Read Online They Never Die Quietly (2010) by D M Annechino - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: D M Annechino
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deed against the helpless child.
"Please don't hurt me," she had mumbled
"It's your mother's fault," he had whispered in her ear. "Blame her, not me."
Now, several hours later, lying in bed, thoughts of what he had done weighed heavy on his conscience.
"Can you hear me, Mother?"
I'm with you, Simon. Always watching over you .
"How shall I atone for my sin?"
A dark closet will not absolve this sin .
"What is God's word?"
An eye for an eye .
Simon rolled off the bed and stood tall. As if drawn by a powerful magnet, he marched toward the kitchen. His face felt as cold as stone. The razor, still bloody, lay on the counter. He snatched it without a second thought and headed for the bathroom. His first inclination was to amputate his own ear. After all, he did wish to fulfill the eye-for-an-eye scripture. But by doing so he feared that it might interfere with his "work." Studying his hand, he considered a finger, perhaps just the last joint of his pinky, but to do so would hinder his dexterity and potentially impair his ability to perform physical therapy.
"Help me mother. I don't know what to do."
Perhaps you should consider something less obvious, son .
He went into the kitchen and spotted the rectangular wooden block, knife handles sticking out. He grabbed the poultry shears, an absorbent dishcloth, and walked toward the table. He lifted his right leg and rested the heel of his foot on the chair. Then he bent over as if he were going to trim his toenails. Gripping his first four toes, he curled them under, out of the way. The baby toe stood alone, pink and slightly crooked. He opened the shears and firmly pressed the sharp V against the base of his toe.
"Is this what you want, Mother?"
It is not my will, dear boy. It is God's.
"Will he be pleased with my penance?"
His grace will fill your heart .
Simon tightened his grip on the shears. He placed the dishcloth under his foot, prepared for the gush of blood. Then he closed his eyes and squeezed the shears with all his might.
On Saturday morning, the November sun rose over the eastern mountains and the crisp evening air quickly surrendered to the warmth of the solar awakening. Sami had just returned from a painful walk around Balboa Park. Her back would not have survived a jog. Angelina, still sleepy, hair tangled and unruly, thumb planted securely in her mouth, was sitting on her grandmother's lap when Sami walked in the front door. Usually Angelina charged toward her mother like a twenty-five-pound linebacker. Today she seemed content cuddling with Grandma. Sami stood for a moment and snapped a mental picture of her daughter snuggled against Grandma's warm bosom. As a child, Sami could never remember sitting on her mother's lap.
Carefully, Sami did a few side bends, then slowly tried to touch her toes. She winced from the pain.
"Did you call Doctor Alvarez?" Josephine Rizzo asked.
Sami sat on the sofa and unlaced her Nikes. "Not yet, Ma."
"You'll be flat on your back if you wait."
She'd not yet decided whether she had enough nerve to call Simon. "I'll call the doctor Monday morning." On one hand, having her mother live close enough to enlist her services on a moment's notice served Sami well. On the other hand, it provided an ideal opportunity for her mother to nag.
Josephine huffed. "Got your father's head. Just like a rock."
How many times had Sami heard that cliche? In no mood to duel with her mother, Sami conceded. "Maybe I'll try to reach the doctor today." Oh, how she hated to give in!
Until her father died--almost eight years ago--Sami hadn't fully understood his vital role as peacekeeper and commander in chief of the household. Everything centered on him, and she adored her dad. He provided love, understanding, and a consoling shoulder whenever Sami needed support. This did not suggest that Sami escaped harsh discipline or punishment when she violated her father's strict commandments. After all, Angelo Rizzo, born in Palermo, Sicily, ruled his
"Please don't hurt me," she had mumbled
"It's your mother's fault," he had whispered in her ear. "Blame her, not me."
Now, several hours later, lying in bed, thoughts of what he had done weighed heavy on his conscience.
"Can you hear me, Mother?"
I'm with you, Simon. Always watching over you .
"How shall I atone for my sin?"
A dark closet will not absolve this sin .
"What is God's word?"
An eye for an eye .
Simon rolled off the bed and stood tall. As if drawn by a powerful magnet, he marched toward the kitchen. His face felt as cold as stone. The razor, still bloody, lay on the counter. He snatched it without a second thought and headed for the bathroom. His first inclination was to amputate his own ear. After all, he did wish to fulfill the eye-for-an-eye scripture. But by doing so he feared that it might interfere with his "work." Studying his hand, he considered a finger, perhaps just the last joint of his pinky, but to do so would hinder his dexterity and potentially impair his ability to perform physical therapy.
"Help me mother. I don't know what to do."
Perhaps you should consider something less obvious, son .
He went into the kitchen and spotted the rectangular wooden block, knife handles sticking out. He grabbed the poultry shears, an absorbent dishcloth, and walked toward the table. He lifted his right leg and rested the heel of his foot on the chair. Then he bent over as if he were going to trim his toenails. Gripping his first four toes, he curled them under, out of the way. The baby toe stood alone, pink and slightly crooked. He opened the shears and firmly pressed the sharp V against the base of his toe.
"Is this what you want, Mother?"
It is not my will, dear boy. It is God's.
"Will he be pleased with my penance?"
His grace will fill your heart .
Simon tightened his grip on the shears. He placed the dishcloth under his foot, prepared for the gush of blood. Then he closed his eyes and squeezed the shears with all his might.
On Saturday morning, the November sun rose over the eastern mountains and the crisp evening air quickly surrendered to the warmth of the solar awakening. Sami had just returned from a painful walk around Balboa Park. Her back would not have survived a jog. Angelina, still sleepy, hair tangled and unruly, thumb planted securely in her mouth, was sitting on her grandmother's lap when Sami walked in the front door. Usually Angelina charged toward her mother like a twenty-five-pound linebacker. Today she seemed content cuddling with Grandma. Sami stood for a moment and snapped a mental picture of her daughter snuggled against Grandma's warm bosom. As a child, Sami could never remember sitting on her mother's lap.
Carefully, Sami did a few side bends, then slowly tried to touch her toes. She winced from the pain.
"Did you call Doctor Alvarez?" Josephine Rizzo asked.
Sami sat on the sofa and unlaced her Nikes. "Not yet, Ma."
"You'll be flat on your back if you wait."
She'd not yet decided whether she had enough nerve to call Simon. "I'll call the doctor Monday morning." On one hand, having her mother live close enough to enlist her services on a moment's notice served Sami well. On the other hand, it provided an ideal opportunity for her mother to nag.
Josephine huffed. "Got your father's head. Just like a rock."
How many times had Sami heard that cliche? In no mood to duel with her mother, Sami conceded. "Maybe I'll try to reach the doctor today." Oh, how she hated to give in!
Until her father died--almost eight years ago--Sami hadn't fully understood his vital role as peacekeeper and commander in chief of the household. Everything centered on him, and she adored her dad. He provided love, understanding, and a consoling shoulder whenever Sami needed support. This did not suggest that Sami escaped harsh discipline or punishment when she violated her father's strict commandments. After all, Angelo Rizzo, born in Palermo, Sicily, ruled his
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