All That Was Left of His Soul

Vittorio fingered the cold barrel of the steel gun like he was caressing a newborn baby’s arm. His finger was not on the trigger, but the gun was, most assuredly, fully loaded. The television flickered in the dim light of Vittorio’s sister’s living room, an immaculate place full of love that starkly contrasted Vittorio’s dark mood and his depressed heart. Sometimes Vittorio wondered if he even had a heart. Oh sure, he had the one that beats, but he had not felt peace, happiness, joy, or any other positive emotion for so long that he was almost certain he had completely lost his true heart—perhaps in a move during his childhood or it may have been stolen sometime in his teens when he lay drunk or stoned on someone’s couch.

The gun caught the flickering light of the television, and Vittorio enjoyed how it danced on the barrel. He scratched his scalp. He knew he should have showered five days ago when he showed up on Angelita’s doorstep. He knew he should have taken one of Xavier’s razors he had offered and shaved his scraggly face. But all he had done was sleep, eat, and wonder what he should do next. He had no home, no job, no money, no pride, and no heart. He just had a dirty change of clothes, some drugs tucked away, this gun, his sister, and her small family.

Black was the night he had found enough courage to knock on Angelita’s door. Clouds blanketed the stars—or perhaps they had been snuffed out by the evil that held its tight grip over Vittorio’s world. He had actually stood on the doorstep about an hour before finally knocking. It had taken Xavier a full two or three minutes to recognize him with his wasting-away body, sunken eyes, the filth of a wandering life covering his body, and his long, greasy hair. They just stood there looking at one another for those eternal minutes while Angelita waited anxiously for her husband to come back to their bedroom where she sat as quiet as a mouse.

No one, Vittorio was certain, had ever knocked on Angelita’s door at 3:30 in the wee hours of the night. Vittorio imagined what Xavier was thinking as he slowly, slowly began to recognize him. Yet neither fear nor dread nor disgust crossed Xavier’s face as he began to comprehend the silent question boiling in Vittorio’s dead eyes.

Finally, Xavier had said, "Vittorio! What a surprise! I’m so happy to see you! Why don’t you come in?" It was as if it were broad daylight and Vittorio had shown up in clean, fashionable clothes instead of in his miserable state. Xavier seemed to be able to look through all that Vittorio was and see only what Angelita thought him to be. Angelita had never faith lost in Vittorio, and Xavier embraced him with just as much zeal. Vittorio felt instantly relieved.

As Vittorio sat in Angelita’s living room now, he became even more depressed by the contrast of where his footsteps had taken him in his life and where Angelita's had taken hers. He pointed the gun at various places on his own body. He visualized what he would look like after pulling the trigger in each of those places—not a pretty sight no matter how you looked at it.

The gun had been in Vittorio’s slack hand for a while, but when the thought of when Angelita had almost died flashed through his mind, he immediately brought the deadly tool up to his temple. It felt cold and hard as it dug into the skin. It was a hopeless feeling. As he slowly began to pull the trigger, the white, green, and burgundy colors of the loveseat suddenly caught his attention, and he released his finger ever so slowly.

"I can’t do this here," he said out loud. "The blood won’t come out of the couch or the carpet. I can’t do that to Angelita."

Vittorio loved Angelita. He loved her as his sister, his mother, his father, and all the other relatives he had never had combined. She had been there for him when they were alone and scared in the darkness as small children. She had kissed his boo boos when he hurt himself. She brought him cool cloths when he was feverish. She encouraged him to do better in school. She told him not to worry just before she had slipped into a coma after the car accident. She was the only person who wrote to him, tried to keep up with him, and helped him however she could wherever he was. No. If he was going to go through with killing himself as he knew he must, he had to find a way to do it with as little problem for her as possible.

The television flickered in the gloom.

Even as much as Vittorio loved Angelita, it had been the words from her mouth that had pushed him over the edge he had been tottering on for months—a great chasm that separated life from death, hope from despair, pain from healing. Vittorio knew he owed Xavier and Angelita his very life for taking him in when he hit rock bottom. They had helped him without a single question. They had given him food and shelter, five new outfits, and, more importantly, love and support. He had yet to even try on the outfits, because he was like a badly abused dog taken in by someone kind: he took what he needed furtively and in secret. He trusted no one.

Tonight, Vittorio had watched Xavier and Angelita get ready to go out for the evening, and he said one of the few things he had spoken in the entire five days he had been there: "Would you like me to watch the baby for you?" He did not know, even now, why he had spoken those words, other than the desire to do something, anything, to help. He knew absolutely nothing about caring for babies, but he figured it could not be that hard.

