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Angst › General
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Category:
Angst › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
5
Views:
2,132
Reviews:
7
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Losing the Faith
This is based on a character I came up with when I was in 9th grade. She was used as a chararacter in a wrestling RPG, so this is actually the first time I\'m writing out her whole story. There wasn\'t a place on the beginning, but there\'s suicide attempts in here. Also, I\'m pretty new to this, so I\'m always open for feedback (positive and negative, but remember I\'m VERY sensitive).
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My mother died when I was ten, so I lived with my father. Well, my father, my two siblings"“my older brother, Rocco, who was five years my senior, and my younger sister, Nicola, who was four years my junior"“and I lived together in my father's Manhattan apartment complex, La Città .
My mother was a pure Italian beauty. She was born in Sicily, and her family immigrated to New York when she was four years old. When she met my father, she was eighteen and working as a waitress at Alessandro's, her parents' Italian restaurant in Manhattan. He was twenty-six, and he had fallen immediately in love with her beauty. She was 5'4" tall with a small, shapely frame. She was a deep olive tan color with long, dark hair, and olive green eyes that brought together her Italian beauty. He said he feel for her eyes; she said he feel for her voice; my brother said he feel for her parents' money. Whatever it was, they were married in three months and had three children"“my brother, my sister, and myself.
Shortly after their marriage, my father bought a building in Manhattan and started a lounge that he named Rosabella's after his wife who was also one of the club's top performers. Soon after the club became a success, my mother became pregnant with their first child, a boy. My father was so proud.
My brother's full name was Rocco Croccifixio Antonio Pastore. He was born in winter at Mt. Sinai Hospital in New York. He grew up into a very handsome and athletic boy. He had my mother's beauty"”her eyes, her complexion, and her hair"”and my father taught him everything a man should know. The three of them lived together in L'Isola, the apartment complex in Staten Island that was given by my grandfather to my father when he married my mother. When my mother found out she was pregnant a second time, my father moved them from L'Isola to La Città in Manhattan.
I was born Ambra Patrizia Francesca Pastore on Halloween in Mt. Sinai Hospital. My father was disappointed to have a girl, and I felt at times he took care of me only out of reasonability. I was quiet and kept to myself. I didn't have my mother's beauty; I looked more like my father. My hair was long, dark, and very thick. My eyes are not the beautiful olive of my mother and my brother, instead there were a deep shade of brown, almost black, and compared to my mother and brother, my complexion was more pale than tan.
From an early age, I knew my father wasn't too fond of me, but my mother coddled and treated me better than she did my brother. Not to say she treated him badly, though. My brother was my best friend, and I stayed away from my father as much as possible, with good reason.
My mother suffered a miscarriage three years after my birth. She was six months pregnant, and she'd taken a leave of absence from the club. By this time, my father had begun his drinking, and would come home drunk five out of six nights in a week. One night, he got home at five and slammed the door shut. Rocco and I had fallen asleep in my room playing a game of "Go Fish," and when the door slammed, it woke me up, but Rocco remained asleep. I ran to my door and opened it to see my mother run down the hall from the bedroom.
"Quiet or you'll wake the children!" she told him. From there, I don't remember what was said; all I remember is seeing my mother fall to the floor. I ran to Rocco and shook him, frantically trying to explain what happened.
"Mommy fell!" I told him. "Help her!"
Rocco picked himself up off of the floor and I followed him out to the living room of the apartment. My mother was crying and holding her stomach. My father was standing over her. Rocco held her hand while my father called the police. They told them she'd tripped over the coffee table.
A year after her miscarriage, my mother gave birth to my younger sister, Nicola Rosabella Alessa Pastore. Nicola looked exactly like my mother, and I suppose that to be the only reason my father loved her as much as he did. When she was born, I was four, and Rocco was nine. We learned who our father really was the night my mother lost what would have been her second son. Since that night, my father hadn't once laid a hand on my mother, but he had reprimanded me with violence several times.
Once, when I was six, I'd been sent to the office because my teacher was concerned about the bruises on my arms and legs. I told her exactly what my father had instructed me to say"”I was running around the living room and tripped over the leg of the coffee table and burned my right leg on the rug. The truth was that my father had beaten me the night before for dropping a glass and the burn came from him dragging me across the rug. Rocco and I did our best to protect our mother, and it seemed as though I was always the sole casualty in that war.
