The Russian Roulette [The Mafia Chronicles #2]

Chapter XXIX

There were two boys. 

One with hair the color of hay that reflected the sun rays while the other had hair that was a complete contrast; the dark brown of mud and oak. Both were born in privilege and wealth, simply having the ability to bat an eye and a feast would be served just for them. So much so that they thought themselves to be celestial beings with magic tingling through thier fingertips.

 The blonde boy grew with two siblings and his parents. The picture perfect family, they were. With eyes bright and blue and hair golden and soft, they seemed like they were straight out of a commercial. But that perfection came with a price. 

His mother was nothing short of cruel, her touch seemed to sting him whenever she pressed her hands on him. The vile and cruel words that left her lips were all that he heard as a child. He grew up starved from her touch, wanting to please her so that she may hug him or hold him close. He just wanted to feel her warmth and smell her sweet perfume. 

To her, he was just never enough. She deemed him too weak from the moment he was born. It's not her fault she was given a boy! She wanted a girl who she could dress up in pretty little dresses, not a boy who was weak.

 As the seasons passed, the boy grew up starved from love and attention. His father was busy with work and his mother never had the time for him. He grew up without knowing what it meant to be loved and held with care. He was starved from emotion like a man stranded in a desert crawling on the sand to reach water...but it's simply a mirage. 

However, the stars deemed the mother too cruel to deserve a life like hers, so she lost it. The boy and father were all alone now, without her. People always wondered how his father still loved a woman as cruel as her till his dying breath. 

The answer is that he was exactly like her. He was cruel and heartless and cold.

 Not having anyone to blame for her death as it was a natural one, the father turned the blame on the son, yelling at him about how he made her life so hard by bieng so 'imperfect'. Soon the yelling turned into slaps and kicks. The boy cried at first, but when the slaps got harder and the kicks grew more frequent, her learned to hold the tears in and not utter a single sound. 

He was only six. By the time he was nine, he had more scars caused by his father's switchblade than not. His skin was littered with cigarette burns and healing wounds that never lasted a week before bieng opened again from one reason or another. He stayed quiet. He never yelled unless it got too much; that included his father smashing his bones with a hammer because he had touched his mother's perfume. 

The boy just wanted to smell his mother again, despite only smelling her perfume as she passed by him in the hallway as a child. Even with the repercussions he would get for taking the perfume, he still did. He would spray it in the hallway and stand there simply smelling it like she just passed by. He got six of his bones shattered before the perfume bottle finished. 

One day when he was thirteen, his father brought him down to the basement and handed him the same switchblade he used to hurt him, but this time he asked his own son to hurt a man in a chair. He was pressured to do it but when he did, the praise he received from his father for the first time in his life was worth it. 

So that's how it begun. 

Whatever inhumane thing his father wanted him to do, he would. He never felt guilt because the reward that he received after was worth it. His father treated him like he was someone, like he was worth something. His new favorite thing along with his father's compliments for his cruel actions was his father's switchblade that became his. It never left his side even after his father died and he became a grown man. He used it to hurt others and he could swear he heard his father telling his that he did a good job.