Name: Samuel Abbadelli
Age: 28
Hometown: New York, New York
Divine Parent: Hades
Affiliation: None
Occupation: Bartender
Ability: Umbrakinesis
A unkindness on the inside of his right forearm that extends into the rest of his sleeve which from there creates a tangle of thorns and ivy with small irises, crocuses, and poppies strewn throughout.
A replica of Salvador Dali’s famous rose on his right calf.
trigger warnings: domestic abuse
She had been young and beautiful; dark hair and darker eyes. Slight and petite with a clever twist to her mouth and still, sure hands that bore callouses from years of kneading dough and sewing dresses. Her name was Ariana. She came from the southern tip of Italy to the slums of Hell’s Kitchen at the age of seventeen. She nineteen when she met him; lithe and pale with the eyes the color of a winter storm and Hell in his smile. He had introduced himself as Nicolai, a piano man’s fingers stroking the inside of her wrist. A promise. He had told her in countless whispers; voice turned to praise of how much he loved her, what he would do for her. The sacrifices that would be made. He disappeared after four months by her side, in her bed. With his disappearance came a new life, that grew inside of her until it was too large to hide and her family sent her off to marry a man who would soon run Hell’s Kitchen, whose family descended from Venice and Rome. They called him Benny, King Benny. His son didn’t look like him nor his wife, and maybe that’s what made his refined anger unleash like a storm in their apartment, onto the skin of whom he should be loving and protecting.
Perhaps his fear of the dark came with it the fear of sin, of shame. The drunken yells of his father, the sound of a belt hitting flesh and the quiet sobbing of unintelligible italian carrying through the small apartment. Slurs being hissed at him through a closed door. A fear of the musk of the church where he found both judgement and safety under the heavy gaze of his lord. The solid hand of the Father resting upon his shoulder. Altar robes chaffing his shins. A bride descending down the same aisle a casket had the day prior. His mother’s hand in his as Bellini’s Virgin smiled fondly down at the newborn Christ amidst the green grass and blue skies. Darkness seemed to intermingle permanently with religion, crawl amongst the walls of the Cathedral, swallow him in the chill of his room, lurk above him as his eyes sought guidance from the Bible. It was there, in those holy walls where he found his strength in the dark. Cowered before the cross, a fresh bruise glistening raw and red on his cheek, and the tendrils slithering, moving, casting him in their indescribable warmth that made his skin prickle and his tears dry. The Father’s voice a soothing lull; Genesis, Corinthians, The Fall, washing over him as the shadows brought him refuge and release.
He was eleven when his father was arrested, mixed up with too much cocaine and the mob. Thirteen years in jail. He’d killed a man, and sentenced several others. His mother’s abuse was not included in his indictments.
The Father came to him then. A man of substantial stature, skin the color of the stars, and eyes even brighter. He grinned with reddened lips, something kind and sinister. The calm before the storm. He spoke the scripture to Sam in gentle tones, a lullaby to soothe him through his nightmares. A hand ruffling the hair that had begun to curl around his ears, leading him through the psalms, and helping him repent after confession. He told Sam to call him Nick, short for Nicolai he confessed one evening.
Samuel grew up small and gentle. Soft spoken, hair tucked behind his ears. Shy and constantly hidden behind the pages of comic books and sketch books. Fingers permanently stained black from charcoal. He had friends though, he wasn’t bullied actively or thrown to the side. He was never picked last for sports, he had a strong arm and quick wit that made the other boys laugh. He liked the same cartoons, knew the same jokes, wore the same shoes. They liked his drawings, and the food his ma made. He was never without friends throughout school.
When he came out in high school, that didn’t change. People didn’t seemed surprised; there were some who spit slurs at him between classes and pushed him about, but he was still good at baseball, and top of his class. Samuel smiled easily, laughed loudly, and while his words were few and selective, he was popular. To some extent. It helped that he grew tall and broad in junior year, hair curling about his ears, freckles staining his nose and cheeks light brown. He found himself frequenting parties, yells of ‘scatter’ and broken beer glasses all too familiar by the end of his senior year. He had boyfriends, loved one, hated another. Spent two days crying in his car after one relationship ended. He thought that he could one day fall in love, but he pushed those thoughts aside, filed them away in his brain in a section titled ‘unbelievable and unlikely occurrences’, otherwise known as dreams.
