#Tovagliari

[diarioelpepazo]

El judoca se coronó en la categoría -66 kg en los Juegos Panamericanos [caption id="attachment_92124" align="aligncenter" width="1024"] Willis Alberto García ganó la tercera dorada para Venezuela. Foto Cortesía[/caption] IVAN KLEBERG ¡Nuevo oro para la delegación venezolana!. Este sábado el judoca criollo Willis García se alzó con la presea dorada en la categoría -66 kg en los Juegos Panamericanos Santiago 2023. El carabobeño venció en la final al canadiense Julien Frascadore con marcador de 10-0. El criollo tuvo una jornada espectacular, en la que derrotó en la ronda preliminar al argentino Joaquin Tovagliari, en cuartos de final al brasileño William De Sousa y en semifinal al cubano Orlando Polanco. ORO PARA VENEZUELA WILLIS GARCÍA GANÓ ANTE JULIEN FRASCADORE 10-0 EN JUDO EN LOS -66KG Y CONQUISTA LA TERCERA MEDALLA DE ORO PARA VENEZUELA EN LOS JUEGOS PANAMERICANOS SANTIAGO .. INGRESA EN HTTPS://T.CO/SVVWK4WGHV PARA MÁS INFORMACIÓN . .#SANTIAGO2023 #JUDO… PIC.TWITTER.COM/QFWTVKEPRJ — Líder en Deportes (@LiderEsDeporte) October 28, 2023 La superioridad de García fue exhibida con creces, puesto que ganó tres de sus cuatro combates con marcador de 10-0. Su asalto en cuartos de final culminó con marcador de 10-1. Finalmente, Venezuela consigue su tercera medalla de oro en estos Juegos Panamericanos y escala al noveno puesto del medallero. Keydomar Vallenilla y Julio Mayora tambien consiguieron preseas doradas. Para recibir en tu celular esta y otras informaciones, únete a nuestras redes sociales, síguenos en Instagram, Twitter y Facebook como @DiarioElPepazo El Pepazo/Líder

[antharea]

Un regalo inesperado

Las Navidades son a veces la época más ocupada del año, y a veces el momento en el que el trabajo es inexistente. Depende de a que lado de la ley me encuentre en el momento del que estamos hablando. Sí estas buscando al detective privado, la mayoría de las veces tengo más tiempo entre manos del que necesito. Pero sí lo que estas buscando es al contratista... Bueno, dicen que el mal nunca descansa, y yo no soy una excepción. ¿Acaso piensas que no soy el mal? Los que me conocen de verdad te dirán lo contrario. Aunque claro, todas las personas que corroborarían mis palabras tienen un problema u otro: o están del mismo lado de la ley que yo, es decir, fuera de ella, o han pasado por mis manos. Y eso quiere decir que no pueden hablar. Es algo complicado hacer hablar a un cadáver, que le vamos a hacer. 

Oficialmente, soy un detective a sueldo, pero lo único que es verdad de ello es la parte de "a sueldo". Asesino, torturador, secuestrador, chantajista, ladrón, lo que necesites. Todo tiene un precio, y cuánto más arriesgado, más caro y más divertido es. Almenos para mi. Me gusta ver los límites a los que puede caer el ser humano, y lo hipócritas que son intentando fingir que no me han pagado para destruir a otra persona de una forma u otra, y acumular favores es mi pasatiempo favorito. Como aquel traficante de armas que me consigue todo lo que mi alma anhela sin preguntar nada, sólo porque conozco a sus proveedores y por dónde hace pasar la mercancía por la frontera. O el narco cuyos camellos y putas se encargan de que la policía encuentre mis "paquetes" cuando y dónde me interesa, porque le salve el trasero más veces de las que puede recordar. Y porque al último que intentó tocar lo que era mío le volé la cabeza sin titubear y sin importarme una mierda los años de trabajar juntos. Hoy tengo un trabajo que me obliga a salir de la ciudad y no volver hasta dentro de un par de días. Mejor, siempre he odiado la Navidad en Manhattan, y prefiero pasar estos días trabajando a pasarmelos borracho de fiesta en fiesta. Que una de vez en cuando vale, pero hace ya tiempo que paso de tirarme una semana con los reflejos afectados por el alcohol, y luego la resaca es una mierda con la que no quiero tratar. En la otra habitación puedo oír correr la ducha, y eso me recuerda a mi inquilino y mi juguete de los últimos años. Ni huyendo ha conseguido librarse de mi, y después de verme en acción se lo ha terminado pensando dos veces antes de intentar hacerme cabrear de verdad, por sí acaso. Sonrío de lado, porque lo que nunca me molesté en recordarle es que sólo uso la violencia si me pagan por ello, no de forma gratuita, porque hay maneras mejores de conseguir lo que deseo. Y lo desee a el, desde el primer momento en el que lo vi en casa de Sun, pagándole al bastardo una suma de dinero que no habría pagado por ninguna otra puta, sólo para asegurarme de que no lo quebraría como a las demás. Aunque han habido veces que me he arrepentido de esa decisión, sobretodo cuando su cabezoneria lo hacía enfrentarse a mi, pero siempre he terminado saliéndome con la mía. Con las armas ya en la mochila a mi espalda y el casco en la mano, me desvío por su cuarto, aunque el sonido del agua no se ha detenido, y dejo un pequeño librito con un billete de avión y una nota dentro encima del escritorio sin hacer apenas ruido. Para cuando lo descubra, ya me habré ido. -Adiós, Lyosha, no me esperes despierto. Mi voz es burlona, e ignoro la sarta de maldiciones en ruso que me persiguen hasta la salida, riendo por lo bajo. Sí es que es tan fácil de putear. Aún no ha aprendido que he escuchado lo peor de lo que pueden dedicarme y no me ofendo. ¿Porque ofenderme sí es la verdad? - Espero que te siente bien la libertad. Algo me dice que nunca va a usar el billete de vuelta, y sacudo de mi mente el pensamiento, porque no necesito distracciones en estos momentos. Sabía que ese momento vendría en cuanto le devolviera su pasaporte, aquello que intentaba comprar de vuelta pagando una deuda que hace tiempo que he olvidado, y que sólo le echaba en cara para verlo cabreado, así que no se porque cojones dejo que me afecte.   - Feliz Navidad, Lyosha. "Siempre te dije que podrías conseguir lo que desearas, lo que te oculté fue que yo era una de esas personas que habría hecho arder el mundo sí a cambio habría conseguido una verdadera sonrisa. Disfruta de Venecia, pequeño."

