Shattered Minds

I've spent my entire life dependent on what I know. I've leaned on the wisdom of my family. They were responsible for my path. I knew exactly what my life was going to look like.

Overnight I had to learn that I need to depend on myself.

The last two months have taught me more about myself than I cared to know. Being trapped inside of my home like a caged animal wasn't the kind of fun I had planned for the summer. A select few were allowed in, and they often spent more time worrying about the people that weren't.

The federal government was working a little too closely with my remaining family and me, knowing that I am only seventeen and now considered an orphan. My older brother grew antsy as more authorities became involved. A little digging from that level of jurisdiction could unveil a lot about the Mariotti family, and then our credibility about what reaches the papers will go down the drain. We can't afford to lose control of our state of affairs. The limit to what I would do in order to protect what we still have is high.

The court asked me to do a lot of things while the evidence was being processed. They insisted I go see a shrink. Fine. Done deal. Try and live with a more qualified caretaker. Whatever. I lasted a week with my Uncle Leonardo, but I gave it a shot no matter what. Consider witness protection. I'll mull it over.

However, snitching on live television? That's where I drew the line.

My brother and I had discussed it relentlessly. Weighing all of our options. The police officers know that we weren't responsible for the deaths that have torn us apart these last couple of months. That would be beyond disturbing Netflix Docu-Series type shit if we had been the cause.

In the end, we'd asked ourselves: why did the media need to know? The publications would only put us in mortal danger, and we had already evaded death enough times. We weren't willing to gamble our lives further. Broadcasting the truth is like doing the tango with the grim reaper.

At the end of the day, my family has been damned for a long time. I'm probably just delaying the inevitable, but at least it's delayed.

That's something I've known my entire life. That I'm damned. That's knowledge that's never let me down. While I'd love to believe that the one thing I could always count on is me, my time in court forced therapy changed that. I thought I knew myself, and I didn't.

I was on a six-week program with Dr. Peters, and for the first half of it I sat in silence. I couldn't decide whether she was batshit crazy, a genius, or a bitch. She told me things I didn't need to hear. Or perhaps what I didn't want to hear. She said those weren't always the same thing. What I want and what I need. Who knew?

Mrs. Peters talked a lot, and I rarely did. For the last three weeks I would at least say goodbye, maybe grumble a word or two, and possibly ask a question. If I was in a good mood. The difference was that I actually listened in the last three weeks and hated that I did.

She tried to tell me that I was abused, or that I felt guilty about my upbringing. Everyone knows my family is in the mafia. It's the unspoken truth about the Mariotti's, but we don't come out and say it. So she couldn't illicitly mention what I'd done or why she thought what she did, but she could make these stupid analogies while she wrote in her stupid notebook.

Mrs. Peters spoke of memories. She'd spew statistics about me, saying how easy it is to plant memories in someone's head. How unreliable dreams are, and all this shit. Then she let me go. No treatments. Mrs. Peters didn't try to 'fix' me using psychology or voodoo. At the end of my time, she waved goodbye confidently as if her goal had been accomplished, and left me with my thoughts. I didn't know she had a goal. If she did, she succeeded, because now I'm here.

Currently, I'm in my house, trying to remember how I perceived this place before everything happened. Before everyone died, and before I'd shut my emotions down and tried not to care. I tried to remember the childhood I lived, where I didn't see anything wrong. I tried to remember the Francesca that could tune out what the news was saying about her, and live her life without internal consequence. I couldn't remember that part of me. I could only remember my childhood for what it was: chaotic. There were good times that coated the darkness like the hard shell on a candy. A small layer that's supposed to shield me from everything else. That's supposed to cover everything else up.

Meanwhile on the inside, there was my actual childhood. Grueling. Toxic perfectionism that I had never been able to accomplish.

The sun is setting outside. Tensions are high in this house. I tip-toe over to the window as quietly as possible, avoiding the shattered pieces of glass and allowing the light to hit me as little as possible. The camera crews are packing up, meaning that our nighttime visitor would come by soon. Who knew how far he'd take it this time?

