A Painting

By Lia Low

“What have I done?” I asked myself, looking upon the now ruined painting. Nothing had ever been so awfully conveyed; it was a brutal message and one that I could not take back.

It started this morning, when the wind was cold and the air was dry. The breeze pushed and prodded at my clothing, which ultimately slowed down my mission: to confront Austin Nerezza. He was the man who blew my life apart, scattered the pieces too far to find, and left without a word.

We had an improbable encounter almost a decade ago. It was unlikely and wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for my ignorance. I had walked in on my father’s meeting, the meeting that I was previously told to stay away from. I wanted to be more involved with my family’s business, but as a young woman it was more difficult to prove myself. My existence was revealed to those we planned to ally with, but after seeing me, they backed out of the deal. My stupidity had almost ended the entire Donatello name; so I, Allegra Donatello, had planned to restore everything I’d lost.

Tomorrow it would be ten years since I promised to obliterate his life in worse ways than revenge. Killing would’ve be too merciful for a man like Nerezza; he wouldn’t have shown anyone mercy. He wouldn’t have allowed mercy. He didn’t for my brother, even when I cried, screamed, and pleaded for him to speak, to show some form of emotion, even if it were rage.

My recollection of Nerezza wasn’t vague. It was the most detailed memory I would ever have. He lived in my nightmares and slept in the back of my mind. He followed me, but it was never him. The thought of him didn’t make me shudder with goosebumps the way it used to. Austin Nerezza was like a storm in the summertime, he’d destroy everything around him, but after he passed, nothing would be as bad as seeing him again.

“Save yourself, little sister,” were the last words that my brother managed to choke out in the stifling air. After the second bomb had gone off, parts of the ceiling had fallen, trapping my brother. I left my family by choice and if I didn’t get rid of the Nerezzas, everything I worked for in the last decade would be for nothing.

Austin Nerezza may have prospered and he may have thrived, but he couldn’t have planned for what he had coming. He had gone inside his elephantine mansion going straight to his office, which took almost ten minutes because of how excessively large his home was. He had an oddly shaped house, but with pristine furniture on the inside. He would sit at the large office desk doing unnecessary paperwork for a few hours each day; however, it became the perfect coverup for his dirty business. Nerezza was a dangerous man, more perceptive than most; but in his eyes, I had died along with my brother ten years ago. This time, I had the upper hand.

I had sat, perched on the window ledge next to his office, and waited for his night guards to arrive for their shift change. The knives tucked into my belts and straps would be more than enough to kill both the guards and Nerezza. Over the decade, it was plausible that I had saved him more times than his own men. They were below useless, and I was above effective. I never helped him; I just extended his life enough to be sure that my face would be the last he ever saw. I had waited until just after dusk, still perched upon the window’s ledge, and able to peer into his space without being noticed. I may have spent ten years planning Nerezza’s end, but I’d never actually touched the man, let alone be in the same room as him. My time was a river, limitless, but there was still an end.3 I needed to be certain that his end came before mine.

I had waited until just after dusk, still perched upon the window’s ledge, and able to peer into his space without being noticed. I may have spent ten years planning Nerezza’s end, but I’d never actually touched the man, let alone be in the same room as him. My time was a river, limitless, but there was still an end. I needed to be certain that his end came before mine.

I had slipped through the window of the room next to his office. My shoes were made for these types of missions: quiet, but comfortable. The men outside his office came into the room after hearing the window shut, as planned. Knives to their throats. Silent, but deadly. I slumped their bodies against the wall as if it would buy me extra time. In approximately fifteen minutes, the guards in the house would rotate, meaning that I had less than fifteen minutes to kill Austin Nerezza.

I opened his office door. His hand immediately started to drift towards the panic button just beneath his desk. I knew him as well as he knew himself, if not better. The two knives that fled my hands were automatic, pinning both of his to the dark, polished wood.

“How long did this take you?” Nerezza asked manically, like he was hoping for this. I memorized every mark and line that drew together that hideous smirk. It was oppressively cold, so cold, that he shouldn’t have a soul. My hate for him was palpable, yet he acted as if it didn’t bother him.

“Why does it matter how long it took me if you don’t have very long left?” I replied.

“And why might that be?”

“You killed my family.”

I watched him, I followed him, I killed him. I was a fragment of his plans, but he was the entirety of mine and now he lay silent, my favourite weapon planted in his chest.

“What have I done?” I whispered again, staring at my bloodstained hands in awe.