@victorian-whisper

[ahemera]

Starts here

I'm gratefull of the silence clause when I look over my shoulder and see him biting on his lower lip, bruising it, and my hand finds it's way to cover his on my shoulder, trying to make him realize that I'm not mad at him, that it was MY choice, not his, and it's in the past. That hate was my own creation and I never blamed him for it, and that's what I need him to understand. So I give a sharp tug on his arm, forcing him to look at me, and I shake my head. Don't. Don't blame yourself. Don't think about it. He is dead, don't give him the satisfaction to break you now, to break us, after all this time. I only say a word, but it's enough for him to understand what I mean. I can see it in his eyes, shining with more emotions than ever. Thant's the second reason I requested silence, it forces him to be more open with his emotions, not being able to hide behind empty words. If I have to be completely honest about my past, something I've never done before, he has to suffer too. I see the glint in his eyes when he releases the abused lip and I look back at the screen with a cocky grin, knowing what he almost did, but couldn't because I was faster. And I know that if we started anew I wouldn't be able to keep writing, something I need to keep a level head for. He knows me too well, but he forgot that I don't allow anybody to controll me through sex. Things never changed with the years, not untill I was 20 and I just packed and left. Trying to be the perfect son for Him, I picked up a love for weapons along with the one for violence and blood that I never really aknowledged before then, so the military welcomed me with open arms. Trying to calm down my rebel part was never an easy task, but I welcomed the rutine, and the fact that I wasn't the only one who didn't want to talk about the past. Nobody asked personal questions, nobody pried, they just accepted what you wanted to trust the others with, and the only thing they expected from you was to tell the truth. That, and giving the best of yourself in training, and for the unit. Slowly, they became a family for me, comrads, somebody I trusted with my life, even if not with my secrets or my past, but, even then, I never asked the others about theirs, giving them the chance to tell me as much as they wanted. Soon after we forged the unit, Afghanistan exploded, and all eight of us signed up for leaving the country. We were young, idiots believing that death was for everybody else but not us. And we wanted to be there, where all the action was. We thought that it would made a difference. So we signed without a shred of doubt. The night before we left we went out for a last huge party, just wanting to get wasted, because we didn't how much time would pass until the next time we could do it again properly. It also was a week after my 21st birtday, something I couldn't enjoy properly in the barracks. So the night got slightly out of hand, and the next thing I remember after drinking 21 shots one after another, are Angelo's lips over my own. The hand over my shoulder becomes a claw, it's fingers sinking in the muscle, reminding me he's still here. And this is why I never talked about my past, my childhood or my military time. Why I never gave him any option to ask about it all. Because even when he was, and still is, the one who knows me the most, he never knew the truth. I trapped that part of me in a web of lies, trying not to think about it, deceiving myself into suviving and not quite realising that I was still trying to hide from it, running, and using him as an anchor to reality. And I know, I'm completely sure about it, that this part it's going to hurt him. I'm going to hurt him again with my past, my secrets, but I need him to understand. To know why I am like this, why I broke so hard when he left. And, in some ways, that hurts ever worse. I sigh, using the pain his nails are causing me to try to keep a level head about this memories and I keep writing without looking at him. I need to continue before it breaks me, before the memories trap me.

 Angelo was the one we all protected, the one we all fought to see smile, because, in exchange, he did the same. He always had a joke at hand for whet the mood got tense, and knew when we needed silent support. In a way, we all loved him. And it was him who, that night, took a wold shot in the dark and kissed me. Because nobody knew, by then, even I didn't knew that I liked men as much as I like women. Yet I kissed him back. The rest of the night it's a hazy blur in my memory, and we woke up back in the barracks, both in my bed, with a splitting headache. And we had only an hour to be ready to leave. That was the worst plane flight I ever had, at least al first, untill our resident doc dosed us all with enough painkillers and anti-nausea to knock off an elephant.

I close my eyes, thightly shut, and my breath comes out shallow, broken, because in my chest there's something that broke again, or it never quite mended, and the memories brought it back. I can see Angelo's face, smiling at me, showing me into a corner to be hidden from view so that he could steal a couple of kisses because we didn't have the time or privacy for more. The nights where Tizio lent us his own room, even when he wasn't allowed to do that, as he was our superior and the only one with a separate place, so that we could be together.  My hands are gripping the table with all my strenght, as the mix of pain, burn and utter devastation hits me with every memory that I uncover. I'm not writing anymore, I can't concentrate. I try to speak, to explain him everything, but my voice fails me and it's only a hollow sound that leaves my chest. But it's enough. It's filled with enough suffering that he understands, reads me once more without words, and I'm almost lost in the past, in those fleeting moments of stupid happiness now tainted with the pain of the loss, when he brings me back, again. His nails leave long gashes on my chest, on both sides, but it's the feeling of the hard, strong bite on my neck, the one that makes me react.

Thanks.

I manage to croak, my voice raspy, broken because of the yell I didn't allow to leave, and I can feel his mouth opening, wanting to speak, but I shake my head, using the tatooed left to tug at his hair.

I have to, you need to know. I should have told you before... long ago. Allow me to do it now. Please, fratello. 

I add the last thing as an afterthought, and that's enough, should be enough, to make him understand that I'm serious about all this, that I won't stop, even if he asks me to. And the only reason I'm not looking at him right now, searching for reassurance, is that I know what I'll find there, the way he is looking at me right now, and I know it will make me stop.

[antharea]

