Run Through the Jungle Until It Ends

         When I was younger and couldn’t figure out what it was that I wasn’t supposed to know, I would close my eyes and imagine myself standing perfectly still in a forest. Being a so-called “Mafia princess” has its perks. Not gonna lie. But there are many dangers that come with the title, and a girl can only take so much before the urge to ask questions is almost too strong to be resisted. Growing up, I was never formally taught to keep my questions to myself but you quickly learn that in a mob family you never know everything. Hell, I hardly know anything. Ever. It’s not that my parents don’t love me. It’s just that they love me too much, and if I know anything that goes on—even when it goes on right under my nose—I’ll become a target for some of the most powerful mob bosses in the world to prey upon. So, you see, I completely understand that it’s best for me to be kept in the dark but, sometimes, I crave the sun. That’s when I close my eyes.

         The forest turned into a jungle when I was ten. I can’t really say why the transformation occurred but I suspect it was because I desperately wanted to escape to someplace farther from home than the forest. Living in St. Louis means that I can see forest anytime I feel like taking the time to travel a little bit. But the jungle. Last time I checked, there wasn’t a jungle anywhere near Missouri.

         I gave up religion years ago when I realized that the secrets I didn’t know disproved the existence of any benevolent god. My hypocritical family, however, goes to mass at least twice a week at Cathedral Basilica which means I do, too, because if the first rule to being a Mafia princess is to never ask questions, the second would definitely be to always do as you’re told. So there I was one oppressively sunny morning last month, standing outside of the majestic cathedral admiring the precision of the sculptured cherubs. They were staring at me as if prejudging my sins when they really should have been focusing on the sins of my family. The only sin I’ve ever been guilty of is ignorance, and that one is completely beyond my control. My mechanical fingers blessed me as I walked through the beautiful arched doorway and I silently cursed them as my mother and I slipped into our pew, leaving room for Daddy at the end. I was attempting to listen to the holy lies that were coming from the priest’s holy lips when I was suddenly assaulted by an intense surge of frustration and despair that had been building up for twenty years. That was the day the jungle lost its serenity and I started to run.

         We had to make a stop before we got to Basilica that morning. I, of course, didn’t ask why we were turning down the alley that stretched behind Uncle Viviano’s market. Or why Daddy got out of the car and straightened his tie before confidently walking through the back door. I didn’t ask when Daddy reemerged several minutes later, nor did I ask when he tossed his Smith & Wesson into a pile of trash against the wall and pulled another from a holster strapped around his ankle. If I don’t know specifics, I can never rat out the family. Ratting out the family is the biggest crime you can ever commit—punishable by death. If you’re well-liked by the one with his finger on the trigger, that is. That’s why we Italians don’t talk. My family helps me maintain loyalty by ensuring that I couldn’t talk even if I wanted to. It’s for my own good.

         Sitting on that painfully hard wooden pew that morning, feeling that uncomfortable surge of anguish I didn’t even know I had been harboring rush through my body, I closed my eyes. As always, the first thing my weary mind conjured was the divine noise. Once the familiar sounds had fully enveloped me, the unbelievably sticky heat covered my body before the brilliant colors of the jungle finally came into focus. Perfectly still, I breathed deeply and took it all in. This was all part of the meditation ritual I had created all those years ago. My breath caught in my chest on the second inhale. Something wasn’t right. Something in the sanctity of my mind was recreating the distress I was trying to escape. Automatically, I turned and started to walk as calmly as I could from the direction I had been facing, but somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that I needed to run if there was to be any hope for survival. The heat was terrible and dripped down my face in the form of sweat. Suddenly the heat was even more unbearable against my back and the dancing amber shadows that towered in my peripheral vision gave away the secret that my safe place was turning to ash behind me. Never looking back, I kept running and still didn’t stop when every muscle in my body begged. A low, menacing laugh shook the ground under my already unsteady feet and I was back in the church, grateful that I was once again aware of the dreadfully solid pew that had been causing my ass to suffer my whole life. A shiver travelled down my spine, the heat of the burning jungle gone. I chalked the experience up to the omelet I had for breakfast and the monotone preacher before me who was droning on about something important, I’m sure. But that was only the beginning of my race toward sanity. Or away from it.

         From that moment on, closing my eyes became as dangerous as leaving them open but I continued to hope out of habit. At least that danger was consistent and only in my mind. The only thing that didn’t make sense was why the fake fear was so much more real than the fear caused by knowing that my life was always in danger but never knowing exactly why and never allowed to ask. It’s for my own good.

         Every day for a whole month now I’ve been chased. With no other options, I have to choose between my jungle Hell and the unknown wall of secrets that my family has encircled itself with to protect the fort of lies. Although I struggle to make the decision every time, I always choose the intolerable heat and painful shrieks of animals being incinerated over… what ?…I don’t know. I never know. It’s for my own good that I don’t know. Daddy’s downstairs talking in a hushed voice to a man who has obviously never whispered before in his life. I hear my name and cringe, desperately trying not to hear what is being said, certain that nothing good can come from it. I hear many things but know nothing. It’s no secret among my family that secrets are the only things keeping us alive, but I’m willing to bet that I am the only one who sometimes thinks that death might be a better alternative. Then again, I’m the only one left to fend for herself in the dark while everyone else basks in the secluded light of the family business, whether they want to or not. I’ve learned over the years that the family business kills and its workers never retire. I start to ponder where I fit into the equation that is the Mafia. (39 members of the “family” x 5 guns apiece at all times + fear / confidence² ) x danger = X. How do I convert myself to X? When did I even become an X? Will I remain an X forever? As I ponder, my head involuntarily jerks toward the door. What’s that noise?

