“Okay then,” I say, ignoring my father as he takes his time to leave. His belligerent need to pick us all up and drop us as he pleases is something that really drives me insane. Bit like when I used to pick between being Daddy’s little helper and being that expendable delinquent. As he leaves the room, in a fouler mood than what he arrived, I give Zane a smile as he silently begins to leave, to which I receive a cheeky wink and turn back to Enzo. “Do we really need to go out? Can we not deal with the beast upstairs and just stay in our pajamas, eating ice cream and watch films all day. I have some poison left somewhere; we can slip it in his morning coffee and be done.”
Enzo looks ready to accept my deal, but then replies, “No.” He laughs, half mirthlessly, but he can’t contain how much my idea of silently killing Giovanni was a good option. “It’s a good deal, but you’ll love it, you’ll see,” he pushes, but I pull and refrain from budging. “Look, you can stay here and feel the wrath of Gio, or you can come with me and start to find some way to come to terms with what you’ve been made to do.” He then sits back in his seat, clearly able to guess that my deliberation won’t take half as long as I want to draw it out as. “Lia, it’s entirely up to you, but if you don’t walk, I’ll make you.”
“Fine,” I say, sighing. I give in by draining the rest of my coffee and standing up. “Let’s do this.”
He jumps up, fired with enough enthusiasm, forgetting about his own coffee. “You won’t regret it. I promise.”
Famous last fucking words, Enzo Abbiati!
***
As I look up at the enormous church, my Catholicism mocks me.
My sinful demons that trail my every move roll around on the ground in hysteria and they have every right to! My brother brought me to our old church. One where we attended mass, came to keep the peace, and came to offer a helping hand. That all changed once my mother died. That day, when my father strangled the life from her, he refuted his own religion, rejected any idealism of goodness, and became a beast that switched on his love for us when it suited him.
I look back up at the church, and the aging brickwork makes me feel inferior. The delicate beauty of the stained glass windows and wonderment of all the saints and sinners that have crossed paths with this house of God has me overwhelmed. I have no right to go into a place of worship which is created for those who are worthy of a heavenly afterlife.
“Are you actually crazy?!” I exclaim, looking at my brother as if he’s grown a second head. “I can’t go in there!”
“Why not?” he asks me, his tone blasé, and he throws in a shrug as if this is really no big deal. This is a very big fucking deal! “We were raised Catholic. Maybe if we strived for some goodness, we might find some.”
“Religious goodness isn’t going to save our souls, Enzo. Not when we live with the devil him-fucking-self,” I snarl, keeping my tone lower than usual. “Going in there and confessing every one of my sins will take me until old age.”
He laughs at me. Apparently, this is more comical than I fucking first thought!
“Don’t laugh!” I say, punching him hard on the arm. “Murder, theft, extortion, use of explosives, seduction, a bit more murder, torture. Oh, and the normal Catholic morals of living don’t promote promiscuity or excess alcohol consumption! We’re the biggest hypocrites ever going in there! God, Enzo,” I murmur, cursing in vain, putting my hands on my head in despair. “You do realize that we could go up in smoke just walking through the door.”
Now he laughs harder than ever. “Chill, Lia. I walked through the door only yesterday, and I didn’t even singe an eyelash.”
“Yeah, well your track record is practically squeaky clean compared to mine.” I feel my entire face fall. The shock that remedies up causes me to doubt my brother – he comes to church?! “But hang on! You came here yesterday?!”
Enzo’s lips twist into a coy, half smile. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Lia.”
“That’s not fair,” I tell him, pouting. “You know everything about me.”
“Then it’s time you knew everything,” he says, gesturing to the stairs up to the weather-worn church. He begins to lead the way knowing that I won’t be able to resist following – and I don’t.
We walk in, yet my steps are slower and more hesitant than Enzo’s. The church’s omnipotence is crushingly overwhelming. The grand pillars that line either side of the church and the glorified whiteness that paints the walls are all awe-inspiring, but it’s the familiar smell of incense that I remember from my childhood that humbly brings me back to the ground. This place is everything that I remember, but the calmness it offers is something I have never felt before. Obviously, in my adolescence I was unable to appreciate the effect of such a place.
“Good morning, Father.” Enzo’s voice reverberates around the hollow shell of the church, ricocheting from the vast corners and empty space.
“Enzo,” Father replies, his face lighting up. “I’ve told you to call me Andrew time and time again.”
“Something I should know?” I ask, curiously looking back and forth between the pair.
“Enzo, here, is one of the church’s biggest helpers,” Father says, proudly taking a moment to put an arm around my brother’s shoulder.