December

Diciembre siempre fue el mes en el que no aceptábamos ningún trabajo, por caro o interesante que fuera, para poder alejarnos de la ciudad, de la civilización en general, buscando un sitio donde, por unos días, pudiéramos ser verdaderamente tú y yo. Unos días en los que no intentaramos matarnos mutuamente, volvernos locos con las palabras, en los que dejabamos de mentirnos y permitiamos que fueran nuestras acciones las que hablaran por nosotros. Días en los que no tenía que compartirte, en los que no tenía que fingir viéndote con otros, en los que eras mío, únicamente mío. Y era bastante. Siempre he odiado la nieve, el frío, pero era capaz de ignorar ambas cosas sí a cambio te tenía a ti, si podía verte sonreír como el niño que no pudiste ser, que no pude dejarte ser, tener unos momentos en los que el rencor y el odio que aún guardas bajo llave en lo profundo de tu alma, era inexistente. - Pensé que el único motivo por el cual no trabajabas en invierno era yo. La voz a mi espalda me roba el aliento, y se quién es sin tener que girarme. No quiero hacerlo. No quiero verlo, recordar todas esas cosas que ya no puedo tener. Bastante me es con lo helado que me siento. Como un cadáver que aún se mueve. - Tenía que comprobarlo. - Mantengo la mirada firme en la nada y me encojo de hombros. - Quién sabe, a lo mejor te estaba mintiendo y en realidad amo la nieve. -Pero es ahora cuando miento, y por eso soy incapaz de mirarlo a los ojos, por miedo a que nada haya cambiado, a que aún pueda leerme como siempre. - ¿Y? ¿cuál es el veredicto? - Noto la burla en su voz y se que no lo he engañado, que, aún así, ha sabido ver la verdad. Siempre nos conocimos más allá de las palabras. Es sabiendo eso por lo que me giro para mirarle de forma hambrienta, como sí quisiera grabar en mi memoria cada uno de sus rasgos, dándome cuenta de lo mucho que he echado de menos su presencia. - Ni idea, acabo de llegar, no he tenido tiempo para decidirlo. - No encuentro motivo para decirle que llevo ya varios días aquí, y que la nieve me ahoga con el peso de los recuerdos. -Te lo diré cuando lo sepa. - Ambos sabemos que es mentira, una de tantas, de las muchas que uso en mi día a día. Al fin y al cabo, siempre he disfrutado burlandome de mi segundo nombre. Veritas. Que ironía en un mentiroso compulsivo como yo. Da un paso adelante, cerrando la distancia entre ambos y me obligo a cerrar los puños a los costados para no ceder al impulso de tocarlo, como siempre que está tan cerca. - ¿Ésta es la única bienvenida que tienes para mi, fratello? - Un nuevo paso lo deja ya tan cerca que su olor es casi tangible incluso para mi congelada nariz y ahogo un gemido, porque entre eso y el apodo son demasiados los recuerdos con los que me toca luchar. Le sonrío divertido, porque va, no es como sí no supiera el efecto que tiene en mi, el muy bastardo es consciente de ello y lo hace aposta. - Es la única que tengo, Xanthos. ¿No fuiste tú quién me dijo que me volaría la cabeza sí me volvía a acercar a ti? - Ni se imagina lo mucho que dolió ese comentario, lo jodido que me ha sido el recordarme que podía cuidarse sólo, que no necesitaba que le guardará las espaldas, que se valía por sí mismo. La cantidad de veces que estuve a punto de llamar a mis contactos para estar seguro de que alguien mantendría un ojo sobre el, por sí acaso. Pero me dejó claro que ya no tenía lugar en su vida, y me tocó respetarlo. En el fondo, nunca supe llevarle la contraria. -Pero, ¿y sí lo que quiero es que te acerques más? - Acompaña las palabras con un último paso y nuestros pechos están rozandose, obligandome a dejar de respirar por un momento. Joder, estoy a punto de perder el control. Cada barrera, cada muro que he construido en los meses que pasaron desde la última vez que le vi, está derrumbandose, y no se cuanto más durará mi cordura. - Kit... - Su nombre es esta vez un murmullo, es el apodo que siempre he usado, incapaz de usar el otro, de mantener una distancia de esa forma. Porque lo estoy mirando a los ojos y lo único que veo es a la persona a la que hacia jadear entre mis sábanas, y cuya ausencia duele más de lo que voy a reconocerle. -No juegues... - Una advertencia, una más de lo que la gente suele tener conmigo, el siempre fue una excepción, incluso ahora, y las uñas dejan marcas en las palmas de mis manos, buscando centrarme a través de la única constante en mi vida, el dolor. - Diciembre siempre fue nuestro, Lys. - sus labios están sobre los míos al decir aquello y me rindo ante lo inevitable, ante su presencia, reconociendo mi necesidad. Tiro de el para pegarle aún más a mi sin romper el beso, buscando esa familiaridad de su cuerpo contra el mío, y pierdo el equilibrio, terminando de espaldas en la nieve con el encima. Pero esta vez al mirarlo hay una sonrisa en mis labios que no estaba allí antes. Quizás ésta Navidad no sea tan mala como aparentaba ser. Aunque sólo sea un mes y que luego volvamos a ser los de antes, aquí es mío, siempre lo será. - Sólo nuestro, fratello. - Porque es diciembre cuando dejamos de mentirnos el uno al otro, y nos reconocemos lo mucho que nos necesitamos. - sólo nuestro. -

@joeteagues

[antharea]

Lysander

Basic data: 

 First Name: Lysander 

 Middle Name : Veritas

 Last Name: Tovagliari 

 Born: 22/09/1985 

 Nationality: Italian 

 Profession: PI / Career criminal 

 Sexual orientation: Bisexual (why limit oneself?) 

 Civil status: Free like the wind. 

 Another: The tattoo in his left hand reads Veritas, his middle name, which doesn't quite fit him, a disciple of Chaos and half-truths. 

 The only person able to tell a true and a false smile apart is his brother.

 Face Claim:

 Chris Hemsworth 

Psychology:

The first thing that one perceives when you truly know him, is that Veritas, “the Truth”, is the personification of the Lie. Chances are that what you see of him is false, and even when you think you have found some truth, you would be mistaken again. Cold, calculating, manipulative, he enjoys showing himself to others as a sociable person, of easy laughter, and quite simple altogether. Control freak and paranoid, he studies to the smallest gesture of others to improve his own performance. You will consider him a teasing person, even a bit ruthless with some of his jokes, and brutally direct and sincere. An image that won't allow you to think that beyond it his mind is looking for the best way to take advantage of you, one way or another.

 He will never admit to his manipulations, unless he has something to gain in return, and even then the half truths which he would come to say will be twisted in such a way that they would benefit him, painting Lysander in the best light possible. His world is described in a grey scale, where money and favours are those that decide the relevance of each person. If you don't benefit in any of those ways, chances are you will find yourself discarded from his life with such skill that you won't find out until is too late. 

Effusive, talkative, and a clown, at least when not alone, characteristics that only give more weight to his eternal acting as a simpleton. And yet, it hides his need to focus the attention of others onto himself, as if his physical appearance doesn't gather enough looks as it is. Loyal, good person, faithful, those are not adjectives that you can apply to him, unless, of course, you have fallen into his charms. Able to pretend any and every feeling needed to reach his goal, you will be betrayed as soon as he is sure that he can profit from it. 

His interest in the one night stands is something obvious, reaching the level of addiction at some points, and he never bothered to hide it. But do not think you could handle him through sex, you wouldn't be even close. He's able to deny himself the pleasure if he can get something in exchange. At the end of the day, he's used to the pain, and he enjoys it. It always has been a part of his life, to the point where the line between it and pleasure is indistinguishable nowadays. 

Methodical and twisted, if you end being his prey, you can kiss your privacy goodbye, and even your life if he considers it necessary. He drives pleasure out of his work, the adrenaline involved, savoring every last aspect of the emotions of others, especially of the most destructive: hate, desperation, fear, pain.... Yeah, he loves the pain, with the fear makes the two feelings it pleases him the most to create in the hearts of others, but he often relegates this part of himself to the work time as he has a façade to maintain, not allowing most people to know the darkness of his mind. He knows to prepare the plans in advance, but that doesn't stop him from changing them on the ground, consciously or not, just looking for a little more adrenaline, of twisted fun. He is good at improvising, the years to maintain a lie created a master of making things out whilst speaking, and to sound convincing meanwhile. 

