Post by Lorenzo Sabatini on Sept 7, 2018 22:07:46 GMT -5
47 / MALE
FC: HUGH JACKMAN
You don't have many memories of your time in Italy, but that's to be expected; most babies don't remember the places where they're born. Lying on your stomach on your parents' bed, you'd listen to the stories your mother would tell you, about rolling green hills and an ocean that spread out, all the way to the horizon. The little fishing village where your parents lived had been far away from a modern hospital, and the locals relied on certified midwives; the idea intrigued and horrified you.
Though, the latter could be because you really didn't need to know all the gory details, about vaginas and big, fat Sabatini heads and--"oh my God, Mom! Really?"
She'd just laughed, throwing a pair of socks at your head while you tried to hide under the pillows. Your father decided to retreat to the living room, lest his wife start on her 'if you ever get me pregnant again, Vincenzo' rant.
Your family is small and apparently crazy. Good God.
It wasn't until you were a teenager, that you found out why your family had decided to immigrate to America, and later Boston.
You'd grown up knowing of your…less than lawful ancestry; tales of your grandfather who used his sharp wit and mean left hook to keep his small fishing boat as profitable as possible, and an even greater-grandmother who was chased out of Austria for taking over her brother’s business and becoming even more notorious than the men in her family. Your parents weren’t involved, but their brothers and sisters were; it was a dangerous time.
You were fifteen, when you came out and asked 'why are we so damn boring?’ at the dinner table. They'd looked confused, at first, until you'd glared at the casserole you were stabbing your fork into and ground out ”Uncle “Nico said I could go out with him on a job. He said I should, because I don’t want to be ‘weak like my father.’” You weren't crying, not at all; you weren't thinking that you failed your family, somehow, or that you were defective, in some way. Maybe that's why the cousins laughed at you, spurned your friendship; they felt bad for you.
It took you a few minutes to realize that your mother had moved her chair until she was sitting beside you, saying your name over and over until you looked up. Smiling, she cupped your cheek in your palm and kissed your temple.
"Silly boy," She'd said, shaking her head. ”It’s “not weakness to want to live a quiet life, my love.”
Well...that didn't make anything better. She must have noticed your face fall, as she turned to your father.
Vincenzo just sighed and shook his head. He was a man of few words, so with a hand motion that usually meant 'watch me, kid,' and calmly took up his fork. Without taking his eyes off of your face, he flicked his wrist and—your lower jaw hit the table top as you looked beyond your father’s face and saw the dark spot on the wall.
The fork had speared a moth that had fluttered around the room since you’d run inside from the backyard.
And, as if showing off, he did it a few more times to various other fluttery things around the room, until your eyes widened and your jaw dropped for another reason entirely.
”Don’t give him a stroke, Vincenzo,“ Your mother admonished, slinging an arm around your shoulders. ”Weak, “ha! Nico’s just jealous that your father married me and not him. As if I’d have anything to do with that sleaze." The rest of what she said was a flurry of cuss words that made your jaw drop for the second time that night.
Your father just snorted and went back to eating. He’d deal with the holes in the walls later.
You’d dreaded being the new kid in a very American, very Bostonian high school, but you didn’t have to worry too much. Your easy smile and your accent made you the target for half the female population in your little world. You made friends, you settled in and then, you were snared.
Lydia was the prettiest girl in school and she made you as crazy as any lovesick fool. The both of you married early- too early, you'd later find- and you moved to Southie, to be closer to her family in preparation of starting your own. You gave her ten years of your life, of your love and you'd thought it was enough. But when the fighting started and you claimed your desk at work your new favorite guest room...things were starting to go downhill.
Your fellow officers would go back and forth from poking fun and giving you sympathetic looks and you didn't know what was worse. The Sergeant at the time, a man who'd gone through his share of messy divorces, tried to give you as much advice as you could stand, but you were determined to ride it out. Marriage was a sacred bond and you knew that Lydia loved you. She had to. Despite all of that, it really wasn't much of a surprise, when you came home early one night and found her in bed with your next door neighbor.
Honestly, it was a relief. She would have been useless when the world ended; your neighbor could have her.
It's been a very long time since The Fall, and sometimes you forget that it had taken a good amount of time for the world to truly end. You remember seeing the newscasts; the fear in the faces of the soldiers running back and forth across the screen and the trepidation on the announcer's face. Soon enough, it wasn't safe to stay in your little house in Boston anymore. You and dozens of others were relocated and you traded in cold Bostonian winters for the hot sun of the outback. It frustrates you sometimes, that your memories of those first few months, the year even, are fuzzy and confused. You know that you were tasked with helping keep the civilian's safe, putting your police training to the test. It was good at first; not home, but alright.
But fear make for twitchy trigger fingers and it was only a matter of time before someone made a mistake.
Unfortunately, you were the casualty. One twitchy new recruit mistook you for an enemy and it was lights out from there. Only dimly, you remember the outline of a face and a voice barking orders. Hands on your head, your shoulders, someone crying before you're lifted into the air. You were touch and go for such a long time that part of you started to believe that you were dead and waiting for judgement in this limbo.
Then, you woke up. But you really weren't you anymore. Trauma to the brain, the doctors had informed you; 'don't you remember being attacked, Mr. Sabatini?'
You'd just looked at the guy, blinked at him, then the other grizzled, tired looking man at your side and asked as innocently as you could, "Who's Mr. Sabatini?"
Recovery was about as slow as could be expected, given that you'd taken a bullet to the brain. Your memories came back eventually, once the swelling went down, but you could never really remember things the same. Time is a stretch of cracked and bumpy concrete; some days, you remember where you are and what your name is. Others, you lose a year or two. The really bad ones are few and far between now, thankfully, but that's what you have a family for.
Namely, that's what you have Nolan for. Chief of the Anzacs; a group of former military men and women who'd taken you in, after Nolan had saved your life. He'd been the first one there when you were shot and the man who saved you. No matter how good your day is, you always remember him; his voice, in particular. Maybe at one point, you'd thought everyone was better off without you, but as the years go on and you find yourself settled in as one of the group's resident farmers...well.
It's nice to be around people who care. And whom you can care about, in return.
Some more than others.
Graphics by ARTEMIS
EXPERIENCE: 10+ years
CODEWORD: Artyyyyyy <3