Memento Vivere Duet

Chapter 1

ONE

A gravelly voice breaks the silence. “Long night?” Howie, the neighborhood homeless guy, asks, sitting beside me on the grimy sidewalk.

I lift my head, offering him a tired smile. “Seems like the jerks just keep getting jerkier,” I grumble, my annoyance palpable.

Howie chuckles, a grin spreading across his weather-beaten face. He absently strokes his scruffy beard. “You’re out a bit later than usual,” he notes.

I pull my backpack onto my lap from beside me and dig around to get out the two cheeseburgers I bought, still hot from the convenience store’s warmer.

Handing one to Howie, I eagerly tear open the packaging of my own.

The smell of the fast food brings a small moment of comfort at the end of a long day.

“Tonight’s shift was a complete nightmare.

Cindy, as usual, didn’t lift a finger, leaving me to handle all the orders.

Some jerk thought it was funny to trip me with his foot, sending a tray full of tequila shots flying.

Not only did I have to deal with the mess, but Donny made me pay for it.

I worked so hard tonight and went out with zero tips,” I say before taking a big bite out of my burger.

Howie hesitates before opening his package. “You shouldn’t buy me food when you didn’t make money tonight, Lina,” he remarks, looking down at his burger.

“Dig in already, or it will get cold,” I say around a mouthful, looking down at my phone.

It’s just past three in the morning, and I’ll need to get up again in about three hours. Thankfully, the walk home isn’t too far.

Finally, Howie starts to eat his burger with shaking hands, and we sit in comfortable silence.

I hope this is not the first thing he’s eaten today.

That’s one of the reasons I like him so much. He has never once judged me for seeking comfort here after a rough day of work, using food to eat my feelings. He simply sits with me and lets me wallow in peace without commenting on my eating habits.

At least the burgers are only a dollar each, so I don’t have to feel too guilty about the money I spend every night. I already feel guilty enough for relying on food for solace.

I reach behind me and take out my hair tie to release my thick, straight, collarbone-length hair, loving how my slight headache lessens instantly.

As soon as I finish the burger, my emotions begin to settle.

It always feels like a therapy session. I can’t afford to see an actual therapist, but if I could, they would likely agree that I need to see one because I rely on food for emotional support.

I don’t have any friends besides Howie to vent to or discuss my feelings with.

And I can’t burden my sister with these issues.

She’s only sixteen, and I want her to grow up without facing the same struggles I did.

I want her to have a carefree childhood without constantly worrying about money or any of our other problems.

The wind picks up, and I shudder. It’s early November, and the nights are getting cold here in New York.

“Did you already contact Gloria for a sleeping space this winter?” I ask Howie.

“Nah, I can manage a while longer. Many other people need it more.” He shrugs.

I don’t know how old Howie is. He always tells me he forgot, but I would guess he’s in his mid-sixties and definitely should not sleep out in the cold.

With a grunt, I push myself upright, dusting off the back of my jeans, and pick up my backpack, slinging it over my shoulder. “You got everything you need for tonight?” I ask, looking at the old man with concern.

“I’m good, kid. But thanks,” he assures me, his voice tinged with gratitude. Then he looks at me sternly. “Don’t like you walking home this late. It ain’t safe.”

“My ass is not so easy to kidnap, you know,” I joke, giving my butt a slap. Howie just huffs, glancing away to hide the hint of a smile on his face. “Have a good night,” I say, turning to leave.

“You too, kid,” he grumbles, adjusting the blanket around his shoulders.

As I walk away, I make a promise to myself to visit the shelter tomorrow. But for now, all I can think about is making it home and getting a few precious hours of sleep.

My phone alarm goes off, jerking me awake. It doesn’t feel like I’ve slept at all, but there’s no time to dwell on that. I need to get up and prepare breakfast for Chiara. She’s still sleeping peacefully in bed next to me, completely oblivious of the alarm or my return last night.

We live in a tiny, rundown apartment with just two bedrooms. Roberto, our uncle, has the other one. There’s only one bathroom, a kitchen, and a living room. It’s absurd that I have to share a bed with my sixteen-year-old sister at almost twenty-two, but it’s the reality we’re stuck with.

At least I have a bed.

Getting up, I pull some clothes out of my drawer. I don’t have many to choose from. Most of my money goes toward rent, groceries, Roberto’s drinking habit, and things for Chiara. Besides, everything I own and wear is black, so it’s not noticeable if I wear the same shit repeatedly.

I make my way to the bathroom and quickly shower, brush my teeth and hair, and get dressed before applying some makeup.

I look in the mirror, and the only things I truly like about myself are my black hair and gold-brown eyes, which I inherited from my mother.

My sister, Chiara, and I resemble her a lot, with almond-shaped eyes that gently tilt upward.

Our mother was a beautiful Italian woman with sun-kissed skin and full lips. And while Chiara has her petite frame, I am even shorter than her and inherited my body shape from my father’s side, which is a lot curvier.

Unfortunately, it’s not the hourglass type of curvy with a flat stomach and a generous bust. I’ve had a belly, big thighs, and large arms for as long as I can remember. Being a size sixteen at only five feet two makes my body shape a circle.

If it weren’t for the fact that I love my little sister with all my heart, I might feel jealous of her for inheriting all the good genes.

But I’ve been taking care of her for the past five years, and she is all I have.

I could never harbor any resentment toward her, especially not for something as shallow as this.

Or so I tell myself.

As I finish my mascara, I notice her standing in the doorway.

“Can I have my turn?” she asks.