The look of love on Angelita’s face stunned Vittorio as he watched her, but her words killed all that was left of his soul, no matter how kindly they were spoken: "Vittorio, my Love, my Heart, thank you, but no thank you. The baby stays with me all the time. I think it best to do it that way until he is older. Besides, Sweetie, you’re just not ready. Go look at yourself in the mirror. You remind me so much of Dad, it scares me. I love you though. We’ll see you in a few hours." Then she was gone. The words "You remind me so much of Dad, it scares me" had echoed through his brain like some bullet ricocheting through a body. In his depressed state, they had sealed his coffin and sucked out the seedling of hope that had just began to sprout in his mind. How much more worthless could a person be?

When the front door had closed, Vittorio walked into the bathroom. He had looked at himself in the mirror for a good, long time and saw his dad staring back at him with his disheveled hair, his scraggly beard, and his dead, hollow eyes. Frightening indeed. The stench of body odors mixed with pot, alcohol, and vomit clung to him like a monkey hanging onto its mother. The blackness of depression consumed him in that moment quickly and completely like a child devouring a long-awaited sweet. He knew then that the world did not need him—never did—and, more importantly, his sister did not need him either. When he realized all of this, he decided he needed to put an end to his miserable life. The time had come.

As Vittorio sat on the couch watching inane images on the television that were completely out of sync with his life, he began to think of other places in the house, a place with tile. The kitchen floor was hardwood. The living room and three bedrooms were all carpeted. The image of the bathroom came into his mind, taunting him like some demon. It beckoned him like the Sirens beckoned Odysseus in the Odyssey, a book his sister had read to him long ago.

Yes, the bathroom was not only tiled, but it had the bathtub in it with its shower curtain and drain. Yes, the plan unfolded before his eyes now. He stood up, shaking from sitting so long and thinking so hard. He had to do this soon, because his sister and her family would be home in a couple of hours. He wanted all of his life’s blood to be gone long before she got there. He began to walk toward the bathroom. He looked at the fine art on the wall and on the tables as he went. In his stupor, he had not noticed them before. His sister had delightful things they never could have dreamed of even seeing, let alone having, when they were children. No, Angelita had really never needed him at all. She had done just fine on her own.

He had just reached the entrance to the hallway that led to the bathroom of Angelita’s little home when a baby cried suddenly in the darkness. Vittorio stopped and cocked his head, listening. It was odd, hearing that cry. Was he hallucinating?

Seconds later, a woman’s voice said, "There, there, My Love, My Dear Little One. Mama knows you’re tired." The voices stopped Vittorio in his tracks. He stood there transfixed, listening to words that were as smooth and sweet as honey. He had never heard anyone speaking like that before except Angelita. The baby stopped crying as the woman softly spoke. Vittorio realized that the mother and child were in some other house, but Angelita’s baby monitor was picking up the signal and sending it straight to Vittorio’s loved-starved heart. The sounds were so soft and so sweet and so obviously full of love that a tear gently slid down Vittorio’s cheek.

Vittorio sank slowly into the armchair he had just passed and unconsciously let the gun slip out of his fingers and onto the floor. He listened to the sounds coming from the baby monitor that called to his soul. Soon the woman began to sing in a sweet, gentle, husky voice:

Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the kings horses . . .

It wasn’t the song itself that held Vittorio mesmerized. It was the purity of the love that began to warm his deadened heart and to conquer the unhealthy thoughts that clouded his brain. The woman’s love came through the little white monitor from someone else’s home so strongly that Vittorio took that love for his own self. He became that woman’s child. He could almost feel her loving arms around him. He gently rocked himself as he closed his eyes.

She continued with five or six other nursery rhymes, and then she sang one last song, a lullaby:

Close your eyes
and goodnight.
Go to sleep little baby
And you know
I’ll always love you
forever so goodnight!

Vittorio listened as she lay her baby down and then softly closed the door. He remained sitting there, basking in the love he felt for some minutes.

He thought for a minute. His sister and brother-in-law did not have to let him stay there as a guest. They could have made him sleep on the couch or in the garage for that matter. Really, they could have simply turned him away. But, no. They had kept him as an honored guest with the softest of pillows, the cleanest of sheets, the sweet smells of potpourri, and even fresh flowers in the vase on the little table by the window where he could look out into Angelita’s flower garden and just think in peace and solitude.

Something bold and strange and new erupted in his mind. He picked up his gun and stowed it safely away in his pack on the top shelf of his closet in the guest room.

He took out one of the new outfits that were hanging in the closet. He fingered it lovingly, thinking of how much Angelita must love him. She had picked out everything with such care, it really was astounding. She remembered his favorite colors. She had even bought him a new suit—for interviews she had said. He took the outfit into the bathroom, so he could take a shower.

Angelita, Xavier, and the baby came home at some point during Vittorio’s shower and the two adults smiled with relief when they heard Vittorio’s baritone voice singing "Mary Had a Little Lamb" as the shower droplets kept time.