#Fight #ClosingDay #PreciousMemory

Surely everyone in the neighborhood heard my screams.

I yelled towards my mother and I did not give her time to say a single word, I spewed on her all the hateful words I have in my mind towards my uncle, his family and towards the ridiculous condition in which we live.

I went into the bedroom, slamming the door so hard it broke the handle, and I started crying.

My mother knocked but I never opened.

After a few hours I decided to go out: I feel guilty towards her, she is a victim of her brother too.

The house is dark, Mom isn't here. I walk towards the garbage to throw away the tissues, but others tissues are piled up, probably my mother's.

I must have really hurt her.

I'm so sorry for her, I shouldn't have attacked her like that. Unfortunately I am short tempered and she, who is always gentle and caring towards others, had the worst as usual.

The fault is all of that idiot of my uncle, the garage is his.

As well as the house, as well as our lives.

The only sin our mother and I committed was accepting "help" from our uncle.

After my parents separated, the house we lived in was put up for sale, my mother invested that money to openi this place where I serve pizzas and various dishes at the tables.

In the meantime he told us that we could live here, in his second home, where we still pay the rent and without even a discount.

A house in which he has the duplicate of the keys, a house where he swoops in without warning every weekend, to check that his granddaughter's monkey, that is, me, hasn't destroyed it: that was how he called me unscrupulous when I was little and he didn't even care that I was listening.

In his little brain he always believed that my passion for music was stuff for junkies, that they drink, take drugs and demolish whatever they have in front of them, an idea that he had when I was fourteen, but which of course applies very well today too.

External relatives, as I define uncles and cousins, always kept me distant because of my lively and direct personality.

If we add the fact that I was quite showy and that I always defended minorities, I always had some enemies in my family.

Yet I become extremely docile over the years, so as not to make my mother fight with my uncle, who after all gave us work and a place to stay.

Now he can forget that I will stay and live here one more day and that I will be his slave in the pizzeria, I will no longer be in the palm of his hand

Mom has always been a bit weak, I'll be the one to wake her up: I'm tired of seeing her with eye bags, being the slave of a man who at sixty can only say about his existence to have worked for twenty-five years with his arms, because this is the only thing he can aspire to do in life. Without a wife and living in his mother's house until fifty, without a single friend to drink with.

I slipped into the street that leads to the pizzeria, today is Monday, closing day, yet the lights are on, the shutter is half open.

Thieves?

From inside I can hear arguing: my mother and uncle's voices.

I slightly bow my head, I am so short I manage to enter: I crouch behind the counter trying to eavesdrop.

"How dare you talk to me like this when I gave you a roof over your head and a place to work?" uncle's fat, stupid voice sounds even more disgusting tonight.

"No, it is me who gave you a place to work after you finished with house arrest!"

House arrest? This is new.

"What an ungrateful sister you are, you couldn't wait to reproach this story, right?" Remember that there is my name on the intercome of the house where you live! "

"And remember that in order to help you I also paid your electricity bills every other month when you were in trouble!" mom bangs her fists on a table. "And that the house where I live, where you make me pay the rent and where my name is not even on the intercom, was registered to both of you!"

"What's wrong with that?" When I needed a job you helped me to open the place, while I let you stay in that house, which, as you said, is not only yours! "

"But you already had a place to stay!" mom keeps banging her fists on the table.

“Then you could have avoided getting a divorce! So you could stay in that house and maybe avoid ruining the pizzeria's table by punching it with the wedding ring that you still insist on wearing on your finger!"

"Fred was very important to me and he is Carolina's father, you have no right to accuse us of not being able to forget him! How could you give away the little girl's guitar without asking? Just because you never liked her... » Mom wipes her tears breathless.

How dare he talk about our family this way, this loser?

"Carolina a little girl? At her age I had years of work behind me, while she barely knows how to bring two dishes to the table and started studying with years of delay... "

Now stop. I got up from hiding and looked at him with the nastiest and most disgusting expression that I can manage: “At my age you had years of work, huh? And what job did you do, rob the supermarkets? A good career, really. "I clapped as loud as I could as his face turned red.

Grunting like a pig, he approached me pointing a finger: «You ugly spoiled brat, how dare you talk to your uncle like that? When I was your age... "

"...Were you in jail at my age? Think about your life before judging others!"

"Carolina, please..." my mother begs me to stay silent.

"No mum, I'm not going to let this troglodyte put shit on my face anymore!" I quit, you do what you want! "

"Carolina, wait..."

“Don't try to persuade me! This idiot stole the guitar that you and dad gave me and threw it away, sold it, only he knows what he did!"

Mom started stammering: "I promise you I'll buy you another one, don't be like that..."

"I don't give a shit about the guitar itself, it was a memory!"

It is the last gift you gave me when we were still together. I know that the memory will always remain in my heart and all the bullshit but I just want to get away from that house, stop doing an underpaid job, always feeling judged by a stupid just because we are unfortunately related... And if I can use the loss of the guitar as an excuse, of course I will!

It was my precious guitar.

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