~8~

The front of Enzo's house was depressing. He hadn't thought about the appearance of it since he was eleven years old, standing in their front yard in a wrinkled tuxedo, holding a piece of blue chalk in his little fist. Before him was a portrait of Mama, her hair long and wavy, her eyes wide, her face round and pretty. 

As he stared down at the empty sidewalk in the dark, his shoes five sizes bigger this time, dirty jeans replacing his tux, he could perfectly picture his Mama's portrait plastered there. He could picture his eleven year old self standing there as if in a photograph, his stained fingers holding a stub of chalk, his chin quivering slightly through a tightly clenched jaw, staring down at the sidewalk where he'd sketched a swirling, abstract portrait of his dead mother. He specifically remembered wondering that day, the day of Mama's funeral, about the flowers. Who would water them? 

Enzo lifted his head, set his watery vision on the cracked and broken plastic flower boxes. He tried to remember what kind of flowers used to grow in them, and got upset when he couldn't. 

Nobody had watered them. 

He shook his head and went up to the front door, stepping over the sidewalk where his Mama's portrait used to be, passing by the cracked plastic boxes under the windows. He let himself in as quietly as he could, and froze when he saw Papa splayed out on the couch, barely awake. The TV blasted, barely illuminating the room, showing a commercial for a cleaning product. When the door closed behind Enzo, Papa's eyes snapped open like blinds. He grunted, leaning up on his elbows and letting his head bobble to the side. Enzo wondered when he'd shaved last. 

"Ya es tarde," (It's late) Papa grunted, shoving himself into a sitting position with great effort. Enzo glanced at the clock. 2:30 a.m. 

"I know," Enzo said in English, just to piss Papa off. When he was drunk, Papa usually reverted back to Spanish. 

Enzo turned to the coat rack and shrugged off his jacket, tossing it over a hook. He heard Papa get up, and suddenly he felt his gruff hands on his shoulders, shoving him forward. 

Enzo's face smacked the wall, and his nose exploded in pain. His head whipped back and he cupped a hand over his face, running his tongue over his teeth. He tasted blood, and he leaned his forehead on the wall, hoping Papa would leave him alone after he got his anger out. Anger flared like fire in his chest, and it took all he had in him not to grab the coat rack and bash Papa over the head with it. 

"No me faltes de respeto!" (Don't disrespect me!) Papa shouted, smacking Enzo across the temple with the back of his hand. Enzo stumbled into the door, his back slamming the wood so he was face to face with Papa. He could smell the foul whiskey on his breath. 

"Enough," Enzo muttered, looking up at his father and adjusting his footing. Papa was grimy, his face all wrinkles and stubble and rage. Enzo had always felt a deep rooted affection for Papa, despite everything. He remembered how it used to be, before everything with Mama, when Anita and him were little. He remembered the play dough and the grilled cheese, and he was able to convince himself that it wouldn't stay like this forever, that he was just grieving, it was just a faze. Just then, in that second, it all melted away. All he felt for Papa was vexation, rage.

"Disculpe?" (Excuse me?) Papa said, and Enzo took a step forward, challenging him. He was about two inches taller than Papa, now. He'd never noticed before. 

Enzo reared up and punched Papa right in the bridge of his nose. He heard a sickening crunch, and Papa tumbled back into the coffee table, crushing it's four legs out from under it. 

"I said enough!" Enzo shouted, shaking out his hand. He went up the stairs, stopping halfway to look down at Papa, lying on top of the crushed coffee table, cupping his nose. 

He turned and ran the rest of the way up the stairs and into his room, locking the door in case Papa came up after him, even though he knew he wouldn't. 

He turned to the mirror on his desk, examining the damage done to his face. There was a streak of dark blood under his nose, and his bottom lip was split and purple. He always told kids at school that he'd fought someone, or gotten into a street brawl, or something equally as badass. He had to keep up a reputation. 

Enzo pressed on the bridge of his nose and winced, then wiped the blood off his face. He grinned at himself in the mirror, his bloody teeth making him look psychotic. 

This was it. This was the day he'd been waiting for since he was eleven years old. 

This was really it. 

~~~

Hi guys! Sorry I haven't updated in a while, I started school and field hockey in late August and it's been crazy since then! 

But it's okay, because I'm here now! How do you like it so far, hm?

Love you all:)

-L