The night that my mother died, Rocco, Nicola, and I were being taken care of by Mrs. Ramazzotti, and older woman in the building, while our parents were at work. I loved Mrs. Ramazzotti because she let us stay up late and watch Saturday Night Live with her. I'd fallen to sleep during the show, and Rocco had carried me back to my bedroom so Mrs. Ramazzotti could tuck me in. For seemingly no reason, I snapped up out of my sleep and began screaming for my mother. No matter what they did, they could not calm me down. Finally, Mrs. Ramazzotti went to the phone to call the club and assure me that my mother was all right. When she lifted the phone off of the cradle there was a knock on the door. Rocco had carried me crying into the living room. Mrs. Ramazzotti opened the door to find two police officers that informed us that our mother had been killed in a hit-and-run accident.
After my mother's death, my father turned into a monster. He would beat me with or without provocation. Rocco had gotten bigger by that time. He was 6'1" and weighed a muscular 230 pounds. He spent a great deal of his sophomore year in high school protecting me from my father. Whenever Rocco was home, Arrigo (my father) would not even come near me. But Rocco couldn't be there all the time, and when he was gone, my father made me wish for a beating. He'd grown tired of simply physically abusing me, and on my twelfth birthday, he raped me for the first time.
I didn't realize what was going on. When the door opened, I thought that Rocco had come home from his friend's Halloween party. I smelled the alcohol when my father reached my bed, and I closed my eyes, mentally preparing myself for a beating. He pulled back my covers and ran his hands down from my shoulders, over my chest, to my stomach, and rested them on my crotch.
I was scared. I didn't know what he was doing, but I knew that it wasn't right. He pulled up my nightgown and crawled on top of me, warning that if I made any noise, I'd get a beating worse than I'd ever had before, and I believed him. The look in his eyes told me that he was serious. I wanted to cry, but I was afraid to even do that. It was so painful, and every second of it made me want to cry. I could feel every inch of him inside of me, and it was sickening me. After he was done, he stood up, pulled his pants back on, and walked out.
When I heard his bedroom door close, I walked into the bathroom I share with my brother, and I got into the shower fully clothed. I ran the water as hot as I could get it. I scrubbed at my body in a frantic effort to wash off the shame of what my father had done to me. My flesh and blood and done this to me.
This continued over the next few months. Two or three times a week, he would come home, check to make sure Rocco was out, then he would crawl on top of me, do his business, and be on his way. The only light side was that the beatings had stopped. One night, I lied awake in my bed, staring into the darkness when my door opened. I expected my father, but he was not alone. Albert Dricks, his best friend, followed him into the room.
My mother had never trusted him. He and my father drank together every Saturday night. When he was here, I'd caught him watching my mother intently as she entered or exited a room. I'd even caught him trying to kiss her once, which resulted in her being smacked in the face by my father. Lately, he had been looking at me the same way he'd been looking at my mother. He was scum, and he and Arrigo deserved each other.
My father did his usual routine. He drew back my covers, pushed up my nightgown, and pulled down my underwear. This time, though, he left the room, and his friend climbed on top of me.
I closed my eyes. I had been praying so much lately"”praying for strength, praying for answers, praying for mercy. I wanted to know what I had done to deserve this life. I was only twelve years old, and my father"”my own father"”had taken away my innocence. Did I deserve to know why? God said His kingdom was for His children"”wasn't I his child? If God answers prayers, why hadn't He answered mine? Maybe if He wouldn't stop it, He would at least tell me what sin I had committed to deserve this punishment. Why? Why, God? All I wanted to know was WHY?.
My father's friend was on top of me, moaning and panting in my ear as his hips gyrated against mine. I held my eyes tightly closed and turned him out enough to hear my own thoughts.
Hail Mary, full of grace"¦
I stopped. I had said countless Hail Mary's, and not a single one had brought me sanctuary. Perhaps a different prayer would work. He began to go deeper and harder inside of me, and as his moaning got louder, so did my thoughts.
Our father, who art in Heaven, hallowed by thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give is this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespassed against us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil"¦
Me! Deliver me from evil! I do what you ask! I've never once disobeyed my father! Why are you letting him do this to me? What have I done? Why won't you answer me!? What have I done!? What!? Say something!
