The Fate's Boy by Maria Elena Gattuso
The Fate’s Boy
Maria Elena Gattuso
PUBLISHED BY:
The Fate’s Boy
Copyright © 2013 by Maria E. Gattuso
That day I should have died. That day I would have directly gone to the Creator. Or maybe I would have taken off it with a cranial trauma and a pair of broken ribs.
And instead no... The Destiny had other projects for me.
Do you believe in Destiny? I fight it, I mean I try to do it. However hard I try, it always defeats me. And I'm still smarting from this thing. My name’s Rebecca Laida and at the time I was sixteen. Let me tell you my story…
Chapter 1
Wednesday 22nd September 2004
Dario was all. Every single blade of grass. The light which was leaking out from the window of my room. The breathless breath of who challenged the time running. The refreshing and pure water of a glacier. The bare earth under the unsure steps of a child. The sound of the wind which takes the memories. The wheat ears by now shallows ... a coldness had of which many would have also done without. Dario was the nothing. The baleful silence following a laugh. The future without return. The shout of who does not have voice. The melody of an unmusical piano. The perfume of a tasteless cake. Dario was everything and the nothing in the same instant. The world through my eyes had his interpretation. And I loved him, as I still love him. And was awaiting impatient the sound of that damned bluebell, so that the recreation finally had begin. The desk to the corner of the last row was an optimum placed to let its ideas fluctuate on the ceiling, without some professor deigning to interrupt that spell. Just had the head elsewhere, the too long and bushy fringe group which was obscuring the eyes and a blunt pencil in hand to the only purpose to appear vaguely interested in the lesson. From the bare and opaque window I could glimpse a significant view established by two long formations of scooters parked outside of the secondary school. Have a moped only having a transport means at disposal did not mean but this vehicle was also an expedient to make its fictitious personality emerge, what everybody was intending to communicate the mass, an excuse as another one to supplement note in a prevalently closed and hostile environment, where he was flitting, by now, the air of bullyng. So knowing who you were was mattering to no one, but what you were trying to be. Rather sad and dreary, I admit it, for this I had always tried to avoid the quarter quarrelsome person, the most reliable friends keeping me narrow, which could count themselves on the fingertips of a hand. The time of letters went by slow and boring. Frances was weighing the hypothesis to cut the veins using a manicurist's earwig. She was my best friend: quiet and honest till it was not contradicted, he was often suffering of an existential anguish. She was always afraid to be in the wrong, she was cursing herself so for her mistakes which was risking to ruin the whole adolescence. She was too much severe with herself and, this his surrender to the life fatalities, was annoying me every day of more. During the lessons she was always trying to take notes, even if the more than the times I was forced to throw some pinches to her to make her be awake. Who was I otherwise copying the notes from? She had a very popular and home-made way of being done, educated by his grandmother, she was divinely getting out it in the kitchen and playing for ages the cross flute. Her biggest defect? She was the favourite friend of the most sought-after boy of all the school, but I will speak of this history afterwards. I threw a look to her clock: five minutes and that torture would have finished. Unbelievable as much as it is slow to spend the time if we pay him too much attention.
I smiled thinking my first meeting with Dario over: there were well-known during a basket match among classes in second secondary school. Sincerely did not have much on matters experience, in fact my total incompetence came afloat as soon as a blow with a ball reached me, so violent in face, what for did not fall little to the swoomed ground.
Some blood started going out from my nose. A very bad figure.
« Go to refresh the ideas ! » was shouting the professor which had pulling up his few hair at the top from the agitation.
I reached the toilet in an instant and irrigated my poor nose with the cold cinnamon water trying to block the blood discharge. I still concentrated in my hopeless attempt to combine something of coupon, when I perceived the boy's form stop on the bathroom threshold. It He was high and quite pretty, but his eyes were colds and computers as those of a hawk.
« Are you okay ? » he asked me as though he did not care not up to much, one but felt in duty to excuse.
« Yes » I remarry sarcastic « I have only received a blow with a ball in face and my nose doesn’t stop it now to bleed. Nothing of heavy ».
I Mean, have you the minimizes idea as a basket balloon is heavy? Do you know what on receiving it to a remarkable power means?
I say it to you: it hurts evil, very. The boy approached. He was bigger than me of at least a year.
« I was forgetting that little girls are fragile and sensitive » he was ironic about « if you are awkward is not my problem »
I remained astounded. Who was he to smash my face before and laugh later at me with taste? I turned angry in his direction with my still dripping nose.
« ha, forgive me if I am not a basket champion ! » I burst out