Union Of Death (Secrets of The Famiglia Part 2)

Present-day

The darkness can be the setting for one's nightmare or the sign of one’s escape. There are instances between life and death, decisions we need to make.

Only when we are weighing our options thinking we chose the most plausible of the lot, we have no idea that the selections we end up making, can sometimes have drastic consequences.

Like the people who killed my friend, Ren. They had no idea when they pulled that trigger, we were going to catch up to them so easily. Stupid people. The one who betrayed us had no inclination that we would ever find out.

We have, well, I have. And right now, I am the one with the trump card. But showing my hand too early would not be wise so I bite my tongue. Waiting.

The long skinny brush hangs by the tail end through my nimble fingers as the brown-colored tip glides across the roughened canvas, reminding me, how easy one small simple judgment can influence a vast amount of other aspects. We are the product of our choices. And most of the time we screw it up, royally.

What we do, what we say, where we end up is all part of who we choose. Yes, who. Because it all comes down to you verse everyone else.

Like this painting, I chose the brown thinking it was going to bring a balance to the grey clouds, but all it brings is duller, faded shades of grief.

In the not too different past, I assumed that life wasn’t a nomination of oneself but the rulings of the ones around me. My opinion on that changed, the day Marco Catelli walked out of my life. My ‘take’ on a lot of things has changed since then. Including my interpretation of the word ‘art’. Once a form of indulgence, now my promise of vengeance. How easily is the heart tainted by its adversary, rejection?

I'm missing something so full. Yes, full,

am full of pain and

me of how empty I am, and how pale my existence has become. In the darkness of my bedroom I convince myself I’d wake up, I’d be numb, the pain I feel would

at me, looking me in the eyes, and telling me that it was just a dream. Yes, it would be one heck of a choice to believe this is a dream, to convince myself that my life, my lack thereof

life never works that way. Life is meant to be difficult. Smooth sailing is a joke, nothing is ever simple, and if anyone tries to convince you differently, then I suggest you have your Glock against their head for spewing shit to you.

ride just being born. Add in the extras and you got

normal conversation amongst our kind. Talk about someone getting whacked, or your uncle Benny

of those things. Because that is what the underworld is about, and we, the women born in this darkness take

else than our brand of fucked up. We only know one way. And even if you are stupid enough

over her heart. It was a good choice, we have to choose

24-year-old Rosa is. She’s now a myth, a story without a proper face. Some say she is a slave to her parents, who keep her locked up in their home. Others say she is the lucky

way, no one has seen the girl in years. Like my cousin, Rosco. My mouth tilts at the thought of our last interaction just a few days ago. My ‘presumably’ dead cousin, now a biker named Knight. How small is the earth

the cold air seeps through my jersey. I twirl my brush, making sure I get the perfect curl around the chair's back. I would need to

shakes as I use my tiny brush to get the corner end of the chair perfects to my

lips tug at how every day is a new day, making way for a fresh start. Even us, criminals, evil killers, the tortured ones, get that