Then I realized"”He wasn't listening. All that praying was in vain, because he wasn't even listening to me. He didn't care. And if He wasn't going to listen, I was definitely finished talking.
At twelve years old, I had lost The Faith.
________________________________________________________________
My mother died when I was ten, so I lived with my father. Well, my father, my two siblings"“my older brother, Rocco, who was five years my senior, and my younger sister, Nicola, who was four years my junior"“and I lived together in my father's Manhattan apartment complex, La Città .
My mother was a pure Italian beauty. She was born in Sicily, and her family immigrated to New York when she was four years old. When she met my father, she was eighteen and working as a waitress at Alessandro's, her parents' Italian restaurant in Manhattan. He was twenty-six, and he had fallen immediately in love with her beauty. She was 5'4" tall with a small, shapely frame. She was a deep olive tan color with long, dark hair, and olive green eyes that brought together her Italian beauty. He said he feel for her eyes; she said he feel for her voice; my brother said he feel for her parents' money. Whatever it was, they were married in three months and had three children"“my brother, my sister, and myself.
Shortly after their marriage, my father bought a building in Manhattan and started a lounge that he named Rosabella's after his wife who was also one of the club's top performers. Soon after the club became a success, my mother became pregnant with their first child, a boy. My father was so proud.
My brother's full name was Rocco Croccifixio Antonio Pastore. He was born in winter at Mt. Sinai Hospital in New York. He grew up into a very handsome and athletic boy. He had my mother's beauty"”her eyes, her complexion, and her hair"”and my father taught him everything a man should know. The three of them lived together in L'Isola, the apartment complex in Staten Island that was given by my grandfather to my father when he married my mother. When my mother found out she was pregnant a second time, my father moved them from L'Isola to La Città in Manhattan.
I was born Ambra Patrizia Francesca Pastore on Halloween in Mt. Sinai Hospital. My father was disappointed to have a girl, and I felt at times he took care of me only out of reasonability. I was quiet and kept to myself. I didn't have my mother's beauty; I looked more like my father. My hair was long, dark, and very thick. My eyes are not the beautiful olive of my mother and my brother, instead there were a deep shade of brown, almost black, and compared to my mother and brother, my complexion was more pale than tan.
From an early age, I knew my father wasn't too fond of me, but my mother coddled and treated me better than she did my brother. Not to say she treated him badly, though. My brother was my best friend, and I stayed away from my father as much as possible, with good reason.
My mother suffered a miscarriage three years after my birth. She was six months pregnant, and she'd taken a leave of absence from the club. By this time, my father had begun his drinking, and would come home drunk five out of six nights in a week. One night, he got home at five and slammed the door shut. Rocco and I had fallen asleep in my room playing a game of "Go Fish," and when the door slammed, it woke me up, but Rocco remained asleep. I ran to my door and opened it to see my mother run down the hall from the bedroom.
"Quiet or you'll wake the children!" she told him. From there, I don't remember what was said; all I remember is seeing my mother fall to the floor. I ran to Rocco and shook him, frantically trying to explain what happened.
"Mommy fell!" I told him. "Help her!"
Rocco picked himself up off of the floor and I followed him out to the living room of the apartment. My mother was crying and holding her stomach. My father was standing over her. Rocco held her hand while my father called the police. They told them she'd tripped over the coffee table.
A year after her miscarriage, my mother gave birth to my younger sister, Nicola Rosabella Alessa Pastore. Nicola looked exactly like my mother, and I suppose that to be the only reason my father loved her as much as he did. When she was born, I was four, and Rocco was nine. We learned who our father really was the night my mother lost what would have been her second son. Since that night, my father hadn't once laid a hand on my mother, but he had reprimanded me with violence several times.
Once, when I was six, I'd been sent to the office because my teacher was concerned about the bruises on my arms and legs. I told her exactly what my father had instructed me to say"”I was running around the living room and tripped over the leg of the coffee table and burned my right leg on the rug. The truth was that my father had beaten me the night before for dropping a glass and the burn came from him dragging me across the rug. Rocco and I did our best to protect our mother, and it seemed as though I was always the sole casualty in that war.
