Cielito Lindo

{ Alessia }

Going back to Italy will be like surgically reopening my wounds from the past and very gently dripping a few drops of acid on them. I will remember my mom and that stupid liar Lorenzo.

And I'll go back to worrying about my underdeveloped little boobs.

In addition to reliving those two things that left me so scarred, I'll be looking back to the amazing life I had in the States these past few years. And maybe it wasn't the most 'perfect' in the world compared to other people with better opportunities, but it was really quiet, nice and it worked for me. Everything was finally going according to my plans, for the first time in my whole life.

I was getting good grades, I had everything strategically planned for my graduation party, although I guess those plans are useless now and the money I saved for months for the dress will have to be used on something else. And I'll have to accept that those two years of ass-licking to get everyone to elect me captain of my dance crew were for nothing. I didn't even enjoy my position as second in charge for two months.

On top of that I will have to say goodbye to Graham, my best friend (who lately was being much more than just my best friend). He's sweet and funny and I felt like I could fall in love with him at some point.

But never mind if my life was being nice and good for the first time in my entire history. It doesn't matter if Graham was about to be my boyfriend. Nothing of that matters because all I can do is accept whatever my father dictates and follow him wherever he pleases, as I have since I was born.

➿➿➿➿

"Dad…. Why do we have to live here again?" I ask in a whisper, not moving. Suddenly I have a heavy weight on my chest. A big and annoying one, the kind that doesn't go away easily and doesn't let you breathe. I hadn't felt something like this for a long time and I definitely didn't miss it.

"This is our house, Alessia," my dad replies with a grimace. I bet he's feeling the same way I am, so I don't understand why he insists on staying in this house, "It hurts me just as much, if not more, to be here. But the past is in the past and we have to move on, even if it hurts."

"I know. I'm sorry,” I sigh and close my eyes for a second, trying to calm down, looking away from the huge house and focusing on my father's cheap psychology.

You're supposed to be over it, Alessia. Stop crying. She was just murdered, who cares?

The car pulls up right in front of the door and the driver gets out to get our bags. It’s time to get out and start a new life in this house again, but I'm not quite ready. I would rather stay in the car and wander next to the driver all over Rome, but I know that's not possible.

My eyes fill with tears again and my breath catches in my throat as I enter my old home. This is still too much for me, I realize.

My eyes wander anxiously around the house, looking for changes, but everything is still exactly the same as we left it that day, except for my mom's body and blood in the living room.

My mind goes into overdrive, starts remembering without my permission a lot of things with such intensity that I can almost see it all happening in front of me, as if I'm just an intruder living my life from an omniscient third eye.

I remember my mom cleaning the house with her headphones on, singing at the top of her lungs in her pretty voice and dancing around while dusting off the furniture.

I remember my dad joining in her singing in an ugly, off-key voice and grabbing her by the waist to dance with her. Then turning her around and kissing her lips in a tender way that seemed gross to me at the time and then pulling me to dance with them.

My dad was a totally different man with her. I miss that man.

I remember when I stole three kilos of freshly cut lemons from the refrigerator and, for some reason, took it upon myself to squeeze them all on the couches and living room floor. My mom wanted to scold me when she found out, but she was overcome with laughter and couldn't stay mad at me, no matter how hard she tried. After a while she decided she liked the lemon scent and thanked me for making her notice it.

I remember when my mom, the twins and I would curl up on the big couch in front of the TV and watch gossip shows and music videos while we ate junk food and talked about everything.

l also remember the day I walked into my house and found my mom's body lying in the living room under a pool of her own blood. I remember how I threw myself on top of her and how I begged her not to die. Uselessly, of course.

I suddenly burst out with a horrible cry and gasp loudly for the air that has escaped me. I walk to the exact spot where she was lying just to make this even more dramatic and painful and I drop there just like that day, except now I can't hug her and scream incoherent things. I can only cry.

I had arrived expecting to find her singing as usual, dancing around, cleaning, watching TV or whatever. Instead, I found her almost dead. Her eyes were still not fully closed, her throat was working as if she was trying to speak and her hand was moving a little, but when she saw me coming she let herself die without a second thought, she just stopped fighting.

Because of me.

I hadn't noticed that my father was sitting next to me hugging me until he starts rubbing my back. I turn to him and cling to his body tightly. I can't even breathe properly, the pain is that strong, her presence still feels too real. If I close my eyes I feel like I could hear her voice singing in the distance.

She was so beautiful, she was always cheerful, she was always willing to give everything for me. And I couldn't do anything for her.

"Baby," my dad mutters with his mouth on my hair, "I miss her too, it hurts me to remember her, too."

"I don't want to be here,” I complain, squeezing my eyes shut, "It hurts too much."

"What would she say if she saw you crying like this after so many years?"

'"I don't know," I lie and hear him sigh.

"Of course you know, we both know."

"She… She would say something like: 'For fuck’s sake, Ale, get over it. We all have to die, we all will. You're young and beautiful, but when you cry you look like a wrinkled little gnome'," I laugh through my tears. That would be exactly what she would say. She said something very similar when my cat died. It's not my fault the woman had no tear glands and never needed to cry, "And then she would sing me that song.... Cielito Lindo."

"Oh, right. She always sang that song when you cried."

"She always sang to me, in any situation. She was just looking for any excuse to start singing."

"How did it go? It was something like… Aaaaay, aaaaay, ay, ay..."

"God, don't sing!" I beg and laugh loudly. And I start to relax. I stop crying eventually and laugh again because my dad was right. She wouldn't like to see me cry.

She would get mad at me whenever she saw me sad and several times she chastised me because she hated that I was so sensitive about things she thought were just silly, simple and real, like death.