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il scappare
I've heard it called, "the escape," and I say heard because its not something you talk about; even mentioning that you might leave the family could be enough to get a bullet lodged in your brain.
It's desolately cold in scandanavia, and I can't remember why I chose to come here in the first place. When I left Napoli that night I thought of neutral territory, and somewhere unconnected. I took a flight to the first place that came to mind, under assumed everything. I've been having nightmares ever since, there is one I always remember when I wake.
<font color="#660000 " size="1">[ June 27, 2007 04:57 PM: Message edited by: Disguised Motives ]</font>
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He walked down the cobblestone road from the cafe, and you could hear the hard soles of his shoes echoing a grim hymn to anyone who wished to hear. The toxic beat met the ears of spring, short and quick on his feet as he rounded the corner to bump into the dark figure. The boy fell to his back and offered wide eyes to the culprit and his wraith accomplices, guilt and misery; one would follow him and the other, his work. The pistol, still loose in his hand, fell against the boy and landed on the ground beside him. A wisp of smoke ebbed from the barrel. The dark figure seemed suprised and aghast all at once. He didn't hear the puff of a round, swore he didn't pull the trigger, but there the boy was, bleeding out. He could only think to run, but every step returned him to that corner, to the small outstretched hands that begged for deliverance by his would-be Gabriel. The broken body stained in crimson heat, he finally stopped running. The quiet voice whispered to him, "esso firirsi." The man replied, "io non potere." "per favore," the boy said with his hand cluthing his chest. The request raised his hand and another round sang with a flash of light, shutting out the child's. I could see his eyes as he turned away, grave; and a body mired with his accomplices dark work. I could see my face, like refractions in a broken mirror.
<font color="#660000 " size="1">[ June 27, 2007 05:35 PM: Message edited by: Disguised Motives ]</font>
<font color="#660000 " size="1">[ June 27, 2007 05:38 PM: Message edited by: Disguised Motives ]</font>
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She danced with a dark halo and sheathed herself in a damned scabbard, slow to come free but quick to temper. There was an exchange of saving grace the first time we met and we were both swapping weaknesses; you show me yours and I'll show you mine. I barely got her name before I was saving her ass but then again, the odds were more her favor than they were for me. Her tongue was quicker than her feet and fists but I didn't expect much in that area and was suprised to find a bit more. I saw the darkness that ebbed from her in tight waves, licking at the air around it. It was a split second before she was gone and I was wondering if she always wore that shade of black.
