Matteo Vitiello POV:
The blinding lights of the Washington gala on the television screen clashed violently with the reality of my existence.
A freezing gust of wind howled through the shattered window of the Chicago basement, cutting straight to my bones. The single, cheap incandescent bulb hanging from the ceiling flickered, casting long, ugly shadows across the peeling concrete walls.
I sat hunched over a wooden table that was missing one leg. I pulled the collar of my moldy, foul-smelling coat tighter around my neck. I was twenty-eight, but I looked like a man ten years older. My hair had turned completely white. Deep, jagged scars crisscrossed my ruined face, pulling my skin tight over my cheekbones.
My hands shook uncontrollably. I tried to grip the cheap tin of meat sauce, but my missing fingers made it nearly impossible. I pressed my thumb against the sharp metal lid and pulled. The jagged tin sliced deep into my index finger. Dark blood welled up, mixing with the grease of the can, but I didn't feel a thing. The high-voltage electricity from five years ago had completely destroyed the nerve endings in my extremities. Pain was a luxury I no longer possessed.
"Food," a slurred voice mumbled.
I looked across the room. Luca sat on a urine-stained mattress, his knees pulled to his chest. He was twenty-six years old, but the brain damage had permanently locked his mind at the age of five. He was clutching a filthy, torn teddy bear to his chest. Thick saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth as he stared at the open can of meat.
I picked up a rusty spoon. I scooped out a clump of the cold, gelatinous meat sauce and held it out to him.
Luca lunged forward and shoved the spoon into his mouth, swallowing the food without chewing. The brown sauce smeared all over his chin and nose. I stared at him with dead, hollow eyes. I raised my dirty sleeve and mechanically wiped the mess from his face. This was my punishment. My stupidity had broken my brother's mind, and now I was shackled to his ghost.
In the corner of the basement, an old, scavenged CRT television buzzed with static.
Suddenly, the snowy screen flickered and cleared. The news channel switched to a live broadcast of a charity gala in Washington, D.C.
My hand froze in mid-air. The rusty spoon slipped from my grip and hit the concrete floor with a dull *clang*.
I stared at the small screen. My cloudy, sunken eyes began to shake violently in their sockets. My chest heaved as my lungs fought for air.
Elena.
She stood at a podium, wearing a dark red gown that made her look like a goddess of war. She was glowing. The absolute authority and power radiating from her voice as she delivered her speech in fluent English pierced straight through my chest.
I placed my hands on the edge of the broken table and tried to stand up. I needed to get closer to her. But my cheap, twisted prosthetic leg buckled under my weight. My spine, permanently damaged by the electricity and years of malnutrition, gave out.
I crashed heavily onto the freezing concrete floor.
The impact tore the skin off my knees. Hot blood soaked through my thin pants, but I ignored it. I dragged my broken body across the filthy floor, pulling myself toward the television set. My breath hitched in my throat, sounding like a dying animal.
I reached the TV. I raised my trembling, mutilated hand and pressed my fingertips against the curved glass screen, right over her face.
A sharp jolt of static electricity snapped against my skin.
The tiny shock ripped me out of my delusion and slammed me back into reality. She was a queen accepting the applause of the world's elite. I was a rat rotting in a sewer. I had thrown away the most precious treasure in the world for a lying, manipulative bitch, and now I was paying the ultimate price.
A raw, guttural sob tore out of my throat. Tears mixed with the grime on my face, dripping silently onto my torn collar.
The sound of my crying frightened Luca. He dropped his teddy bear and scrambled off the mattress, squatting down next to me.
He followed my gaze and looked at the television screen. He tilted his head, his vacant eyes staring at the elegant, untouchable woman.
Luca suddenly reached out his dirt-caked finger and pointed at the screen.
He grinned, exposing his crooked teeth. A long string of drool fell from his lips and landed directly on my shoulder.
"Pretty lady."
