Page 2 of My Sunfall

Her gaze lingers, but she doesn’t push. Instead, she steers the conversation to safer ground, her little boy, a new café that opened near the docks. I nod and smile in all the right places, adding the occasional comment, but my mind drifts.

When I finally stand to leave, she hugs me tightly. “You’re not alone, you know,” she murmurs against my hair.

Tears sting my eyes, but I push them down. “I know,” I whisper.

Outside, the air is cold and damp, and the city feels too big, too loud. I walk to the waiting town car and slide into the back seat. “Let’s go home, Tomaso.”

Our family driver nods and pulls the car away from the curb.

Home…The word feels so wrong on my tongue.

Once the car pulls up in front of the house, I step out and climb the stairs to our front door and unlock it. Then I move inside, feeling like I entered a tomb. I leave my shoes at the door and pad over the marble floor, my quiet footsteps barely disrupting the deafening silence.

Please, don’t let him be here. I lower my head and scurry through the living room, praying that Father is away, or too passed out to notice that I’m back.

But what I see has me stop dead in my tracks. He is lying on the floor by the sofa, and he looks unconscious. “Papà…” I rush over and kneel next to him to check for a pulse, but I don’t need to, he is breathing heavily, occasionally snoring. I look around, weighing if I should get help. But I can’t bring myself to call for Tomaso. Lifelong conditioning has taught me to care more about hearsay and what people might think of our family than to ask for assistance.

Hence, I try to rouse Father, alternating between soft pats on his cheek and increasingly louder pleas. “Father, please wake up. Let me help you onto the sofa.”

After some struggling, he finally opens his eyes, and his unfocused gaze roams the room.

“No, you can’t have her!” He begins to thrash and I back up to avoid getting hit by his flailing hands. “I won’t let you take her away.”

He has been rambling a lot lately, probably missing Mother and cursing whoever he thinks took her from him.

“Father, it’s me. Please wake up.”

His eyes find mine at last and he seems to recognize me.

“Mia figlia…” he rasps in a broken voice and my throat constricts.

“Sí papá, it’s me. Now get up, I’ll help you onto the sofa.”

He takes my arm and leans heavily on me until I hoist him on the couch. Sweat is running down my back once I’m finished, but what breaks me the most is the ashen and clammy skin of his face. He is now breathing heavily and watching me with red eyes. My heart breaks all over again for him. How did my strong, steadfast father become this husk of a man? I get it that Mother passed away—was murdered—more than a year and a half ago, but since then, he has been spiraling, each day getting worse than the last. It wasn’t getting better and I didn’t know how to help him—my attempts to have him see a specialist only made him viciously lash out at me.

I get a glass of water and make him a sandwich in the kitchen and place them on the low table next to the sofa.

“Eat something, Father.” I reach to remove the almost empty whiskey bottle, but his hand darts out and he grabs my wrist. I try to disentangle myself, but his grip becomes painful and I let out a whimper.

“Leave it here.” His voice is cold now, as is his stare when I look into his eyes.

“But…Father, you shouldn’t—”

“I can do what I damn want in my own house,” he thunders and I flinch, knowing what is coming.

Shit.

“After all, this is all because of you and your bitch of a mother. Now leave me be.”

He brutally shoves me away and I stagger backward, my thigh hitting painfully into the wooden arm of the armchair.

Just great, another bruise. I wince. At this rate I will need to cover up from head to toe every time I go out. At least it’s winter and I am not expected to wear a swimsuit. Concealing the ever-growing bruises with makeup is getting old.

“Just…rest, Father,” I murmur, and turn to hurry upstairs.

Tears begin to spill over, and I can’t seem to breathe. I sprint the last few steps to my room and slam the door shut. Then I lean on it and collapse to the floor, legs pulled up and head buried in my arms. My chest is constricting and my throat is closing around the air I can’t push through. I can’t breathe—I’m suffocating. I gasp for air.

No, no, no. Not again! Panic claws its way up my throat, and it feels like a vise is slowly crushing my chest until I’m choking. My desperate, helpless sobs for air resound loudly in the room, adding to the overpowering sense of terror dragging me under.