“Sure, piccola,” I say, reaching up to affectionately pat her head as I leave the bathroom and head into the kitchen to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Soon after, Chiara finishes in the bathroom and joins me in the kitchen to eat. I place a glass of orange juice and a plate in front of her.

“Buon appetito,” I say.

She smiles at me. “Grazie, Lina.”

She finishes her breakfast as the door to Roberto’s room opens.

Fuck, he’s not usually awake at this time of day.

He walks into the kitchen and immediately starts berating me. “Is there any food left for me, or did you eat everything again, pig?”

Trying to diffuse the situation, I grab two more slices of bread from the package. “I’ll make something for you too. You can go to sit in the living room, and I will bring it to you.”

As I begin spreading peanut butter on the bread, he grabs my wrist, causing me to look up at him. “I don’t want that cheap crap. Make me something better,” he demands, and I nearly puke from the sour smell coming out of his mouth.

I try to free my arm, but he’s a large man, and despite him being a raging alcoholic and in his fifties, I’m not strong enough to match him.

His black hair is starting to gray on the sides and his dark eyes that were once a pretty shade of brown are now always rimmed red.

The hand gripping my wrist has a black cross tattooed on it, already fading.

“We don’t have anything better here, Roberto. But these sandwiches are good, and I’m sure you’ll like them. Please, just sit down,” I plead.

In a fit of anger, he shoves me into the kitchen counter. “Don’t tell me what to do! Get me something better! Where is the money you owe me?” he barks out, his rage escalating.

I don’t owe him jack shit, as I’m the only one earning money and covering the rent and bills. But ever since he took us in five years ago after our parents passed away, he feels entitled to control and command me.

I never understood how my kind and loving father could have had a brother like him.

“Where is my money?” he shouts, pushing me again.

“I didn’t make any tips last night, but I’ll give you the money tomorrow after my shift,” I say, anticipating his next move when he forcefully grabs me and throws me to the floor.

“Lina!” Chiara cries out, rising from her chair.

“Go to the bathroom and lock the door!” I tell her as Roberto kicks my stomach.

“Lina…” Chiara pleads once more, shaking from head to toe.

I raise my voice. “Now, Chiara!”

She obeys, closing the bathroom door just as Roberto delivers another kick. As soon as the click of the lock echoes, I curl my body into a ball, trying to shield my head with my hands.

“You worthless, fat piece of shit! I’m going to teach you what happens when you steal my money!” he spews, continuing to kick me until he’s out of breath.

I watch as he staggers into the living room, mumbling, then wince as I struggle to sit up from the floor, pain coursing through my body. My lip is busted and bleeding, and I know I’ll have bruises all over my torso again, but it seems like nothing is broken. This time.

He’s broken some of my ribs twice before. I don’t have insurance, so I’ve never been to the hospital to get them checked, but I felt it at the time.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, I take a shaky breath, my lungs aching. The bathroom door inches open, and Chiara’s wide, frightened eyes find mine. They share the same golden hue as our mother’s, and I see a flicker of her in them for a moment.

How I wish she could be here right now.

Thinking of my mother pulls a memory to the forefront, and my heart aches.

The world blurs around me as I run, the wind rushing past my ears, the grass tickling my feet.

I feel invincible, like a bird soaring through the sky.

But suddenly, my foot catches on something, and I’m tumbling forward.

The ground rushes up to meet me, and I feel a sharp sting on my knees.

I look down to see them scratched and bleeding.

“Topolina!” I hear Mama’s voice, filled with concern. She’s by my side in an instant, her hands gently examining my wounded knees. “Oh, my little mouse, are you okay?”

I bite my lip, trying hard to hold back the tears. I don’t want to cry. I want to be brave. But the pain is real, and the tears threaten to spill.

Then, I hear the soft cooing of my baby sister and my father’s familiar footsteps. He approaches, holding Chiara in his arms. Her big golden eyes look at me curiously, her tiny fingers reaching out.

“Here,” Papa says, handing her to my mother. He then kneels in front of me, his eyes searching mine. “It’s okay to cry, Lina. Pain is a part of life. But remember, it’s never okay to give up. You’re strong, and you can handle everything.”

I nod, tears streaming down my face. My father smiles gently, and with a strength that always amazes me, he lifts me onto his shoulders. From up here, the world looks different—brighter—and the pain in my knees fades as we walk.

With a gentle shake of my head, I push the memory away, knowing I need to be present, and my tears won’t be helpful to anyone right now.

With a silent nod, I beckon Chiara, not wanting to risk capturing Roberto’s attention. She hesitates just a second before coming over, her whole body trembling. She gently touches my arm as though to ensure she is not hurting me.

With her help, I get up, but I wobble, the pain piercing through. She steadies me but is still shaking herself.

Her voice is choked, almost a whisper against the lingering silence in the kitchen, and tears fill her eyes as she asks, “Are you okay?”

I muster a weak smile, more for her sake than mine. “Of course. Come on, we can’t have you late for school.”

She glances at my face, her brow furrowing with worry. “Your lip… It’s bleeding.”

“Let me wash this off,” I say, limping toward the bathroom.

She hovers nearby before I close the door behind me. Her presence is a bittersweet reminder that, in this chaos, at least we have each other. Even though I’d give a lot to have her out of here.

Taking deep breaths and fighting back tears, I wash away the blood from my lip. It’s tender, but the damage is not noticeable from afar.

“I’ll be fine. Just two more years.” I whisper to myself, taking in my reflection.

I snap the mask of indifference I show the world in place and prepare for another dreadfully long day.