My eyes scan once again for what he'd thrown last night, landing on the brick that scraped mother's beloved hardwood floor. Every time I see it, my heart starts beating. I note the piece of paper bound to the brick by the rubber band.

Enzo told me not to touch it. He said that there could be something dangerous on it and that we should wait to deal with it. He says that about everything. He knows that we can't live like this anymore, and is postponing the inevitable.

Now is my chance. I look over my shoulder, watching as the men and the women that lurk outside my house all put their cameras and microphones into the back of their vans and make their way into the security of their vehicles, and by extension, to their normal lives, in their normal house, and with their normal families. They are able to leave the nightmares at work.

That's when I go for it. I avoid the glass as much as I can, but the sound of it crunching under my boots makes me cringe, the same way my mom would have if she'd heard it. Since I'm now in front of the broken window, I can feel the cool breeze on my back, causing my hair to tickle the nape of my neck. The flyaways cause me to jump, fearing that my brother would come out of his room and stop me in the dramatic way he often does.

My hands shake as they clamp down on the brick, but I force myself to keep my hands steady. Father would be so angry if he saw me tremble. I snap the elastic off and read the childlike handwriting scribbled across the water-damaged paper. The ink from the pen he had used had begun to smudge and trail down, but not to the point of illegibility.

I'll give you a head start. The countdown begins now, and you know what the rules are.

See you on the other side, Francesca.

My heart begins to race, and I nearly jumped clean out of my skin when the note is snatched from my hand. "Frankie! I told you not to touch the fuckin' thing." I recognize the raspiness of the voice from anywhere.

"Don't scare me like that, Enz!" I scold. I narrow my eyes at my brother, as we stare each other down.

"Then maybe don't do shit you're not supposed to be doing for once," my brother scoffs, slowly reading the note over, "who does this bastard think he is? Threatening you."

"Enzo," I sigh.

"Seriously. If he thinks he can scare you out of your home, that'll just prove that he's gone mental."

It's like he's forgotten how we got here. What has led us to behave like animals. Only, we are worse than most animals, as we fear night and day. We hug the shadows as we walk around our house to avoid exposure. We stay concealed during the light hours, then emerge at night to avoid the outside world. Enzo won't hear reason. Detroit is the only home we have ever known, and leaving has never been an option.

"Enzo," I repeat.

"I swear to God, I'm going to find this motherfucker. Between you, me, and our men, we can take him out. I know it!"

"I'm leaving," I tell him. That shuts him right up, but I don't give him the chance to get a word out. "He said that he'd back off of you if I left. He will give me a head start, and I should take it. We can't live like this anymore."

"What kind of crazy pills have you been takin', little one?"

I roll my eyes. "I'm serious."

"I am too. Where are you gonna go? Frankie, he'll kill you before you get to Lake Erie."

"No, he won't."

"How do you know?"

The hunt is just as much fun as the kill. I would know.

"I just do."

"Where will you go?"

I stare off for a moment. Where do you go? I can go anywhere in the world. I'm a lot better off than many other kids in this situation. I have money. I have resources. My eyes dart over to the wall of photos. There has to be at least twenty, but my eyes focus on only one. A blurry photo, with a soothing landscape background. An overlook, standing tall and proud over a small town. A city lines the horizon. I catch my own eyes in the foreground. Then my father's. Followed by my mother's. Her stomach was large and she had her hand wrapped around it, unaware at how close to her due take she actually was. Beside me is my sister, Adele. Enzo and Alice decided to stay back.

That's the picture that gives me my answer. Not Enzo and I flipping each other off in front of the Eiffel Tower. Or the sepia filtered photo of Alice and I walked down Fifth Avenue. It's not even the picture of myself, holding my younger sister on my back in front of a crystal blue ocean of Grand Turks and Caicos. My mother was a woman of many passions, one of them being photography.

"Fairmount," I explain, "that's the best option. I'll be safe. I'll be less traceable, and I'll be able to live normally. As normal as a teenage billionaire mob daughter can live, at least."

My brother rolls his eyes. Even in the face of potential doom, I'm still a sarcastic bitch. "You're not leaving! I can't keep an eye on you out there."

"I'm the one that's putting you in danger, Enz."

"I'm in charge. I'm supposed to take care of you."

