R64: Beginning
Title: Beginning
Characters:
POV: Young Giovanni (eight years old), Maddalena, Charlotte
Notes: Why is it called Beginning? Because it's the first of my venture into Giovanni's childhood. Also answer the question of "How is Adult Giovanni a virtuso at EVERYTHING? Music, singing, sports, writing, languages, science, business, everything?"
(Also, a lot of the stuff they do to him (in this writing as well as others forthcoming) are illegal and count as child abuse. I do not condone any of it. Do I really need to put it here? 'Cause you know, I'm STILL getting nonsense flames about Pearl's controversial career choice (hint: It's NOT prostitution) in another online community, you know, and I mean, it's really annoying. Some people take me really seriously I guess?)
Maddalena is a refugee from Sicily, Charlotte's really young. Don't ask me why she's speaking Italian instead of Sicilian. Maybe 'cause the only word in Sicilian I know is EGGPLANT and cannoli.
Gattino: Kitten
Nipote: Niece
Ragazzo: Young Boy
Islanda: Iceland
Okay! So personally the writing here isn't anything above average and mundane. I''m really not myself today. It's not very good writing, I admit, but it's not horrible either.
They had locked him in the cesspit again. Earlier she had heard his little voice practicing scales, and what a sweet little voice he had- she could imagine him growing into a honey-chocolate deep bass baritone in his adulthood. However, on the third F Major the vibrato on the highest F suddenly shattered into a mad screaming. “Don’ la t vuole! Don’ la-“ The screaming continued, the little boy’s words losing coherency over the choking and sobbing and shrieking. There was a sudden silence as the cesspit door slammed. Then the screaming resumed, taking on a terrible pleading tone. His cries. His pleas for mercy. His begging- one of her nipote’s friends had been punished and fired for trying to free him before. If not for that precedent she would have helped him, somehow, some way!
She stumbled as his wailing wafted through the walls. No wonder tourists thought the old mansion was haunted. “Poor gattino,” she sighed. An hour ago the screaming had slowly died down. Now there was only the occasional gulp and whimper, almost too faint to pass through the ancient stone.
“Oh- does this- does this happen a lot? Should I call the police-“
Maddalena turned around and nodded. “When he… When they think he be a bad boy, they do it. Normally they only hit him or tie him in ice water…” She stopped and turned around.
It was the new girl, Charlotte, a little blonde thing just arrived in the kitchens. “Well. Is that…”
“The Young Master?” Maddalena sighed. “Yes. Only one little ragazzo here, that him. Poor, poor little gattino.”
Charlotte turned back to stirring a vat of tomato sauce. She was silent for a moment. “Well…. I suppose it can be worse… I mean, there are a lot of children starving in Ethiope for one thing…”
Maddalena stopped stirring. “I come from Sicilia. Thirty years ago. Refuge program send me around the world. Everywhere. Try to make me home in war zone. I been everywhere. I see the Etiopia. I lived with the Curdo people. I see many thing. People killing, people hurting. Many very sad people.” She continued chopping tomatoes. “Many bad thing. Many sad thing. Child in Etiopia, child in Etiopia luckier, so much luckier, than Young Master. Dead people so much luckier than Young Master.”
Charlotte stopped stirring, shocked. “You can’t say that-“
“I do say. Because it true. If you only have box in the Islanda winter, you still luckier than him. I see Young Master everyday, and there is no one that can be jealous of him.”
The woman and the girl continued cooking.
“Really?” Charlotte blurted. “I don’t think so- he has toys-“
“-A small Bible? A rocking horse for decoration only that he not allowed to play with? A puppet theatre he cannot even look at? That not toys-“
“-He gets good food-“
“-When they not withholding it-“
“-He has privileges! Learning instruments! Languages! Science!”
“-Because they make him do all day long and put him in cesspool if he not get it right-“
“-But he also gets to play sports!”
Maddalena stopped and sighed. Charlotte was half-obscured by the steam from the pot and looked even more flimsy and wispy than she normally did. “Play not the right word. He do sports,” she said plainly. “You watch. He not play at all. He do and do right, and he run and lift weights. He only eight. But he do sports better than most adults. Because he suffer.”
This thought silenced them both.
“He have… Lots of things,” Maddalena stated. “But none of it is worth it.” They both listened to the bone-wrenching sobs echoing from the basement.
Later that evening the screams abruptly stopped. They took the boy out, carrying him wrapped in a white towel. Maddalena watched them go by, then quickly hurried back to the kitchen. She could hide some cannoli under his protein slices.
Little boys cannot survive on nothing.