Devoid of any empathy beyond the few people he chooses, people he will rely almost blindly. Almost. He will never rule out the possibility of others betraying him, not when he is prone to betraying everyone else. For the same reason, even if he allows himself to show part of his true face to some people, most of his secrets will be safe in his own head. Those that could destroy his life if they came to light. And he will ensure that you wouldn't even suspect those secrets exist. 

Despite liking the direct, physical methods, rewarding simplicity over other things, an aspect in which his own mask has been influencing his own tastes over the years, he is perfectly able of verbally trashing someone, or to create long-term plans fulfilling them step by step, adapting all the time to the best way to inflict harm on others.

 Overprotective of his little brother, partly because of feeling guilty of leaving him behind when he joined the army, and of ignoring him after he came back, and partly cowed and possessive of the strength the younger shows in his angry outbursts. 

History: 

The Eldest son of the Tovagliary family, a middle class Italian family, lives a simple and to some point happy childhood in the ignorance until the birth of his little brother, when the mother abandons the family prey of a hard post-partum depression and tired of the constant beatings from her husband. After the departure of the woman, the father turns his anger on the child who feels it's his responsibility now to protect the infant as much as he can. After all, he lost his mother almost immediately after birth, and, for Lysander, he was the only peace-filled oasis in the hell that had become his life from the tender age of six.

 Physical and psychological abuse continued throughout his entire adolescence, during which he is always on the lookout for a way to please the adult. He tries different things, from participating in various types of sports to showing interest in the same things his old man seems to like, all meanwhile he tries to find some form of comfort, a way to avoid feeling so helpless as he sees that every time he manages to avoid a beating, this ends with his brother as a victim. 

He finds solace in the guns and the physical fight, which ends with him leaving without looking back as soon as he is of age, trying not to think about the Hell he's abandoned the other in. Lysander enrols in the military, being this the easiest and most effective way to mix his two passions. Once in, he finds an environment in which he is accepted, where the pressures are completely logical and consistent, and where expectations are realistic but not necessarily easy to fulfill, making himself comfortable after just a few weeks. There, he also ends up finding peace with himself concerning his sexual orientation, discovering that there is nothing wrong with being attracted to both sexes equally, so he makes the most of the situation. 

His regiment ends up being sent to an active conflict zone where he is forced to kill more than one, making this act, which at first upsets his stomach, increasingly simple to the point where in an ambush he ends killing a man with his bare hands, finding a different kind of fulfillment in seeing the light in their eyes going out and the body becoming limp. Is after that when his taste for death increases, being the first to put his own name down for any mission that would involve killing, or shooting in general. It's also then when he looses the little morals he still had to that point, acknowledging that there's no line he won't cross for the right reasons, or at least what he considers right reasons.   

Three years later he is forced to leave a life he considers almost idyllic, or as close as idyllic as it could be for someone like him, to return to his home town and face the life he has left behind. He finds his father in a deep coma with no chances of waking up, and his little brother, the perpetrator of the attack, in need of a legal guardian for at least another year whilst finding a way to hide what really happened there seeing as there's no chance in hell he would allow anyone to know who really put the old man in the hospital. He stumbles from job to job, most of them related with security in one way or another, without feeling comfortable in any of them and abandoning them or being fired again and again over disagreements with his employers. 

The situation remains that way for a couple of years, focused only in his work, unable to look at his brother in the face and admit that he had fled like a coward, leaving the other in the Hell that was their home. At the same time he ignores the spiral of violence in which the youngster is falling, until the day he has another crisis and snaps. The first blow leaves Lysander unbalanced, violently bringing back memories of their childhood, making him unable to defend himself or even return the blows, merely attempting, unsuccessfully, to protect himself from the furious blows. The only lucid memory he has of the situation is the moment when the younger, smaller and physically weaker than him has him cornered against a wall and half naked, about being raped. He is able to subdue Aequitas and to bring him back to sanity, but things change between the two, becoming way more united than before. 

Possessions 

A military knife Black Bear tailor-made with a 21 cm blade called “Hypnos”. 

Colt M1911A1 pistol, .45 calibre, souvenir from his military life. Also, affectionately nicknamed “Morpheo”.

 Ruger MK III pistol, .22 calibre, semi-automatic. Typically used in the close type execution deaths, nicknamed “Thanatos” for the same reason. 

His military tags, complete with the name, date of birth, blood type, which he doesn't leave behind even to shower. 

A Harley Davidson fat boy custom, bought on a whim with the first salaries after leaving the army, called “Diana”

[antharea]

Lysander

INF. BÁSICA

Nombre: Lysander Segundo Nombre: Veritas Apellidos: Tovagliari Fecha de Nacimiento: 22/09/85 Edad: 27 Años Nacionalidad: Italiano -Romano Ocupación: Consultista Libre / Criminal de consulta Orientación Sexual: Bisexual, para que limitarse? Estado Civil: Libre como el viento

Otros: Su tatuaje, en la mano izquierda, reza Veritas, su segundo nombre, el cual no le pega demasiado, siendo el un buen discipulo del caos y las mentiras veladas.

La única persona capaz de distinguir una sonrisa verdadera de una sonrisa actuada, es su hermano.

FACE CLAIM

Chris Hemsworth

DESCRIPCIÓN PSICOLÓGICA

Lo primero que puede recalcar uno cuando lo conoce completamente, es que Veritas, "la verdad", es la personificacion de la mentira. Lo mas probable es que lo que veas de el, sea falso, y cuando crees haber encontrado una verdad, te estes equivocando, de nuevo. Frio, calculador, manipulador, se divierte presentandose de cara a los demas como una persona sociable, de risa facil, y bastante simple. Maniatico del control y paranoico, estudia hasta el mas minimo gesto de los demas para mejorar su propia actuacion. Lo consideraras una persona bromista, hasta cierto punto cruel con alguna de sus burlas, y bestialmente directo y sincero. Una apariencia que no te permitira pensar que mas alla de eso, su mente esta buscando la mejor forma de sacar provecho de ti, de una forma u otra.

Nunca reconocera sus manipulaciones, a menos que tenga algo que ganar a cambio, y hasta esas medias verdades que llegaria a decir en ese caso, estan retorcidas de forma que le resulte beneficioso de una forma u otra. Su mundo se describe en una escala de grises, donde el dinero y los favores son los que marcan la importancia de cada persona. Si no le reportas ni una cosa ni la otra, lo mas probable es que te veas descartado de su vida de forma tan suave que ni te daras cuenta hasta que sea demasiado tarde.

