Fragile Wings

1

Lucca

Ilook at the four bare walls of my two-bedroom house and smile. It’s fucking stupid to smile over something as simple as barren walls, but I can’t help it. When you grow up with nothing of your own, nothing that has ever truly been yours, a pair of shoes, or even a bed, you smile at the stupid things, like getting your own place.

The neighborhood is shitty, and since moving in two days ago, I’ve heard police sirens and fighting out in the halls, all hours of the day.

It’s not the best fucking place in town, but it’s good enough for me. At eighteen, there isn’t much I care about. Pussy and money are the most important things in my life.

I walk into what would be the living room if I had a couch or something to sit on. When I moved in, I got the bare minimum, a bed, some pots and pans, even though I don’t cook, and a few other odds and ends. Working for the Moretti crime family doesn’t leave much downtime, but when I’m not working, this will be my go-to place.

The best thing about this place, if you could find a silver lining in a piece of shit hell hole like this, is the back porch. The houses are close together, but I’ve been out in the backyard twice now and have yet to see another person.

Walking through the living room, I stop when I reach the back door. My fingers graze the cold copper doorknob as I look through the dirty glass. I’m not sure why, but I’m shocked to find a little girl sitting outside in the grass, her eyes glued on my door.

The door creaks loudly as I open it, and the cool autumn breeze slaps me in the face. The little girl doesn’t even move, or blink. She just remains sitting, staring at me with big green eyes as if she is in awe.

As I step out onto the porch, I get a better look at her and find she can’t be much older than ten. Her hair is red, bright red, the kind that would get you made fun of in school. I’m tempted to walk across the grass to get a better look at her features but realize a moment later that would probably scare her.

Still, my feet move without thought, and I stop just a few feet from her. She cranes her neck back to continue staring at me, and I notice the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheekbones. I can tell she is poor, just as most people in this neighborhood are, the purple sweater she is wearing is ripped at the cuff, and the colors on the printed butterfly on her chest are faded.

She keeps staring at