He threw himself into art, into replicating Raphael, Bellini, Michelangelo. He wanted to be the best. A full ride to NYU promised such success. He made the dean’s list. College became a never ending cycle of coffee and art and cigarettes and tests and not quite enough sleep but it will do and who knew the corals at the library made such good nap cubbies.
He was tall, dark, and handsome. Samuel was in love. His life had become a cliche. His mind couldn’t escape from the feel of lips dragging over the back of his neck, a hand down his arm, teeth digging into his hip. The words ‘I love you’ set art into second place, sent academics even further away from his top priorities. He wanted to please, to be good, to be wanted. Gentle caresses soon became possessive, innocent inquiries controlling, and art was lost to him, the dark escaped his reach, school and all its golden promises crumbled and Samuel was falling, unable to get back up, to find control.
He found the church. It had been cold, ice paving the street as cars swerved and honked. New York eerily silent. His knees hit the ground first, hair wet and dripping onto the tiled floor. He was alone. Hail Mary’s starting at a mumble until he was unable to stop, a cut slicing under his eye where his eyebrow pounded with a blossoming bruise. And the Lord’s gaze found, and the darkness swirled and the shadows surged up, up, up, around him, around the crucified Christ, washing out the world, tucking him in safe with his God and the heavy scent of rosemary and sweat.
He didn’t return to his apartment. There was nothing worth returning for.
He finished school, proud receiver of a degree in both fine arts and art history. A starving artist, for he was just a cliche at this point. He got a gallery at one point, until he came back in the morning and it was gone, with his money and all his work. He sought his mother, still small and hearty, and his father a permanent fixture in a torn and faded corduroy recliner, cancer had come in with a vengeance and left a shell of who he had once been.
They helped. He worked two jobs, managing the local fish market during the days, bartending at night. Men came and went, but none as vicious as his first ‘true’ love. His apartment was small, full of plants and paint and vintage movie posters, persian rugs littering the floor.
He had just turned 26 and was desperate in his loneliness. Bitter and endlessly searching for something. That missing piece, lips curling at the sight of happy families and loving couples. Even God could not cure this sin of his, these emotions would not be tamed by the ever present darkness. He lurked the bars with a white knuckled grip and glossed lips, eyes roaming and begging.
He still smiled largely, quick to laugh and joke. But sometimes it didn’t reach the cool grey of his eyes, blue as a winter’s day. And occasionally just as cold. His heart a tight knot he struggle to undo.
His world reshaped itself.
For the Devil had come for him.
The old Father had followed him for what seemed like days, a shadow to his step until at last the conversation occurred. Not unlike those they had shared when Sam frequented the church, had even debated entering the clergy himself. Samuel should have noticed that while his skin wrinkled around his eyes and mouths, evident of his humor and wicked ways, his age seemed nonexistent. Caught somewhere in time. The term Father becoming much more literal in their case. His hands were still as soft as they cupped Samuel’s face; apologizing for not protecting him more. But now he could, he had promised. Samuel asked of his mother, of those long buried commitments this man had once spoken of. Was that shame Sam sought out in his expression? Perhaps a will of his own self conscience, ever faithful to his mother. Samuel knew the city had run dry for him, opportunities constantly slipping past, and he agreed with a shrug, sipping down black coffee in a twenty-four diner as his father, the Father, Hades sat before him. On one condition, his mother be saved, be given the life she deserved. Something comfortable and safe and soft.
Two and a half years in Attica left Sam in almost the same place he had been in New York. Bartending still, at a bar run by the son of Dionysus, and working as a freelance artist for various authors and patrons throughout the country. He was finding peace in his life however, in his small apartment and the pets he had acquired, in his relationships that had begun to develop. Lovers in Attica were hard to come by, and left him with heartache and guilt, shame when he passed them by on the small town streets. It was hard to avoid anyone in Attica. He wondered if he’d ever truly fall in love again, be given the family he had always dreamed of. He still wished.
Samuel Abbadelli has the face claim of Sebastian Stan and is written by Emily.
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