Efusivo, hablador, y payaso, almenos de cara a los demas, unas caracteristicas que solo dan mas peso a su eterna actuacion de persona sencilla, pero que ocultan mas alla su necesidad de centrar la atencion de los demas en si mismo, sin tener suficiente con las miradas que ya de por si atrae su fisico. Leal, buena persona y fiel, son unos adjetivos que no se le pueden aplicar, a menos, claro esta, que hayas caido en sus encantos. Capaz de fingir cualquier sentimiento para llegar a su objetivo, te traicionara en el momento en el que este seguro de que sacara algun beneficio.

Su interes por el sexo pasajero es algo que salta a la vista, llegando al nivel de adicto a veces, algo que no se molesta en ocultar siquiera. Pero no creas que puedes manejarlo a traves del sexo, ni de lejos. Es capaz de negarse a si mismo el placer si con ello consigue algo. Al fin y al cabo, al dolor esta acostumbrado, y le gusta. El dolor siempre ha formado parte de su vida, hasta el punto de convertirse en placer con los años.

Metodico y retorcido, si has acabado siendo su presa, puedes despedirte de tu intimidad y mas tarde de tu vida si es necesario. Disfruta de forma enfermiza de su trabajo, de la adrenalina que implica, saboreando hasta el ultimo aspecto de las emociones ajenas, sobretodo de las mas destructivas: odio, desdesperacion, miedo, dolor... Si, el dolor le encanta, junto al miedo son los dos sentimientos que mas le agrada crer en los corazones ajenos, aunque suele relegar esa parte de si mismo a cuando esta trabajando, no le es util que otras personas lo sepan, tiene una fachada que mantener, al fin y al cabo. Sabe prepararse los planes de antemano, pero eso no le impide modificarlos sobre el terreno, de forma consciente o no, buscando simplemente un poco mas de adrenalina, de retorcida diversion. Es bueno imporvisando, los años de mantener una mentira le han hecho un maestro de inventarse cosas a medida que las va diciendo, y sonar convincente.

Carente de empatia mas alla de las escasas personas que el mismo escoge, personas en las que acaba confiando de manera casi ciega. Casi. Nunca descartara la posibilidad de que lo traicionen, no cuando el mismo es tan propenso a traicionar a los demas. Por eso mismo, a pensar de permitirse mostrar parte de su verdadera cara con algunas personas, sus secretos siempre estaran a salvo en su cabeza. Aquellos secretos que podrian destrozarle la vida si salieran a la luz. Y se asegurará de que ni siquiera sospeches que esos secretos existen.

A pesar de gustarle los metodos directos, fisicos, premiando la sencillez por encima de otras cosas, un aspecto en el cual su propia mascara ha ido influyendo en sus gustos con los años, es perfectamente capaz de entretenerse destrozando verbalmente a alguien, o creando planes a largo plazo, cumpliendolos paso a paso, adecuandose a la mejor forma de inflingir daño en los demas, segun cada situacion.

Excesivamente protector de su hermano pequeño, en parte por sentirse culpable por haberlo abandonado al irse al ejercito, y también a la vuelta, al ignorarlo, y en parte intimidado y posesivo de la fuerza que este puede mostrar en los arrebatos de furia.

HISTORIA

Hijo mayor de la familia Tovagliari, una familia de clase media, vive una infancia sencilla y hasta cierto punto feliz dentro de la ignorancia hasta el nacimiento de su hermano pequeño, cuando la madre abandona el seno familiar, presa de una dura depresión postparto, y harta de las constantes palizas de su marido. Son la partida de la mujer, el adulto vuelca su ira en el niño, el cual siente que es su responsabilidad proteger lo mas que puede al infante, quien perdió a su madre prácticamente recién nacido, y quien, para Lysander, era el único oasis de paz en el infierno en el que se había convertido su vida desde esa tierna edad.

El abuso físico y psicológico continua a lo largo de toda su adolescencia, en la cual busca cualquier forma de complacer al progenitor, desde participar en varios tipos de deportes, hasta interesarse por los temas que parecían agradarle al viejo, intentando encontrar, a la vez, algo que consiga que deje de sentirse tan impotente en el ambiente en el que vive, viendo como, cuando esquiva una paliza, esta recae en su hermano.

Encuentra solaz en las armas y el combate, acabando por largarse sin mirar atrás al cumplir la mayoría de edad, harto de todo aquello, e intentando no pensar en el infierno en el que ha abandonado al otro, acabando por ingresar en el ejercito, siendo este la forma mas efectiva y rápida que encuentra para mezclar ambas ambiciones. Una vez enrolado, encuentra un ambiente en el cual es aceptado, donde las presiones son lógicas y completamente coherentes, y donde las expectaciones son realistas, aunque no necesariamente fáciles de conseguir, sintiéndose cómodo a las pocas semanas de entrar. También ahí acaba encontrando la paz consigo mismo referente a su orientación sexual, descubriendo que no hay nada malo en que le atrajeran ambos sexos por igual, aprovechando al máximo la situación.

Su regimiento acaba siendo enviado a una zona conflictiva donde se ve obligado a matar mas de una vez, haciéndose ese acto, que al principio le revuelve el estomago, cada vez mas sencillo, hasta el punto en el que, en una emboscada, acaba matando a un hombre con sus propias manos, viendo como la luz de sus ojos se apaga y el cuerpo se queda sin fuerzas. Tras eso, su gusto por la muerte aumenta, siendo el primero en ofrecerse en todo tipo de misiones que implicaran liquidaciones o disparos en general.

Tres años después, debe dejar una vida que el considera prácticamente idílica, o, almenos, todo lo idílica que puede ser para alguien como el, y volver a su ciudad natal, a enfrentarse a la vida que había dejado atrás, encontrándose a su padre en coma, y a su hermano pequeño, el culpable del mismo hecho, necesitado de un tutor legal durante almenos un año hasta que llegara también a la mayoría de edad. Va dando tumbos de trabajo en trabajo, la mayoría relacionados con la seguridad, pero sin encontrar ninguno en el que se sintiera completamente cómodo, abandonándolos o siendo despedido una y otra vez por desacuerdos con sus empleadores.