         Footsteps. There are footsteps on the stairs just outside of my room, trying to go unnoticed but my ears have been trained to hear everything. The feet taking those steps are not ones that I know. Unthinkingly, I scoot to the edge of my bed and swiftly but silently retrieve the 44 Magnum that has been collecting dust on the secret shelf under my bed frame since I was fourteen. Now I’m at my door, feeling like a cop about to bust down the entrance of meth lab. The doorknob slowly turns. I realize I have been holding my breath just as a sliver of warm light stumbles into the room and then abruptly disappears beneath a sharp shadow. I have to see a face before I pull the trigger. That’s what I’ve been taught. That’s what I know. See the face. See the threat. See the fear. Pull the trigger. The face sees me at the exact moment I see it.

         The terrified screams of the wild engulf me and I’m running. Why am I here? Did I close my eyes? Why did I close my fucking eyes? I’m panicking. Not because I’m being chased. I’m used to being chased. Where did my room go? The deep laughter I’ve come to know so well swells around me and my legs begin to slow. I’m willing them to move faster but they aren’t listening to me. For the first time in a whole month, I stop completely and turn around to see what lives in the flames that devour the jungle.

         My eyes open and I am suddenly very aware of a pulsing pain that seems to be coming from the top of my hairline. I can hear the pain. Someone’s screaming my name. No. Someone’s whispering my name. I turn to the source and see my mother. She’s tied to a chair with a straight back that looks even harder than the pews at Basilica, but she is calm. She is telling me that she is sorry but I feel like I’m a million miles from her instead of only a few feet and can hardly pay attention. I hear myself asking where Daddy is and all Mother says is that he wouldn’t talk. I guess this is why they keep secrets from me. It’s for my own good.

         Whoa. There is a huge man with us. When did he get here? That’s the face. That’s the face I saw in the doorway of my room. He’s asking my mother about Uncle Viviano but, of course, she’s not talking. We Italians don’t rat out the family. I couldn’t if I wanted to. Every time Mother refuses to answer, the man with the face hits her. I want to scream at him, tell him to stop, but my mouth refuses to open.

         “Vafanculo!” The Italian insult Uncle Dominic taught me when I was seven fills the almost completely dark room as it forcefully escapes my mother’s lips. She spits blood on the Face and it flinches. Now it is angry. Everything is moving so slowly. I see a hand reach into the pocket of the Face’s jacket and pull out a 44 Magnum. Wait. That’s my 44 Magnum. I am vaguely aware that my mother is screaming at me to look away but I’m hypnotized. I still hear Mother screaming at me, begging me, to turn away. A flash of light appears at the end of the barrel. I don’t hear my mother anymore. The Face puts my gun back in its jacket and walks over to me. It is smiling. Its smile is that of a complete moron. It’s calling me Sweetie and asking me questions. My mouth is somehow producing sound and I hear myself tell it that I don’t know anything—that no one has ever told me anything. Not in my whole life. The Face laughs and I feel my eyes grow wide. The laugh is low and rumbling.

         All at once I feel the heat of flames licking my back as the laugh fills my head. My face is soaked with sweat. Wait. No. Not sweat. Tears. I’m crying. The Face’s laugh builds to a dramatic crescendo and I scream. It has stopped laughing and is now inches from my face, staring intently. The heat on my back is worse than ever and threatens to consume me. That laugh still echoes in the vacant space between my face and the enemy Face. I’m squirming to stay out of reach of the inferno behind me but it’s closing in. My mouth is opening to let out another scream before I’m burned alive, but I don’t scream. Suddenly, I am talking through my veil of tears. What am I saying? I listen to myself in horror as I tell the Face everything I know.

         I tell it about getting out of the car with Daddy one day a month ago. I tell it how thrilled I was to finally get to take part in a hit. I tell it how I watched Daddy kiss Uncle Viviano slowly and carefully, once on each cheek and then once on the mouth. The kiss of death. I tell it how I pulled the trigger and saw Uncle Viviano crumple to the floor. I tell it that the hit was necessary because Uncle Viviano talked and you can’t rat out family. I tell it how sad Daddy looked that his only brother had to die. I tell it how happy I was that I finally got to be a keeper of secrets too. I tell it, in great detail, about every hit I had made since that morning.

         I tell it everything until there is nothing left to tell.

         A shiver travels down my spine, the heat of the burning jungle gone. My body is so tired all of a sudden and my eyes seem to be out of tears. The Face has moved back a bit from where it was when I first started my confession. Low, rumbling laughter fills the room once more. This time I recognize myself as the source of the laughter. The Face grins, thanks me, and then reaches into the pocket of its jacket. I’m still laughing as I catch a glimpse of my beloved 44 Magnum.

         The divine noise fills me and the sticky heat covers my skin. Then, I see the brilliant colors and smile. I am breathing deeply and peacefully, letting the jungle embrace me. Never before had I felt as safe as I do right now. I close my eyes. Darkness. Finally. I have reached the sun.