip. I'm pretty sure the officer notices because he gives a sort of warning glance to Anderson.
"Barry, come with me."
"Chuck, but the kids just in shock."
"You heard me."
Officer Anderson follows the chief out of the house as my mother turns towards me.
"Beer." I mumble. She nods and pulls me into a tight hug.
"I'm so sorry, Cole. I never saw this coming. Your father was a great man, you know."
"Y-Yeah." I can barely muster that word as I feel tears fall down my face.
"Can I see that note?"
I take out the note and hand it to my mother. I can see her eyes racing, her mind racing.
"no.." she whispers, freezes for a second, and runs off.

I was never much of a note writer, but sometimes spoken words don't reach. I stare at this note I've written, I imagine her finding it on her dresser. I imagine her sitting on her bed, reading it over and over again. I imagine her reading it every day for months, years. I imagine her reading it. I imagine her praying every day that I would come back, just for a minute. I imagine going into that place, never coming out again, as my father's note said at the bottom. "Son, you won't come out until you've completed your mission. It will take years. Hundreds of years. But if you don't, reality as we know it will rip apart, one minute you're there, one minute later, you have never existed you aren't existing and you will never exist." I remember his note word by word, repeat it in my head over and over and re-read my note.

There are moments that the words don't reach. There is suffering to terrible to name. You knock me out, I fall apart. Look at where we are. Look at where we started. I know I never deserved you. Please. That would be enough. If I could spare his life. If I could trade his life for mine, he'd be standing here right now, and you'd smile. That would be enough.