"That's not true. You're young. Watching over me can't be your main priority. Just let me fix my mistakes, and not drag you down with me for once."

My brother's jaw tenses. When my parents died, he felt the need to take up the role of my father. At only twenty-six, he has the pressure of owning a mult-billion dollar company, and has been put in charge of his reckless little sister that practically has a bounty on her. I wish he'd remember that I'm an orphan. I wish he wouldn't tear himself apart to be someone he is not.

"You don't drag me down. You're my sister," he shrugs, "you don't have to do this. I can handle everything."

"You shouldn't have to," I reply. He never wanted these responsibilities. Enzo sighs. "When would you be leaving?"

"Tonight. That note has been there for a day and I don't know how much time he'll give me."

"Takin' Brandy?"

"Of course," I tell him, "he hates it here now."

"Alright," my brother sighs, gripping my shoulders and holding me at arm's length. I can see in his eyes that he wants more. He wants to pull me into his arms and hug me tight and tell me that everything will be okay, but we can't do that. That's a sign of weakness, and for as long as I remain in Detroit, and as long as he is the boss of the Mariotti family, frailty is not an option. Vincenzo would never forgive us for that. "I guess you have a call to make."

My brother and I stare at each other for a long moment. We don't blink. The thought of having to say goodbye to each other seems unbearable, but the ramifications of not leaving could be far worse, and that's not a risk I am willing to take. I'd rather say "see you later" than never be able to say hello again.

I search his eyes for a sign of approval. He knows, deep down, there's no way I'll be able to do this without him on my side. We may argue as siblings do, but we are a unit no matter what. He hesitates. I can see it in his eyes. It's in his nature to protect me, but he gives in with a nod.

In a flash, I've disappeared down the stairs, still hugging the darkness of the shadows, and praying that this is the next step we need to take before either of us can see the light again.

From a young age, my father made sure I knew I was privileged and reminded me to never take what I have for granted.

My dad, despite his obvious ethical issues, had some noble qualities, he was never one to believe that economic status determined someone's worth. Some of the hardest working people have three jobs and barely make enough to put food on the table. They're overlooked, overworked and still go hungry.

My dad also knew that the people before him, the ones that started his company, began at the bottom and worked their way up, and that's why we have what we have.

With that being said, I never thought I'd leave Grosse Pointe Shores. Not so much because my house is enormous, and has a hot tub, but because it's the only home I've ever known. I much less thought that I'd be packed up and out the back door in three hours.

I'd reread the note thrown through my window in my head far too many times, and every time I did so I packed faster. My dog was going ballistic. Brandy has been sick of being stuck in the house during the legal progressions, and upset that Enzo and I haven't been as active lately. Between the dangers of what threatens us at night, and the media attention that we try to avoid lurking on our front lawn, it had been hard to fit in the daily walks he'd gotten used to. The times I pushed through, we ended up in a walking interview with a nosy reporter.

Brandy loved the attention. My three-year-old golden retriever was a gift for my 15th birthday, or as some people like to call it, Christmas.

I'm one of those children cursed with being a Christmas Baby. Meaning my big days were always overlooked with holiday cheer. I feel like I handled them very well. When I was really young I gave everyone a really hard time about sharing the attention, but once I got to double digits it became an unspoken rule that mornings were dedicated to Christmas and the evenings were mine.

However, the day I got Brandy, I felt like I'd won the entire day for the first time. It's been hard to see him so miserable throughout all of this. Brandy getting excited about seeing the boxes and the luggage made the process harder in the physical sense. However, I saw his excitement as a sign that I was making the correct decision. At the very least, he'd be happy.

Enzo and I struggled to get everything snuck out the back door, stuffed in my Jeep and ready to go, and even then, Brandy and I still had a fourteen-hour car ride ahead of us.

I've been lucky enough to travel to a lot of different places. Italy, Barcelona, France, and various destinations around the United States.

My favorite? When I was nine, my parents took me and one of my sisters down to visit my Uncle Salvatore. We'd never heard much about the East Coast before. We knew it existed, but not about the people and the culture. Simply that they have funny accents, they are built for the cold, and they call water fountains 'bubblers'.

