The Slave of Pleasure

Vincenzo

Sitting in the brown leather armchair, with the glass of whiskey in one hand, I let the warm drink run down my throat. The room is quiet, the only light comes from the lamp beside me, casting soft shadows on the walls. The drink gives me some comfort, a momentary relief from the constant tension I feel. I take a deep breath and allow my mind to travel to the past, to a time I would rather forget.

I was only 10 years old when my parents passed away. It was a car accident that changed my life forever. I remember the day clearly. The car broke the protective barrier and fell off a cliff. It was a sunny afternoon, and suddenly everything went dark. The pain of loss was immense and devastating. I couldn't understand why this happened, why my parents, who were the only thing I had, had been taken from me.

After the accident, my life turned upside down. I was sent to live with my grandmother, my father's mother. She was an elderly woman, strict, but with a heart that knew how to love in its own way. Her house was big, but I felt alone in every corner. The place was full of old furniture and objects that seemed to have been there forever, and I felt like I didn't belong anywhere.NôvelDrama.Org © 2024.

My grandmother tried to give me the best she could, but her way of dealing with things was different from what I was used to. She was strict and meticulous, always worried about maintaining the family and the legacy my father had left behind. I understood later that she had a strange way of showing her love and concern, but in those early years, I could only feel a deep emptiness and an overwhelming loneliness.

As I grew older, the loneliness only deepened. At school, I was the lonely kid, the one who always sat by myself. I had no friends, no one to share my thoughts or feelings with. Grandma had her own worries, and I could never really get close to her. She was always busy with the family business, and I became just another part of the household furniture, someone who needed to be taken care of but rarely got any attention.

As time went on, I became more reserved, more distant. The feeling of always being alone never left me. The loneliness I felt as a child turned into a kind of forced independence. I learned to deal with my feelings in isolation, and eventually this shaped the person I became. I developed a facade of coldness and control, something that helped me keep people at a distance and protected me from the pain I had experienced. Now, sitting here, glass of whiskey in hand, I can look back and see how these events shaped my life. The pain of loss, the loneliness and the need for control became a part of who I am. Childhood, with its scars, is still a living part of me. Sometimes I wonder if it is possible to escape the weight of memories and find some peace in the midst of it all. But for now, all I can do is move forward, trying to stay in control while dealing with the memories that never quite go away.

My grandmother has always been a constant presence in my life. Ever since my parents passed away, she has taken on the role of guide, protector, and of course, disciplinarian. There is no doubt that she was good to me, caring for me with all she could offer, but always in a stern, almost cold way. She taught me from an early age what responsibility meant, the weight of the name I carried, and the expectations the world would have of me.

I remember when I was little and when I did something wrong, as any child would do, my grandmother never treated me with the patience that most people give to a child. Instead, she would correct me immediately, without room for excuses or justifications. By the time I turned ten, it felt like I no longer had the right to be a child. That accident had stripped me of any shred of innocence, but the way my grandmother raised me solidified it even more.

She believed that in order to survive in this world, you had to be strong. In her words, "Weakness is something the Morettis cannot afford." I remember how those words echoed in my mind whenever I failed at something, like a constant shadow reminding me that I could not fail. There was no room for mistakes, for vulnerability.

In a way, I understand why she did what she did. The empire our family built required steady hands and a sharp mind. And in her eyes, I was the future of that empire. But at the same time, I feel like I was denied something important: the chance to just be a child, to make mistakes without serious consequences, to learn from life in a lighter way.

There was not much room for play or for developing sincere friendships. Everything seemed to be preparation for the future. She trained me with It was as if I were a soldier in training, not a grandson in need of care and affection. Every lesson, every order, every piece of advice carried a weight that made me aware that I did not have the option of being weak. She taught me to hide my fears, to stifle my insecurities, and to put duty and the family name above all else.

And so it was. I grew up with this rigidity, with this constant reminder that I could not fail. But inside, there was a part of me that felt the loss. The loss of the childhood I never had. The loss of the freedom I never experienced. I learned to be the man I am today, someone strong, relentless, and always in control. But at the same time, I sometimes wonder if this armor my grandmother helped me forge doesn't hide a void that will never be filled.

Because despite all the power, all the control I have over my life and my business, there are times when I feel more alone than ever. And I know that this loneliness is a price I paid for never having been just a boy.