That day I was helping in the garden, I was in charge of picking the ripe tomatoes, and removing the ones that were ruined by snails.
In the distance, I saw two cars arrive, those sporty ones, the kind you use when you want people to know you have money. Everyone who came to this house had cars like that, so it wasn't too surprising either.
I continued with my tasks without paying too much attention, until Mary called me; they needed coffee in the study.
I was the one in charge of taking it, because Mr. Leggio, my father, knew very well that I wouldn't say anything about what I heard in there, not when I knew what awaited me if I were to open my mouth, and boy, did I know it. That's why that study was my responsibility, for its cleaning as well.
I entered carrying the tray with what they had ordered: two coffees and a whiskey. I left them on the table neatly, with sugar and everything they needed to serve themselves. There were two gentlemen; I didn't stop to look at them, I wanted to be in there as little as possible. I stood to one side, waiting for them to give me the order to leave. Just as he was about to give me the order, Mr. Leggio got angry because I had forgotten his ice. I swear he hadn't asked for it; I would never forget anything of his, and certainly not on purpose. Anyway, I couldn't object, only apologize. So I did. Despite that, he was very angry and insulted me.
"Where is my ice?"
"I forgot it, sir, I'm sorry. I can bring it right away."
"You're so incompetent, I should teach you a lesson right here."
One of the men interceded, "Come on, Leggio, it's just a bit of ice, man. Don't torture the young woman."
"I'm sorry, sir, I'll bring it right away."
I withdrew, and my feet couldn't carry me fast enough to fetch that blessed ice. I brought it immediately, left it, and waited again for the order to leave. Mr. Leggio just gave me one of those looks that told me what would await me later. I left, already thinking about my torment to come.
Night came, and with it, one of my usual tasks: collecting the dishes. I always leave the study for last because while I do everything else, I keep an eye out to make sure Mr. Leggio isn't nearby. That way, I try to avoid him as much as possible, especially today, after the ice problem. To my misfortune, once inside the study and as I was putting everything on the tray, I heard the door close, and then footsteps. I didn't even want to look because I knew what was coming. He grabbed me by the hair, shook me, and punched me in the face, which immediately cut my lip and made me bleed. He pushed me hard, and I fell to the floor. Once there, he kicked my head, which made my nose bleed, and once I covered my face, he kicked me hard in the stomach, leaving me breathless.
"You just can't stop being so stupid. I can't believe that after all this time you don't learn. You're detestable."
And just as he came, he left.
It wasn't all because of the ice; he simply hated me, detested me. I still didn't quite know why.
What little I knew was that my mother was a young Romanian gypsy woman. She had me young, perhaps before she was 20, or even younger. She died of an overdose. I don't have many memories of her, and although she wasn't mother of the year, she never mistreated me, not to this extent. From what little I know, from one of the social workers at the orphanage, she was in a gypsy community. I don't know when she met this man, my father, nor how he found out about my existence. I don't know if they had a relationship or if it was just a one-time thing, and here I am. I don't know how she ended up in Italy, if she was from here, if she has family. I know nothing about her, and there was no more information than what they could share with me.
He hates me, because I clearly must remind him of something he wants to forget, and perhaps my very existence is proof that it happened, that it existed.
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