Diago

I can't seem to write anything good lately....its quite depressing actually. Anyways, this something I wrote up for the heck of it. I may continue I may not. I'm random like that.

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Dante became one with the wall. The shadows hugged his body with all its might, cupping their tiny fingers around his mouth. The rough brick kissed his neck, leaking scarlet from its lips. The bitter air of the alleys seemed to leave his lungs as Dante held his breath. He stood completely erect, waiting. A stream of sweat whispered in his ear as it dripped down his cheek.

Give up, Dante.

The three words ricocheted through his empty mind, banging the walls in sweet temptation. All he had to do was move.

Joshua Russo didn’t have his eyes but he definitely had his ears. He listened to every movement of the night; an automobile speeding down the cobblestone road to crickets rubbing their legs together. He listened to the breathing of Dante.

Dante listened to the small tapping the cane Joshua Russo used to walk the slums of Italy.

The cane stopped for a moment.

“I know you’re out there, believe me,” a weary yet firm voice cried out in the night, “I can’t see you, no. But I know you’re out there, you little rat.”

The cane continued moving but the sounds started to get smaller and smaller. Dante exhaled a long breath, and sighed.

He pried himself off the wall and turned the corner of the alley. His hair, the color of burnt chestnuts, contained specks of dirt from the filthy walls of Baron and the fiery saliva of someone’s spite. His feet were muddy and bruised yet did not make a sound as he walked down the narrow passageway. Dante reached his hand into his tattered coat and pulled out the loaf of bread. It was still warm and the delicious smell filled his nostrils, tempting him to pull off a piece.

He had gotten away once again but who knew if the loaf would be his last object of thievery. The road was lined by little shops and a homeless man sleeping on the sidewalk. Dante turned his head, not ready to come in terms of what would be his fate as well.

Dante continued to walk barefoot up Baron Hill to the Diago residence. A white colored gate stood in front of the driveway with a small rectangular speaker.

“Dante.” Dante said, in a soft voice into the speaker. The gate’s arms unfolded allowing the boy to enter.

Dante cautiously turned the golden knob of house and pushed open the door.

“I’m home, papa.” Dante said, wearily, taking his coat off and hanging it on the coat racket. The house was unusually quiet and light was dim.

“Papa?” Dante said curiously walking down the corridor to the kitchen.

Marcello Diago sat at the kitchen table with his head in his old worn hands, stretching the wrinkles on his forehead. A small moaning could be heard, scraping at Dante’s heart.

“Did you get it?” Marcello said in a monotone voice, slipping his head out of his hand’s grasp to speak.

“I did. I did everything you told me to do.” Dante said, placing one hand on Marcello’s shoulders and one next to the bread he put on the table.

Marcello looked at the bread with suspicion and then at Dante with a drop of regret in his eyes.

“There is blood on your neck.” Marcello said, his voice ranging from suspicion to disgust.

“I told you to stay out of trouble. I told you to get the bread and get the heck out of there.” Marcello bellowed, bringing his fist down on the table. His eyes were red with fatigue but might as well of been anger. The red veins in his neck rose ever so slightly, pumping.

“I’ve given you my home, my food, my trust!” Marcello said, staring into Dante’s soul.

“I’m sorry, papa. I must have scraped myself.” Dante stammered, “I’m sorry. I’m trying my best.”

Marcello surged out of his chair and grabbed Dante’s wrists, slowly cutting off his circulation.

“Trying isn’t hard enough, you little snit.” He slapped Dante across the face and stormed away.