I didn't expect to love it there. I didn't expect it to be one of the best vacations we'd ever had. There was something about Fairmount, Massachusetts that you don't get out of most places. While I didn't know why we were there, I knew that there was no place I'd rather be.

That's why I chose it again. When Exit 23 nears, a rather uncomfortable exit number, in my opinion, I remember how excited I'd been sitting in the back seat of the car, my parents and Adele surrounding me. Much like then, I stared at the leaves changing from the deep green to a sun-kissed orange, along with its array of brilliant yellows and vibrant reds, and watched as the cool autumn air rustled them and caused a select few to swirl in the wind. The grass and the sky have a different contrast that you didn't always see in the other seasons. You can taste the autumn in the air over here. Air so sweet you're convinced it's pumpkin or cinnamon flavored.

This time, I'm no longer surrounded by my family, but by my dog. He has been very patient and well-behaved on this long journey, except when he ate my fries and Sweet and Sour Sauce during pit stop four. I've barely forgiven him for such an occurrence, but I let him keep his seat nonetheless.

Quite honestly, the only thing that could make Brandy a better road trip companion is opposable thumbs. Using voice command to change the music caused so much frustration, I almost used the radio.

The second biggest struggle ended up being locating 24-hour coffee shops. This particular dihlemma forced me to resort to energy drinks from sketchy gas stations. By the grace of whatever diety is up above, Brandy and I pressed through without having to pull into a motel for a night.

In fact, I have made the last fourteen hours go by without even contemplating turning around. That is, until now. The GPS saying ten minutes changed something inside of me. The doubt and the guilt flood in faster than I can handle.

It's not irreversible. You can turn around.

My palms sweat and stick to my steering wheel as my heart starts pumping faster. I can imagine there will be a lot of theatrics when I finally arrive, given the evident confusion in my Uncle's voice when I'd given him the call.

I don't understand why I'm so uneasy. I rarely question my decisions and was trained to keep a level head, no matter how daunting a new challenge may be. My dog looks over at me. It's like he knows. "Don't bitch out," he practically says with his eyes.

"Oh shut up," I reply playfully. I'm not crazy for talking to my dog. Everyone does it.

I accelerate forward a little, trying to shave off some of the time I have left. Speeding up will give me less time to change my mind.

In the back of my head, I know that I have a choice. I may have already gotten off Exit 23, but with a simple turn, I could blast right past this small, uncharted town and head right to Loghan International Airport. I could be on the next flight to anywhere I want, and I'd make sure that Brandy was by my side still.

I don't do that. Instead, I weave my way between streets. My GPS reroutes me three times, given that it rarely tells me to turn until the desired turn is behind me. It's not very helpful.

I look around. My eyebrow raises when I see a sign. A peculiar sign. "Riverside District," sticking out of the ground on the side of the road. It's not a populous road by any means, and the land also doesn't seem to belong to anyone.

The letters on it are jagged and rushed. The sign was slammed into the ground crooked and without caring, and the seasons seemed to have taken their toll on the cheap wood.

Perhaps a lot has changed since the last time I've been to Fairmount. Change happens constantly, a small town in Massachusetts is not immune to that. However, the prospect of there being districts in Fairmount is unsettling. I may have been 9 years old when I last visited this place, but even then I would have noticed something like that.

Or perhaps I wouldn't. Not according to Mrs. Peters, I can't depend on my own memories. Curse you, ungodly woman.

I slow down as I pass the sign, glaring at the meaning behind the word district. 'District' would be a reason to keep moving. It could be a tell that this decision was the wrong one. I could be reading it wrong. Instead of saying 'Riverside District', maybe it says 'Book A Flight'.

Despite that idea, I pull onto my Uncle's long driveway. Maybe staying here is smart, given how overlooked Fairmount is. Maybe I'm simply an idiot with a death wish.

I'm a girl built by mistakes, and this could be my next one. If life has taught me anything it's that family always comes first. My Uncle, Aunt, and cousins are just about the only family I have left now.

Giovanni isn't the only one that can play games. It takes two to tango, and after all that I've lost all I can say is:

I'm ready to dance to the death.