#luca massimo

Ch 38, Adrian quote:  “When my mom came back - I was in my room with bruises.. Too many to excuse as a kid being a kid, like he had up until then. When he acted that way, she was my shield, but that weekend…” Adrian shakes his head. “He let me have it. But not just his fists. He locked me in my room to shut me up, all weekend. I screamed. Pissed in a corner. Waited, thirsty as hell - all I actually remember about it now is waiting behind a closed door, since I was five.” Dourly, he adds, “It’s my first memory.” 

How Luca Remembers It:

Someone especially short is moving down a dimly lit hallway and the dreamers’ viewpoint is from their low vantage point. Their little narrator sneaks around a corner, where a chair is facing a television that shows horses flying like wind across a track. Based on the head poking out of it and the short hairstyle, it is a grown man. “Back to your room!” The response is immediate, flat and given without the adult turning around, like this has happened enough to be automatic.

“Uh - uh, Dad?”

“Hey!” Instead of simply sounding short, now the impatience has rocketed up sharply. “I got money on this - shut up, Kid! Get back in your room!”

“But I -” The voice shifts as the speaker moves side to side on nervous feet. In the dream, the ache in his belly stings. “- I’m - I’m hung’y, p’ease.” He says it soft and low, like the boy is in a library and is afraid of being too loud. I didn’t eated all day, please? Pretty p’ease?

“I said I’m watchin’ this!”

An amber, thin necked beer bottle flies through the air and shatters on the wall behind the child. He stumbles backwards and starts to run down the hall, pausing at the sight of a bloody hand. Some of the glass must have hit him and his eyes cloud with tears.

“What is so hard to understand?” The man finally rises from his chair and begins to lumber down the hall. “How many times to I gotta say shut up, to shut you up?”

I listened! I axed nice! Fear spikes in the child, who tries to flee only to trip over his own feet.

The next thing their narrator knows, he is being hauled by much stronger arms down the hall and shoved into his little bedroom with matchbox cars and dinosaur figures on the floor. He is half thrown into the room and left on the floor. When the child leaps up and runs for the door, the knob will not turn. “I locked it, you little shit! You stay in there until your bitch mother gets back!”

—------

It is dark out.

The light is dim in the room, illuminated from a racecar nightlight. Hours must have passed since it had been daytime before. Now though, the child throws himself at the door.

I’m s’pposed t’ be quiet! But I- I- His stomach violently grumbles. It has been over a day since he has anything at all since his father’s chair is too near the kitchen door.

“P’ease!” He suddenly calls out desperately, voice trembling on the verge of tears. Little hands slam the door. “I’m hung’y!” There is a sudden thundering of feet down the hall and his fear rockets.

Suddenly hunger seems like a manageable task as he dives under his bed. From the other side of the door a voice roars, “Shut up!”

The feet stop stomping towards him and the close by sound of shattering frightens the child. Then silence takes over save for the ticking of an analogue clock in the room.

Don’t hit me. Don’t hit me again. Mama woulda saved me.

She can’t save me.

Not superheroes flying in.

Nobody.

It just means superheroes aren’t real, ‘less… I’m not good ‘nuff to save?

Minutes pass before he crawls out, vision swimming in tears. He walks over and tugs, but the door is still locked or budged from the other side. He sniffles, only to notice wet toes.

The boy steps back, spotting some of whatever was in the broken bottle. It had leaked through the bottom of the door.

I’m thirsty. So.. so thirsty… Mama when you comin’ back?

He kneels down and the dreamer can see a hesitant tongue leaving his mouth before lapping at the puddle. It is acrid and harsh. Although he winces, he keeps lapping at it.

It makes him feel funny, stretching out on his back and staring at the ceiling. Hunger pangs still rock his belly, which feels like it has gone dizzy. His whole self feels strange and staying stretched on the floor is the smart move, he is sure of it.

This is betterer.

—-----

It is light out again and the child is back at the door like a dog begging to go out. The dreamer can feel the intense agony in his belly that a couple of days of hunger will cause a little body. The room has a disgusting whiff to it since he has had to go to the bathroom in the corner.

The door is still locked as a tiny hand tugs it weakly, surely knowing it is still locked but the desperation is coming off him in waves, much like his aching thoughts.

I’m hung’y.. I’m thirsty… I’m cold… where’s Mama? Where’s Mama? She knows I listen. I’m a good boy! Lemme out! He slams his tiny hands against the door, wood grain under his nails from scratching that he starts up again.

Quiet! I can’t yell for Mama!

The tiny hands rake down against the door before coming to rest pitifully. I’ll be good just - p’ease! I’ll be quiet an’ good!

His tiny chest heaves with emotion and an intense loneliness hits like a gust of wind. Mama… come back. Nobody else likes me.

His fingers press into the door, glancing over at a mirror where a bruised and battled five year old with a bloody cheek stares back at himself with dark eyes glistening from lonely tears as it finally hits him. A teeny, tiny brown haired, muscle-less Luca (Adrian).