Wild One

Two

Manon

A big scary man, running from another big scary man. Great. Just great.

Come on Manon.

"U-Uh...thanks but I gotta—"

"Stay," His deep purring voice compelled me.

"How old are you?"

"Um...18?"

The man looked over my body. I'm not exactly curvy. I'm more flat that anything. But the way he was staring at me you'd think I was fuckin Jessica Rabbit.

"Do you know who I am," He licked his lips.

"No?"

He smirked. "Why don't you run on home, pulcino."

"Um...okay. Bye strange scary man!"

God help me, he almost ate me alive.

***

"Ma! Pop! I'm home!"

"Where have you been?"

Now what do I say? Oh well met a man who tried to rape me, then another man who was like a hot Italian bad wolf.

"Walking!"

"Alright then. We'll talk about it tomorrow."

Great. I rush upstairs and call my best friend immediately.

"Manon why are you calling so late?"

"I almost got raped."

I hear her groan. "What have I told you about walking at night?!"

"No, it's okay. There was this hot Italian guy who saved me. In a way." I start over. "Now that I think of it, he more like...stood there all imposing and the other guy ran."

Jessie is silent at first. "Wait. Did you say...Italian?

"Oui."

Jessie groaned. "You are an i***t!

"Hey!" I exclaimed offended.

"Did he have any tattoos?"

I try to think. "It was too dark."

"Jerome told me that the 100 we're hosting the Vitale Family for a meeting. If you saw an Italian, chances are, he's part of the Vitale."

A mobster? Wonderful! Just what I needed!

I brush my teeth, wash my face, wrap up my hair and go to bed.

I try to sleep, but I can't get that man out of my head. He was so...so forlorn. There seemed to be a sad gleam in his eyes that twinkled even in the dark.

I wonder what his story was? Who had hurt him? Who had he lost?

Pushed away? Ma always tells me I'm far too interested in other people's stories to consider how they may impact my own.

But I'm a reporter, it's what I do. I get the story. Because stories are important. Stories tell us who we are and where we've been. Where we're going.

My story?

I haven't really written one yet. Haven't lived long enough, I don't think. Right now, I'm on the prologue of my story.

And even though that man was probably a handful of years older than me, I knew he was probably at the crossroads in his.

Because sometimes, it's not about how long you've lived, it's about how much you've suffered.

Suffering has a way of ageing that even time can't touch.

I fall asleep wondering how old his pain is.