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There is one night I will never forget; it is forever engraved into my memories. I have other memories of Vittorio's father, before he left, but this one stands out. Some of them are very happy ones, but we are not speaking of the happy ones today, no, sadly, this memory is full of pain. As much as I loath this one memory, it is the easiest one to remember, for this was the night that I got a small disjointed cross-shaped scar on my cheek.

We were at his parent's house in Castilucci that dark sombre night, Vittorio, Vittorio's grandparents, and his father and I. The still air lay silent between us, outside crickets sang loudly, as if daring someone, anyone, to break the silence. Inside nothing moved save the dying embers of the fire and the dawning darkness surrounding us. Sombre faced, Vittorio's grandparents sat unstirring at the table across from the fire. The room itself seemed to echo our mode, dull, grey, and unadorned walls surrounded us, closing in on us as if to suffocate us. In some ways, we were already suffocating in the silent air; across the table sat Vittorio's father, wearing brown trousers and an old work shirt. A fist lay on the table, where the empty dinner plates sat dirty and forgotten. Forgotten like the very subject of our fight that led to everyone sitting as we were.

Across the table, seemingly etched permanently on his face was a look of pure rage, while Vittorio sat in the corner, taking this all in as he sat there, still as a statue. As if waiting for something everyone sat immobile, too afraid of his father's reaction to move. The fire, rising to the silent challenge, cracked loudly as its embers began to dye away. That sound broke not only the silence, but his temper as well. As if that was his cue, he rose to his feet, picking up his plate as he did so. His parents rose too, but were too late to stop him as he hurled the plate at me. I watch in slow torturous horror as the plate inched towards me, soaring out of his parent's reach and smashing into my check, my head pushed along with it until it soared into the wall. The plate had a small chip in it that cut across my cheek before it cracked and shattered to pieces against the wall, as a small trickle of blood slowly made its way down my cheek.

I am not sure happened next, this is when the memory gets a bit dim, as if it never really happened, as if I was dreaming the whole time. Only the dream was real and as it to prove that, a scar was left behind that night. A scar in the shape of a small disjointed cross, it was barely visible at times, but it was there nonetheless, as if to hide itself. Hiding and waiting for just the right moment to reveal itself and send that tearful memory to drown me once again.