Gemma: A Mafia Forbidden Romance

Pain, because this never should have happened. Niall should be alive.

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nbsp; But this is war.

And war requires sacrifices.

I don’t shower after I leave the casino. I exit through the back and climb into my truck. There’s something about letting the splatters of blood settle on me. I feel the depth of what I just did sink in.

There are many people in this life, in my own family, who don’t acknowledge what it really means to take a life.

To end someone.

But I can’t shake the feeling of it.

That’s what I just did in there. In the cold, deary casino basement I ended a man’s life. There were people in this world who loved him, probably. A mother, father, siblings, a wife, kids. All of them just lost someone.

And I’m the one who brought him to his death.

I don’t take the action lightly, contrary to what my father taught me. My mother was the one who instilled morals in me. Unfortunately my brothers missed the memo, but I heard every word. Every life is sacred, every life has meaning.

Sometimes, though, I wonder what meaning mine holds.

I maneuver my truck toward Chappaquiddick Island. I park at the end of Wasque Road, far enough from the beach where people will gather. I hike toward the cliffs, breathing in the salty air. When I get to the edge, I finally peel off my white shirt that's covered in blood, balling it up in my fist.

I feel the scream bubbling up in my chest.

It’s boiling up, consuming me until it finally leaves my lungs, a low growl that shakes my entire body.

I think a lot about throwing myself off the edge of this cliff. More often than I should, I imagine myself tumbling down, letting the ragged edge of the rocks cut into my skin, feeling the bite of the sticks as they strike me until I finally crash into the water. It’s shallow here, with rocks dotting the surface. A good hit should end me quickly. A bad hit could leave me worse off. Paralyzed, damaged.

I think I would deserve either outcome.

I light a cigarette, bringing it to my lips and inhaling a lungful of nicotine. I come here often, especially after a kill when these thoughts plague my mind. When I wonder what it would feel like to be cold and gone.

But I haven’t done it. I still haven’t taken the final jump.

A ringing coming from my pocket pulls me from the depths of my mind. I don’t want to answer it, I want to sit here and sink into the feeling. I tug the black iPhone from my pocket, bringing it to my ear and ending the relentless ringing. “What?” I growl.

“You’re not gonna fucking believe who just walked into your bar.”

THERE ARE ONLY SO MANY ways you can say “I’m sick” before people stop believing you. In my case, my family is becoming weary of my excuses.

They mean well; I think. They try to drag me out of bed, ply me with food, comforting movies, all of my favorite things. I feel like a child being manipulated with all her vices in order to elicit a smile.

But I don’t want to smile.

Inside me is a vortex of emptiness. It’s a swirling, glowing, precarious shade of calming blue and it takes me deeper and deeper, and further away. There’s nothing in this deep, deep darkness and I’m fine with that.

You can’t be sad if you can’t feel.

The grief counselor tells me to “feel it all”. To that I say, fuck you.

I’m fine with not reliving the memory of my mother’s death on repeat. I’m fine with being a shell of myself, a hermit crab tucked away in my neat and cozy bed, as long as it means that memory has disappeared.

I drown myself in food and shitty cable television.

The bad thing about having two mafia capos for brothers, is that no one will sell shit to me. Not even marijuana. I’m off-limits. They have effectively blacklisted me from drugs in this town. I’m running low on my stash. I have half a bottle of Adderall and a single joint left. I’ve opted for vodka more than the pills these last six months anyway. Vodka lets me sink deeper, Adderall tries to pull me back to the surface.