La situación sigue de esa forma durante varios años, en los que se centra únicamente en el trabajo, incapaz de mirar a su hermano a la cara y reconocer que había huido como un cobarde, abandonándolo en el infierno que era su hogar. Al mismo tiempo, se pierde la espiral de violencia en el que el menor esta cayendo, hasta el día en el que este tiene una nueva crisis y le ataca. El primer golpe lo deja descolocado, trayendo con violencia de vuelta los recuerdos de la infancia, y se ve incapaz de defenderse, y, menos aun, de devolver los golpes, limitándose a intentar, sin éxito, protegerse de los furiosos golpes. El único recuerdo lucido que tiene de ese momento es cuando su hermano, mas pequeño, y, físicamente, mas débil que el, le tiene acorralado contra una pared y medio desnudo, a punto de violarlo. Consigue someterlo y traerlo de vuelta a la cordura, pero las cosas cambian entre los dos, volviéndose mas unidos que antes.

POSESIONES

Un cuchillo militar Black Bear hecho a medida con una hoja de 21 cm. "Hypnos" Una pistola Colt M1911 A1, calibre .45, recuerdo de su vida militar. También apodada cariñosamente "Morfeo"

Una pistola Ruger MK III, de calibre .22, semiautomática. Normalmente usada en las muertes de cerca, del tipo ejecución, por el mismo motivo por el cual la apoda "Thanatos"

Sus chapas militares con el nombre, fecha de nacimiento, y grupo sanguineo, de las cuales no se separa ni siquiera en la ducha.

Una Harley Davidson fat boy custom, un pequeño capricho que se compró con los primeros sueldos al abandonar el ejercito, a la que llama "Diana"

[antharea]

We fought

Por el rabillo del ojo veo una conocida cabellera rubia entrando al local y necesito echar mano de toda mi fuerza de voluntad para no levantarme de la mesa en ese mismo instante. Estoy seguro de que mi sonrisa se ha detenido por un instante, igual que el mundo a mi alrededor, un momento en el que sólo estuve consciente del desgarrador dolor que se abrió paso en mi pecho como si las garras de una voraz bestia que lucha por abrir un camino hasta el exterior. Parpadeo, un simple gesto que vuelve todo a su velocidad normal, y el ruido del bar, que antes ignoraba sin problemas, ahora se ha vuelto ensordecedor. Incluso el aire es mas pesado que antes, y tengo que luchar para llenar mis pulmones en una inspiración que se me antoja temblorosa. Maldigo mentalmente a toda deidad que conozco y que se que me odia por crear esta casualidad. Los años que he tenido para perfeccionar mi máscara, los meses de convencerme de que había dejado de importar, no sirvieron para nada, borrados de un plumazo con su simple aparición. E incluso la poca cordura a la que me aferraba desaparece cuando sus orbes se encuentran con las mías, algo que no llega a calificarse del todo como sentimiento brillando por in unstante en el fondo de sus ojos azules, idénticos a los que se reflejan en el espejo cada mañana mirándome, antes de volver a ser tan inexpresivos como siempre. Vino a buscarme, a comprobar que los rumores son ciertos, que había mentido una vez mas cuando le dejé pensar que yo estaba muerto. 

Me disculpo sin prestar demasiada atención a mis propias palabras y me dirijo a su encuentro, recolocando mi propia máscara por el camino, escondiéndome como un cobarde dentro de mi propia mente, asegurándome de que no se nota lo mucho que me ha descolocado el verlo, de que no supiera que lo había estado evitando. El saludo, cargado de una falsa alegría, me sabe amargo, y estoy seguro de que el lo sabe. O debería saberlo Ah, lo sabe. El puño que impacta contra mio mejilla es la prueba de ello. Y, a pesar de todo, de mi desaparición, de la guerra que se volvió cada vez mas cruel, de la preocupación que nunca quise reconocer, el miedo de que hubiera muerto, estoy sonriendo. Porque he conseguido que muestre algo de sentimiento. 

Vamos, hermanito, no me digas que te has preocupado.

 Me burlo, como si los últimos meses no hubieran existido, como si nunca me hubiera ido y su sarcasmo no logra herirme. El problema es que se da cuenta, y decide golpear ahí donde sabe que sí duele. Echandome en cara el hecho de haber desaparecido.

Aprieto las mandíbulas y cierro el espacio que nos separa, buscando instintivamente su cercanía, volver a sentir el calor que emana porque, a pesar de que jamás lo reconocería, lo he echado de menos. Las manos se me cierran en apretados puños por el esfuerzo que tengo que hacer de no tocarlo, a pesar de lo mucho que lo necesito. Porque no puede ser. 

¿Y que importa si lo hice?

 Espeto, con una ira que solo es verdadera a medias, pero que utiliza toda mi frustración para multiplicarse. Y de eso ultimo, tengo en abundancia. Da un paso atrás, viendo mejor que yo mismo a través de mi propio acto, castigándome, pues no me hago ilusiones de que me considere realmente enfadado. Me ha visto en ese estado, sabe como soy cuando pierdo el control y ahora estoy lejos de ello. 

No es como si tu no te hubieras largado primero.

Ahí está, mi propio reproche, aquello que hacía meses que quería echarle en cara, y que nunca habría dicho a pesar de todo, porque juré no rebajarme, no después de prácticamente suplicarle que se quedara a mi lado. 

Dejaste claras tus prioridades, no sé porque te sorprenden las mías.

Comento con una fingida indiferencia que sé que le atacará los nervios. Porque ese es mi objetivo, ponerlo a la defensiva, alejarlo. Sé que solo una simple palabra haría que cambiase de opinión, me haría volver arrastrándome como un perro a su lado, sin importar el daño, sin importar cuantas veces me pateara, sólo para tenerlo cerca. Como antes. Y no puedo permitírselo. No voy a permitírselo. Nadie es mi dueño. Ni siquiera el, o, mejor dicho, él menos que nadie.Y, en el fondo de mi alma, sé que eso es una mentira, que sin importar el qué, seguirá siendo lo único importante en mi vida. Porque es él. Sé que tengo a Chris, que lo convertí en alguien importante para mí, pero no puede compararse, es como comprar una bombilla porque no puedes disfrutar de la luz del sol. Sigue dando luz, si, pero no es lo mismo, ni de lejos. Vuelvo a avanzar, acercando mi rostro al suyo, compartiendo su aire, apenas un par de centímetros separándome de sus labios, y sólo mi férrea voluntad es la que me refrena de devorarlos, de saborearlos una vez mas,una última vez. Pero no lo haré, no le mostraré lo mucho que sigue importándome, que le sigo necesitando como a una maldita droga. 

Fuiste tu quien escogió.

 Siseo entre dientes, hundiendo mi mirada en la suya con la misma necesidad que tengo de hundirme en su cuerpo, de saber que sigue siendo mío. Y yo suyo.

Ahora no te quejes.

