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MOONLIGHT
Anxiety coils within me, a serpent lurking in the pit of my stomach, its venomous fangs dripping with hatred for the man who tore my world asunder. My parents' faces haunt my every waking moment, their smiles turned to ash in the face of my vengeance. I will find the savage beasts responsible; I will be the harbinger of their demise.
I have been searching for years for the culprits that killed my parents with the help of my boss Enzo. He was a recruiter who saw the potential in me, a diamond in the rough of the underground pit fights. He promised me power, the skills of a shadow in the night, and the means to exact my retribution. I embraced the darkness, never looking back, becoming his finest assassin—his reaper cloaked in the essence of the night.
Memories of my father stoke the fires of my rage. He was my mentor, my anchor in the tempest of life. From the tender age of eight, he molded me into a warrior in the ring of kickboxing. I was his eager apprentice, always at his heels, yearning to step into the gym where he sculpted champions. He feared for me, his precious daughter, but I proved to be unbreakable, a fighter forged in his image.
The day I stood up to a bully twice my size, my fists spoke the language of defiance. My father saw the spirit of a champion within me, and from that day, he honed my skills with a dedication that knew no bounds. My mother, ever the protector, detested the thought of her child in combat, yet she swelled with pride at my resilience.
The night of their murder is etched into my soul, a scar that refuses to fade. The argument with my father still echoes in my ears, his words a desperate plea to shield me from the underworld's cruelty. But I was headstrong, blinded by ambition and the need to prove myself. I stormed out, leaving a chasm of unspoken apologies in my wake.
The guilt is a shroud that clings to me, a what-if that whispers of a reality where they might have been saved.
Their end was a spectacle of horror, a show of brutality that no child should witness. My father, once a titan in the ring, was reduced to a broken figure, forced to watch the desecration of the woman he loved. My mother, the embodiment of grace, was left a marred canvas of violence and violation.
Returning home, triumphant yet oblivious, I sought my father's approval, yearning for him to see the warrior I had become. But the silence that greeted me was a harbinger of the nightmare I stepped into. The chaos of the living room screamed of the atrocity committed, the blood a grotesque testament to their suffering.
My mother's eyes once filled with warmth, now stared vacantly, a mirror to the abyss that had claimed her. Her outstretched hand, a silent plea to of unspoken words, lay inches from my father, whose gaze was frozen in an eternal plea for mercy.
The scream that erupted from me was the birth cry of the avenger I would become. Collapsing, the bile of grief and fury rose within me, a tide that could not be stemmed.
They had made my father a spectator to their savagery, a final indignity that I could not—would not—forgive. His eyes, once so full of life, now bore the weight of unspeakable agony.
The sight of his battered form is seared into my memory, a canvas of violence against the backdrop of my mother’s warm beige skin. Bruises bloomed like cruel flowers across his body, each cut and scab a testament to their savagery.
In that moment, I vowed upon their memories, upon the love they had bestowed upon me, that I would become the storm that would cleanse the world of such monsters. The path was set, a journey of blood and vengeance, and I would walk it until justice was mine.
The last sensation that coursed through me before darkness claimed my consciousness was a piercing agony in my sternum, a prelude to the void.
I awoke to a world blurred by tears, my aunt Isabella's sobs a mournful symphony at my bedside. She recounted the tale of how I was discovered cradled in grief beside the lifeless forms of my parents. For a week, I drifted in and out of consciousness, my mind a battleground of hysteria and sedation, the nurses' only recourse to silence my screams.
In the sterile silence of the hospital room, I forged a vow from the shards of my broken heart. I would deliver retribution to those who had torn our family asunder, even if it meant dancing with death itself.
The package in my grasp was the key to unlocking the past, a Pandora's box of revelations. The photograph within, extracted from its brown paper prison, struck me with the force of betrayal. There, staring back at me, was King Matteo—my childhood confidant turned mafia monarch. The realization was a venomous bite, the sting of treachery from one I once called a friend.
