Bruno Rossini
Present.
It's not like me to be attached to things but I have to admit to being fond of this place they call Africa. I can't help but glance outside the window of the car as my driver navigates the SUV through a small village in Botswana. It's all so different from where I come from, Mylari. The air is cleaner, the sky looks bluer and the people themselves seem to be content with their lives even though it looks like they live centuries behind us. I spot children playing near their homes and parents happily chatting in plastic chairs outside their houses. They look peaceful and to be honest even I'm starting to feel that way too. I shift in my seat because it is a weird feeling for me. It's not like me to pause and admire the beauty of things. In fact, this whole day has been unusual and restless because I keep expecting something big and important to happen. The thought of that is at the back of my head, nagging me.
All of a sudden my head of security in the SUV ahead, Chase Simpson, calls me and I can't help but think he's identified a threat. After all, besides my feelings of restlessness, I did just come from a meeting with terrorists-highly unpredictable people. ''Something wrong? ''I ask him.
"Sir, the road is blocked.'', he says disappointing me. ''It looks like we'll have to take another route but it will delay us for one more hour,'' he finishes cautiously. He knows how I feel about unexpected setbacks.
"That's alright, I'm not in a hurry,'' I tell him calmly. He lets out an audible sigh of relief and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Okay, so I'm that kind of boss who gives people shit about the littlest things but I decide to spare him today. I then lean back on my chair and decide to relax because I had a very long day. Negotiating with those African terrorists drained me. I could hear the bed in my hotel beckoning me.
I look outside and realize that we have left the village and are on an open road. All I could see were trees and dried-up grass. Again, this peaceful feeling. I feel tired and want to close my eyes. I do just that when I realize something: I've felt this weird peace before. I scoff at the thought immediately since I've been living a cold existence for as long as I remember. However, with my eyes still shut, I find myself searching my memories for a time in my life when I've felt such peace. I come up with nothing and open my eyes with a sigh. It was a ridiculous thought anyway. If I'd ever had peace in my life it was unlikely that I'd let it go or let alone forget it. Unless of course, it happened sometime during my college years or maybe a few years after. Then it would all be a possibility because I lost all my memory of that time in an accident five years ago. That's unlikely though because, according to a lot of people, my life had been going along expected lines: attending college while preparing to take over my father's business. Though, sometimes I found myself wondering if...
My chain of thought is interrupted by another phone call. I looked at the screen and see that it was my mother's call. Well, there goes my good mood. I groan internally and decide to ignore it. Why can't she just leave me alone? She calls every few days and she says it's because she misses me. I don't understand why she says that because she spent most of my childhood avoiding me even though we lived in the same house. I was raised by my strict father while my little brother and sister received all my mother's love and attention. But not me. I spent my childhood wondering if I'd fucked up somehow. Her behavior towards me was a mystery to me. I mean I understood why my father always acted so robotic around me: As his eldest son, he was raising me to be tough enough to rule our mafia empire with an iron fist. That's my world and it really isn't for the faint-hearted. It happens to be a large part of my family's business. Well, just because I understand why he did it doesn't mean that I don't resent him or the way I was raised. In fact, I can't stand both of my parents. Their presence irks and irritates me. So do their phone calls.
''Hello, Mother, can I help you?'' I say through clenched teeth. I hadn't been planning on answering but the woman is so damned persistent.
'My baby boy, how are you?'' she says in her doting mother's voice. It makes me want to crush my phone because she had not been there for me once in my childhood.
Is it normal that I want to rip out her vocal cords when she uses the adoring mother voice on me only years later? I can only be glad that Father doesn't try that kind of nonsense or else I'd lose it.
'' I'm fine, Mother,'' I hiss at her.'' Why did you call me?'' ''Do I need a reason to talk to my son?'' she asks quietly, almost sadly. I want to tell her that she does but I'm not that far gone yet. I think she'll be hurt if I say that. This is something I'll never let anyone find out but I don't enjoy being nasty to her. She deserves it though. I still remember days when I threw myself at her, just for her to show me a shred of love. It never happened.
The silence stretches on until she says, ''Your father tells me that your business is finished in Africa and I wanted to know if you'll join us for a family dinner next Saturday.'' ''I won't be able to make it,'' I answer without thinking. It's what I always say and I know that my dear mother is not surprised. In fact, this is our thing; her inviting me to family stuff and me saying no. For obvious reasons, I don't like being surrounded by family. I feel completely out of place like I don't belong. Except for when I'm with my brother Leo and sister Gianna. But they always visit me at the office or my penthouse apartment.
''Oh well, that's okay. Next time I guess, goodbye,'' she says, ending the call. I toss my phone to my other seat. That's her one attempt for the week. I've hurt her. I heard it in her voice. I feel a little guilty but I instantly crush it.' I'll reject her if she calls again,' I tell myself. What's her deal anyway? Thinking that she can be my mother after twenty- six years of acting like I didn't exist. It's fucking ridiculous.
I look out the window again to see that we are finally in the city.
''We should be at your hotel shortly, boss'' my driver, Mario, declares.
I say nothing because I don't want to talk. If I open my mouth, I'll snap at him because I am going through a torrent of emotions right now, first peace, then anger followed by guilt. I think I should add sadness to the list. It's making me grouchy. It's also quite a change because I'm usually cold and numb and totally fine with it. There's something wrong with me today. I'm not okay.
The car comes to a stop and I am out in an instant. I need to forget about today and get some rest. My time in this country is done-I'd exchanged ammo for cold hard cash. I'm leaving for Mylari tomorrow. I make my way to my suite and place my briefcase on the table. Then I take a shower and put on some jeans. I still need to check a few emails before bed. Grabbing my laptop, I take a seat and go through a lot of them. I stop because something feels off. It's too quiet, I think. Impulsively, I grab the remote and turn on the TV. I should point out that I don't normally watch TV, don't know why I even have the damn things. I think they are useless since we have phones now that can do essentially the same things. Today is definitely weird for me, I'm even watching television. I change channels until I find the one I'm looking for, the one that broadcasts the news back home. When I get to it, I find an attractive woman reporting a bank robbery that occurred earlier that day. I just smile, that's Mylari for you. Now we've got some noise, I think as the reporter starts to interview a witness. I'm about to go back to my laptop when something catches my eye or someone. It's the witness being interviewed.
As soon as I notice her I freeze and my whole body becomes utterly still. My breath starts to come out in shallow pants and I wonder what the hell is wrong with me. This all happens while my gaze is fixed on the sixty-five-inch TV, fixed on her specifically.
'' Ma'am, can you describe to us your experience in the bank this morning?'' the reporter asks her. The camera zooms in on her face and I start to dig my hands into my thighs. Is there something wrong with me? I ask myself. I just can't comprehend my own actions.
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Author's note: Hi reader, it's your writer Misa. I just wanted to clarify that Mylari is not a real city but a fictional one, situated in Italy.
Happy reading.