The night that my mother died, Rocco, Nicola, and I were being taken care of by Mrs. Ramazzotti, and older woman in the building, while our parents were at work. I loved Mrs. Ramazzotti because she let us stay up late and watch Saturday Night Live with her. I'd fallen to sleep during the show, and Rocco had carried me back to my bedroom so Mrs. Ramazzotti could tuck me in. For seemingly no reason, I snapped up out of my sleep and began screaming for my mother. No matter what they did, they could not calm me down. Finally, Mrs. Ramazzotti went to the phone to call the club and assure me that my mother was all right. When she lifted the phone off of the cradle there was a knock on the door. Rocco had carried me crying into the living room. Mrs. Ramazzotti opened the door to find two police officers that informed us that our mother had been killed in a hit-and-run accident.
After my mother's death, my father turned into a monster. He would beat me with or without provocation. Rocco had gotten bigger by that time. He was 6'1" and weighed a muscular 230 pounds. He spent a great deal of his sophomore year in high school protecting me from my father. Whenever Rocco was home, Arrigo (my father) would not even come near me. But Rocco couldn't be there all the time, and when he was gone, my father made me wish for a beating. He'd grown tired of simply physically abusing me, and on my twelfth birthday, he raped me for the first time.
I didn't realize what was going on. When the door opened, I thought that Rocco had come home from his friend's Halloween party. I smelled the alcohol when my father reached my bed, and I closed my eyes, mentally preparing myself for a beating. He pulled back my covers and ran his hands down from my shoulders, over my chest, to my stomach, and rested them on my crotch.
I was scared. I didn't know what he was doing, but I knew that it wasn't right. He pulled up my nightgown and crawled on top of me, warning that if I made any noise, I'd get a beating worse than I'd ever had before, and I believed him. The look in his eyes told me that he was serious. I wanted to cry, but I was afraid to even do that. It was so painful, and every second of it made me want to cry. I could feel every inch of him inside of me, and it was sickening me. After he was done, he stood up, pulled his pants back on, and walked out.
When I heard his bedroom door close, I walked into the bathroom I share with my brother, and I got into the shower fully clothed. I ran the water as hot as I could get it. I scrubbed at my body in a frantic effort to wash off the shame of what my father had done to me. My flesh and blood and done this to me.
This continued over the next few months. Two or three times a week, he would come home, check to make sure Rocco was out, then he would crawl on top of me, do his business, and be on his way. The only light side was that the beatings had stopped. One night, I lied awake in my bed, staring into the darkness when my door opened. I expected my father, but he was not alone. Albert Dricks, his best friend, followed him into the room.
My mother had never trusted him. He and my father drank together every Saturday night. When he was here, I'd caught him watching my mother intently as she entered or exited a room. I'd even caught him trying to kiss her once, which resulted in her being smacked in the face by my father. Lately, he had been looking at me the same way he'd been looking at my mother. He was scum, and he and Arrigo deserved each other.
My father did his usual routine. He drew back my covers, pushed up my nightgown, and pulled down my underwear. This time, though, he left the room, and his friend climbed on top of me.
I closed my eyes. I had been praying so much lately"”praying for strength, praying for answers, praying for mercy. I wanted to know what I had done to deserve this life. I was only twelve years old, and my father"”my own father"”had taken away my innocence. Did I deserve to know why? God said His kingdom was for His children"”wasn't I his child? If God answers prayers, why hadn't He answered mine? Maybe if He wouldn't stop it, He would at least tell me what sin I had committed to deserve this punishment. Why? Why, God? All I wanted to know was WHY?.
My father's friend was on top of me, moaning and panting in my ear as his hips gyrated against mine. I held my eyes tightly closed and turned him out enough to hear my own thoughts.
Hail Mary, full of grace"¦
I stopped. I had said countless Hail Mary's, and not a single one had brought me sanctuary. Perhaps a different prayer would work. He began to go deeper and harder inside of me, and as his moaning got louder, so did my thoughts.
Our father, who art in Heaven, hallowed by thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give is this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespassed against us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil"¦
Me! Deliver me from evil! I do what you ask! I've never once disobeyed my father! Why are you letting him do this to me? What have I done? Why won't you answer me!? What have I done!? What!? Say something!
Then I realized"”He wasn't listening. All that praying was in vain, because he wasn't even listening to me. He didn't care. And if He wasn't going to listen, I was definitely finished talking.
At twelve years old, I had lost The Faith.