Family Blood Runs Deep

I can hear him coming. His footsteps are echoing through the wooden hallway, the creaking wood slicing through the silence. I press my note book against my chest and remain still. I can hear him breathing, or is it my breathing?
The smell of old shoes is filtered out by fear, the smell of my own fear. I close my eyes and listen. I can hear him dragging the kitchen knife against the painted walls, a trail of scarlet blood following the deadly sickle. I can hear my brother’s laugh, and my mother’s desperate shouts.
Then there is silence…
The toothpaste commercial from the TV in the living room is the only thing that can be heard.
I press the note book harder against my chest, my heart beat seemed loud, thumps that echoed in the cupboard that I hid in.
Then there is silence.
“Anthony!” he yells. I couldn’t answer.
I dare not.
There is silence…
He is here…

The hills of Italy are vast and beautiful, and at a time, if you look, you can see the gentle sun caress its bountiful curves.
It is the heart of Italy where its beauty begins to disintegrate. A remote village, Saroncasa, which lies in the very heart of Italy. Where the buildings are caked with grime and pride of this village lies within the family ties that bind and run deep through Saroncasa’s very soil.
It is here that the Montafatio blood runs, my blood. The Montafatio’s existence was only to show those of Saroncasa their greatness, and if there be any fool to disagree; their blood shall be shed on the streets of Saroncasa the next morning.

I am a young boy of 10, till this day I still remain ignorant of the clear happenings of my household. It is strange though, very strange.

I watch as I sit at the dinning room table. Mamma has spent her usual night in the dungeon of her kitchen and has prepared the dishes only an Italian soul would die for. The dishes are laid out on the maroon crocheted table and The Montafatio family take their seats.

My Papi sits at the head of the table, his hands set on the table, fingers laced into one another. My Papi is a “business man” as he calls it. A man that would wear nothing less than his jet black suit, with his crisp white shirt and black tie. My Papi was a dangerous man, although you would not say, judging from his well groomed face and overly expensive suits, but those who weren’t fooled by the money were able to see into his eyes, the Montafatio eyes
My brother, Ando, sits on Papi’s right. He too was the pinnacle of violence, my Papi’s carbon copy. Ando was a strong man, dangerous. He never said much, but when he spoke, his words would travel to the ends of Saroncasa. My brother had a distinct habit of smoking. He would light his paper sticks almost anywhere, most of the time the smoke being a French Hedge cigarette.
Papi was primping Ando to take over the family business, for Ando too had those Montafatio eyes

My mamma sat on the left of Papi. She was a quiet woman, a sweet soul, that many had said did not belong to the Montafatio Family. Her soul had become stained with the blood of others. She stood as a beautiful woman, suited for a man as elegant as Mr. Montafatio. However, her once pure soul had been diminished to nothing as she too had the Montafatio eyes.

I sit at the end of the table, my place. I dare not look up at my father; his piercing glance would surely incinerate my skin.
I did not have the Montafatio eyes, my Papi had said it was because I was still young, but I feel it is rather because I do not possess the spirit they do.
The Montafatio eyes are the eyes of the dead. Jade green, it was the window to the torn soul that hid beneath the cold exterior.

I remember those nights. It would be just after dinner. I would make my way to my room, my note book in hand. My brother would be in the other room watching a mindless program and my Papi would be downing another whiskey and water in the solitude of his study
The house, for once, seemed normal.

The high pitched ring of the door bell would then echo through the house.
How I dreaded that door bell.
My Papi would ascend from his chambers and answer the door, that innocent smile plastered across his face.
The first time it was Professor Rossario. He worked at the university and had an intellectual dispute with my father.
My Papi would welcome him in and they would both walk into my Papi’s den followed by Ando. Papi would then close the door with such discrepancy.
“Come into my lair” said the spider to the fly.

There was a yell, a painful yell, a yell that would still replay itself in the depths of my mind. My father would laugh, Ando would too.
Then there was silence.
The two dragons would open the gates and descend to the basement, Professor Rossario’s lifeless body dragging behind them, a trail of blood would follow, that mamma would soon clean up.



It was a Friday, I remember because The Adams Family was on. I sat in the lounge watching Uncle Fester when I heard the door bell. I held back the biting fear inside my body and looked to the door. Papi smiled and opened it, there in the door way stood Mr. Crontario, a well respected teacher and the only man to live after entering the Montafatio house.
I remember seeing my father lead Mr. Crontario into the den. I watched, helplessly, as Mr. Crontario followed. I knew exactly what was to happen next. Could I let it happen? If I did, my eyes would become as dark as those of my blood.

I am not sure what had possessed me, but at that moment my mind had become a slave to an innocent boy’s conscience.
“Don’t go in there” I yelled. My voice echoed through the halls. Papi, Ando and Mr. Crontario turned and faced me. Mr. Crontario searched my face for a reason, but all he could see was fear and the timely end of others that had passed through that door. Mr. Crontario pushed my father aside and knocked Ando off his feet, he then dashed to the door and down the street.
I looked at my father as stood up.
He was angry.
The Adams Family had just ended and I could hear the start of that stupid toothpaste commercial. I lifted my notebook from the table and ran.
“Anthony, you have turned against your blood” yelled my father. He staggered into the kitchen and lifted the chicken blood stained knife from the counter.
I couldn’t breathe; I ran into my bedroom and turned off the light. I felt my way to the corner cupboard and hid there.
Waiting….
What had I done?

I remain still, I pray, pray to whoever will hear me. My tongue is dry and I can taste blood in my mouth.
The Montafatio House would see a death today. Would it be mine?
I begin to cry, the hot tears running down my bear cheeks.
“Anthony!” my Papi calls again.
Would he really hurt me?
Would I be the next addition to the basement?
I am a Montafatio; I am the blood of this house;
Would he hurt me?
There is silence….
He is here…


END
S. Govender