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It all started with the move. When my father, Alessandro Luciano Serrillo, died. My father was a great man, Italian born and bred, and very ambitious. A lot of people looked up to him, and I’d like to say I take after him. But I can’t, maybe in some ways. But there are a few things that separates him from me.
Things haven’t been going well for the past few years. About five years ago, when I was ten or eleven, my father became ill. I was rebellious as a “good kid” could go, not doing what my parents told me, and adding more gray hairs than necessary. Abira Kazia Bakamin-Serrillo, my mother, Hebrew and very proud, showed more affection than needed in those days, and my father… was a true father. I tried hard to make him proud. I was a daddy’s boy.
Apparently the great Alessandro Serrillo, owner of an up and coming electronic gaming company, had tuberculosis, a deadly disease with many complications. During that time, I didn’t really think much of it, because I thought he would get well, and come back home. I found out later that doctors couldn’t really help him, and his immune system wasn’t working properly or somewhat.
I got pitying looks from some people who knew of my fathers condition. Being as naïve as I was, I still didn’t understand.
A year later, my father still wasn’t home, and spent more time in the hospital than home or work, but was still able to run his company. But my mother wasn’t doing too well, and the maids at my home did their best to comfort her. She had picked up the habit of drinking, somewhere between the time my father got sick and said year.
A year later still and things didn’t improve much with my fathers condition, it leveled off. My mother picked up partners at a bar, and came home drunk. She didn’t really need to work as my fathers company supported us. Me being thirteen, I smartened up a little. I found out what tuberculosis really is, and concluded my father wouldn’t get better any time soon. I started to get depressed, and tried to spend more time with him.
My grades in school went down, and usually when my mother was sober enough, she visited my father and pretended everything was okay, or she yelled at me for my grades. The alcohol did nothing for her temper, as she would sometimes hit thirteen year old me.
A year later still, and my father’s brother Gianni Serrillo, moved in to help with the business. In his visits to the hospital, apparently he and my father were forming his will. Which did not include my mother in parts for her unfaithfulness. My father was not stupid, he still gave off vibes of strength, even in a hospital bed.
The fourth year, my mother got worse, and looked older than life, but still brought her “partners home”. My uncle looked on with disgust but did nothing. My father knew of course, and my mother stopped visiting. No longer was he the image of strength and power itself, but a man on his deathbed.I still loved him and would never stop. But I looked on my mother with what bordered on hatred. How dare she treat my father like that after all he did to support us. But then I remembered the woman she once was, and what brought her to this.
In the fifth year, my uncle was at the company a lot and couldn’t stop my mothers attacks. She started blaming everything on me, and hitting me more. She was very strong for the small woman she is. I became more depressed, and barely socialized, and looked forward to visiting my father a lot. I prayed for him to get better. I wanted that perfect image of strength and power again.
No such luck. When I was just starting to experiment with the sharpness of a razor blade against the inside of my wrist, the great Alessandro Luciano Serrillo, passed away. My mother ran off after the will was read and she found out she got no money, but for the things she already possess remain hers.My uncle sold off things in the house to pay the maids, and sold the house. I got a reasonable amount of money in a bank account from my father, it could easily pay for more than ten houses like the one my uncle sold, the one I lived in forever.
Which is why I’m not using it any time soon. My uncle said my father wanted me to have all the money, and for me to take over the company in the future. My uncle helped me pack, and we moved to his small house from the UK to Ireland. Why he lived in Ireland I had no idea. But he could work the business anywhere now. For six months I lived with him.
Now 16, I wasn’t taking everything in too well. Everything I had grown up around was gone. Gone was the home I came to love. Gone was the nice maid by the name of Ann who made me laugh at the worst of times. Gone were my feelings of security. Gone was my mother. Gone was my father. My Father…
My naïve brain couldn’t handle everything. My depression became worse. So I moved. I made like my mother and ran. The only time I’ll ever admit to being like her. As soon as something goes wrong with the family she changed. I will never be like her.
I wanted to get away. Away from things that reminded me of what I don’t have anymore. The ghost of my once perfect life. My life was already written, planned out. But my life evidently took a nasty turn. And I ended up in the current situation.
I used some money in my bank account, not caring what I promised myself before, and bought a flight to a place as far as I dared to go from my old memories. Italy. If anything goes wrong, I could go to my nonna and nonni. Grandmother was always nice to me whenever we visited when I was younger. Hopefully they remembered me.
I’m sure they’d recognize me. I’m told a lot, or was told, I am the spitting image of my father. I am a little paler than he was, from my mother. Same build, strong jaw, strong stance, curly hair and stormy gray eyes. I wear my hair longer than he did, though. I could only hope for the best.
I boarded the plane to Sicily, Italy without a backwards glance.
Don’t expect this to be the end. It’s far from it.