 Esbozo una sonrisa fría, maravillándome de mi propio control mientras me separo y me alejo en dirección a la puerta, aún y cuando todo en mi cuerpo me grita hacer lo contrario. El habérselo podido decir todo sin llamarlo por su nombre, sin llamarlo fratello, o caro, sobretodo caro , es una victoria, al igual que el ser yo quien decide alejarse esta vez. Pero es una victoria tan vacía y amarga, que ya estoy buscando mentalmente el bar mas lejano donde ahogarme en litros de alcohol. Por un momento, me parece escuchar mi nombre a mis espaldas, mi verdadero nombre, y sigo adelante, asegurándome a mi mismo que sólo es una ilusión, un sucio truco de mi mente, al igual que la humedad que me recorre las mejillas.

[antharea]

Because sometimes you only need a helping hand

So… It’ll be you starting it, I see.

The almost monotonous voice it’s loud in my room, even if it’s only a whisper. It almost startles me. Almost. I’ve been expecting it since I got up today, and started typing. I look up with a half smile and let my eyes wander over his almost naked body with something akin to hunger before I catch myself and bit back a swear. I almost slipped. Again. And he giving me that ‘all-knowing’ smile of his to show me that he knows, making it even more difficult for me to concentrate on the work. Hell, I haven’t even had my first cup of coffee this morning. That damned machine broke again, and I have better chances to give myself an electric shock than to fix it. When I see his blue eyes going over the screen, looking at my half-baked ideas, I remember his words and find again my voice, even if my throat is dry.

I thought it was better this way. We both know that you can’t be detached about it.

My voice is gruff, looking almost unused in a while, and it breaks mid-explanation, shattering the effect I was trying to ingrain in my words. Well it’s not my fault, it’s his. If he wouldn’t have keep me up half of the night, moaning and crying out his name, I wouldn’t be as sore as I am now. Yet, his marks on my skin feels good after all this time. They feel like home. But I’m getting out of track. Again.

You aren’t either.

His voice cuts through the daze of the memories, catching me before I got too far on that lane, even before I started to think the words I need to start this story. I bit back the words that almost slip through my lips, because I swore that I’d never attack him ever again. Not without a reason, at least. A difficult task, knowing as I know the both of us, but it’s worth the try, even if it’s only to avoid a fight like the one that got us to to the last break-up. I wouldn’t survive another one like that one. So I inhale, thinking again my word, searching for the right ones, the ones that wouldn’t touch a difficult memory, and I give him a cocky smile.

But I can be. —And we both know that it’s the truth.

How should I start? Well, from the start, I suppose. Long time ago, almost a lifetime, in another country, I was born as Veritas. even if, since then, I’ve lost even that part of my name. I often said that I lived in a small toscanian town, but, as this is supposed to be the truth, and nothing more, I’ll change my lifetime story and I’ll say that it’s been in one of the external neighborhoods of Milan. I can’t say when it has started, as the stagnant smell of cheap alcohol is there even in my earliest memories, with the broken sobs of the woman they called my mother. The little reprieve we had when He was working didn’t last long as He lost job after job, something I understood only later, when the time gave me a different view of the details I couldn’t quite grasp when I was four. Because I couldn’t be more than that old in my earliest memory. She cries, a face I force myself to remember with no result, clutching me, trying to protect me from the blows. But it’s not enough, and soon He yanks her hair, getting a startled yelp from her, and releasing me from her grip. I run under a table in all fours, where I breath heavily, starting to sob, biting my hand to be quiet, as even then I knew what would happen ton me if I was louder than that. He kicks her ‘till she’s blue, and fucks her unconscious. But it’s not enough, it never is, and He grabs me from my hiding spot, where I sought refuge trying to shield myself from his eyes in a vain attempt to protect me from his fury. The blows are sharp, and tears are spilling from my eyes, begs for mercy escaping from my lips between sobs. But I’m not good enough for mercy, i never was. Darkness engulfs my mind and a numbness makes it’s way trough my body, and I don’t know how much time passes ‘till I feel the trembling hands of my mother trying to ease the pain from my aching body. Time passes, days, maybe weeks, I’m never sure with those memories, and the bruises start to fade by the time He loses himself in alcohol and starts again. And again. Now, with all the time that passed, I can understand His words, and the kind of hypocritical bastard he was, saying that ‘I should be grateful that he wasn’t a stupid faggot'.

A hand wanders on my back, pressing on the marks it left on my skin the night before, and a whimper escapes from my lips. For a moment, I didn’t remember that he was behind me, reading every word, and that he never knew, he couldn’t remember. This was something I never told him, it wasn’t necessary. But he now knows, and understands what really means for me, and, in his own way, tries to make me come back, anchors me in the present through the only way he knows, the pain. I’m grateful for that, he already knows it. I sigh, already thinking on what comes next, willing myself to continue without asking him to leave. I don’t want him to know what comes next, to understand, to feel even worse. But I swore to be honest ‘till this work is done, in exchange of his silence meanwhile. He feels my doubt and passes his hand trough my hair, an action that gives both of us shivers every single time, and smiles, making me smile too. I know, it grew again, and I love it. But I can’t avoid thinking about how much time it’ll remain like that. Until next time he needs to get me really angry. I only hope that, after this, he’ll never need it again.

For a while, everything changed. For some months, the fear that I was breathing in, and living in every day, all but disappeared. Because “he” was coming. Daddy’s little boy. The one meant to make Him proud where the older one, namely, me, didn’t. It didn’t matter that he was conceived in a rape, neither the several suicide attempts of our mother. Nothing mattered. And when she saw him, crying, breathing for the first time, something, something vital, broke inside her, knowing the life that was expected for him. And she couldn’t bear it, leaving from that hell as soon as she could, never looking back. Leaving me behind, almost seven years old, trying to do everything in my hand to cope with His anger, and shield my little brother from it. Because that was my responsibility. So I got to be louder every time he cried, trying to hide every sound he made, grabbing all the attention for myself. I learnt to be the perfect liar, in order to avoid the suspicious marks I got every time He was angry, as it was, almost daily. I worked on the act of a clumsy boy that tries to please it’s father so much I almost believed it myself. And, as hell, I know I fooled everybody else, even Himself and my little brother, who grew up to hate my eternal need of attention, even when said attention included a couple of bruises more, or a broken arm, or a black eye. Day after day, month after month, I grew a name in my school for being prone to agressivity and easy to angry in addition to being a great storyteller, everything getting to be blown out of proportion when it was said by little old me. But all that had a couple of effects not so easy to see: nobody messed with my little brother, because they feared me, and every wound, every bruise that someone could see on my body, was immediately thought as a result of a brawl.

Years passed, more often than not, with me covering for my brother, diverting His attention, never giving Him time to even ask himself where was the youngest, as him, Aequitas, started to be more time out of the house than inside as soon as he learnt to crawl, and later, to walk. I never asked him either, for it was easier for both that way, not knowing what really happened at home, and what meant for me to close myself in that Hellhole daily. That way, the risk to be discovered, to know the truth, was lesser. But I wasn’t always successful, and, where I left Him to discharge all his fury with his fists, he always tried to give back every blow, making it all worse, for both of us, because as soon as He ended with him, it would start with me, but never sooner, leaving me to see, in silence, the bruised and almost broken body of my brother, forcing me to sneer at him, to make him believe I hated him, as I knew that, if I let Him know that it mattered, that it hurt seeing my baby brother like that, He would try to hurt him even more. And I’d rather die than let Him see that I failed. So I drove him apart, letting him believe in an nonexistent hate or disdain, because I knew that in the streets he was safer that at home. I also knew that, day by day, he was creating his own name, brawling not in anger, as I did, but calmly, methodically, scaring shitless anybody who saw him really pissed

. And it’s for this why I didn’t want him to read this part. The breaths behind me almost stopped, and I know he’s still there, because I can feel his hand on my shoulder. The silence is thick, I can almost hear the clock ticking, every second being almost eternal while I wait for a reaction, any reaction. Because now he knows the truth, he understands how long I’ve been lying to everybody, and to myself in order to protect him. And I can almost hear the gears turn in his mind, clicking on their place, his own actions coming back to his memory, the ways he had to show me his disdain, throwing things, even knives, trying to get my head in the way, because we never liked each other, or that he thought ‘till now.

[antharea]

Because sometimes you only need a helping hand

I'm grateful of the silence clause when I look over my shoulder and see him biting on his lower lip, bruising it, and my hand finds it's way to cover his on my shoulder, trying to make him realize that I'm not mad at him, that it was MY choice, not his, and it's in the past. That hate was my own creation and I never blamed him for it, and that's what I need him to understand. So I give a sharp tug on his arm, forcing him to look at me, and I shake my head. Don't.

Don't blame yourself. Don't think about it. He is dead, don't give him the satisfaction to break you now, to break us, after all this time. I only say a word, but it's enough for him to understand what I mean. I can see it in his eyes, shining with more emotions than ever. Thant's the second reason I requested silence, it forces him to be more open with his emotions, not being able to hide behind empty words. If I have to be completely honest about my past, something I've never done before, he has to suffer too. I see the glint in his eyes when he releases the abused lip and I look back at the screen with a cocky grin, knowing what he almost did, but couldn't because I was faster. And I know that if we started anew I wouldn't be able to keep writing, something I need to keep a level head for. He knows me too well, but he forgot that I don't allow anybody to control me through sex. Things never changed with the years, not until I was 20 and I just packed and left. Trying to be the perfect son for Him, I picked up a love for weapons along with the one for violence and blood that I never really acknowledged before then, so the military welcomed me with open arms. Trying to calm down my rebel part was never an easy task, but I welcomed the routine, and the fact that I wasn't the only one who didn't want to talk about the past. Nobody asked personal questions, nobody pried, they just accepted what you wanted to trust the others with, and the only thing they expected from you was to tell the truth. That, and giving the best of yourself in training, and for the unit. Slowly, they became a family for me, comrades, somebody I trusted with my life, even if not with my secrets or my past, but, even then, I never asked the others about theirs, giving them the chance to tell me as much as they wanted. Soon after we forged the unit, Afghanistan exploded, and all eight of us signed up for leaving the country. We were young, idiots believing that death was for everybody else but not us. And we wanted to be there, where all the action was. We thought that it would made a difference. So we signed without a shred of doubt. The night before we left we went out for a last huge party, just wanting to get wasted, because we didn't how much time would pass until the next time we could do it again properly. It also was a week after my 21st birthday, something I couldn't enjoy properly in the barracks. So the night got slightly out of hand, and the next thing I remember after drinking 21 shots one after another, are Angelo's lips over my own. The hand over my shoulder becomes a claw, it's fingers sinking in the muscle, reminding me he's still here. And this is why I never talked about my past, my childhood or my military time. Why I never gave him any option to ask about it all. Because even when he was, and still is, the one who knows me the most, he never knew the truth. I trapped that part of me in a web of lies, trying not to think about it, deceiving myself into surviving and not quite realizing that I was still trying to hide from it, running, and using him as an anchor to reality. And I know, I'm completely sure about it, that this part it's going to hurt him. I'm going to hurt him again with my past, my secrets, but I need him to understand. To know why I am like this, why I broke so hard when he left. And, in some ways, that hurts ever worse. I sigh, using the pain his nails are causing me to try to keep a level head about this memories and I keep writing without looking at him. I need to continue before it breaks me, before the memories trap me.

Angelo was the one we all protected, the one we all fought to see smile, because, in exchange, he did the same. He always had a joke at hand for whet the mood got tense, and knew when we needed silent support. In a way, we all loved him. And it was him who, that night, took a wold shot in the dark and kissed me. Because nobody knew, by then, even I didn't knew that I liked men as much as I like women. Yet I kissed him back. The rest of the night it's a hazy blur in my memory, and we woke up back in the barracks, both in my bed, with a splitting headache. And we had only an hour to be ready to leave. That was the worst plane flight I ever had, at least at first, until our resident doc dosed us all with enough painkillers and anti-nausea to knock off an elephant.

I close my eyes, tightly shut, and my breath comes out shallow, broken, because in my chest there's something that broke again, or it never quite mended, and the memories brought it back. I can see Angelo's face, smiling at me, showing me into a corner to be hidden from view so that he could steal a couple of kisses because we didn't have the time or privacy for more. The nights where Tizio lent us his own room, even when he wasn't allowed to do that, as he was our superior and the only one with a separate place, so that we could be together.  My hands are gripping the table with all my strength, as the mix of pain, burn and utter devastation hits me with every memory that I uncover. I'm not writing anymore, I can't concentrate. I try to speak, to explain him everything, but my voice fails me and it's only a hollow sound that leaves my chest. But it's enough. It's filled with enough suffering that he understands, reads me once more without words, and I'm almost lost in the past, in those fleeting moments of stupid happiness now tainted with the pain of the loss, when he brings me back, again. His nails leave long gashes on my chest, on both sides, but it's the feeling of the hard, strong bite on my neck, the one that makes me react.

Thanks.

I manage to croak, my voice raspy, broken because of the yell I didn't allow to leave, and I can feel his mouth opening, wanting to speak, but I shake my head, using the tattooed left to tug at his hair.

I have to, you need to know. I should have told you before... long ago. Allow me to do it now. Please, fratello.

I add the last thing as an afterthought, and that's enough, should be enough, to make him understand that I'm serious about all this, that I won't stop, even if he asks me to. And the only reason I'm not looking at him right now, searching for reassurance, is that I know what I'll find there, the way he is looking at me right now, and I know it will make me stop.