Years, pt 6 || short story
Another installment to this horrid brainchild of mine. Never gonna be sorry. Find the earlier stories here: part I, part II, part III, part IV, part V
Years, part VI
Aisling had only seen the DiRusso manor a scant few times in the past as a girl; she had always found it obnoxiously overlarge then, and found it just the same as a young woman now, all the more so for the passing of Armand and the wilting of her Aunt Carlotta. And the continued absence of her damnable cousin. Business in the city indeed. She quite well recalled Alonso being the sort to cower in the face of altercation, as he expected none to oppose him, which was why she and him had carried on contentiously as children. Aisling cowed to none but her parents, and even then only when it suited her. But the biggest difference between herself and Alonso rested in the sole fact that she was in fact willing to listen, while he had become less and less so.
Regardless of their past, Aisling waited in that ghost home for his return a total of ten days, during which she did her best to lift her Aunt’s spirits in the daytime, and mourned with bitter, youthful tears that she could see her efforts could not reach deep enough into the heart of Carlotta DiRusso to at all mend the damages these years have done. A part of her could hardly believe the stories of her Aunt in youth, of a fiery, defiant woman determined to see her life changed, only to fail most spectacularly to escape that which she strived so gallantly against. Of a man who could no more help her than he could help himself from adoring her.
It was the story made for the operatic stage, where the pain ought to last for the duration of the performance, allowing life to continue in bliss. Instead it was reality.
Aisling could hardly stand it.
When Alonso at last made his return, Aisling noted with regret how Aunt Lotta retreated back into her chambers and was not seen for the remainder of the day, leaving Aisling the perfect opportunity, however saddening, to confront her cousin as she would. And she did.
Claiming one of the studies as her own, she instructed her presence be made known to the master of the house, after which she waited until he came to her, his countenance, though fair and yet strong like his father’s, much harsher than she ever could recall. A pity, as he otherwise would have been a very handsome cousin, perfectly viable to introduce to acquaintances and friends. But Aisling would not subject even her most distance acquaintance the misfortune of knowing him.
Alonso eyed her when he entered, his riding gloves still on, hat in his hand—some courtesy, at least.
“This is a surprise,” he said, moving slowly into the room. “I seem to recall a declaration of never returning here again. Clearly respect of the recently dead is of no matter to you, so what has brought you back after all this time?” Seated at the desk, a book in hand, Aisling set it carefully aside, and stood, shaking out her skirts. “Why, a celebration with my dear Aunt, of course. This house is almost refreshing enough to stay now, but I’ll not ask it of you to understand.”
“You’ve come to mock me.”
“In a word, yes.”
He scowled, removing his gloves with the air of a petulant child, slapping them down onto a small table. “I never asked you to come where you do not feel welcome.”
“And by who else would I not be welcomed? Not my Aunt, surely, whom you seem to find particular pleasure in destroying. Continuing your father’s work after he is gone, I see. He must be very proud of you.”
“He was proud of me! When no one else was, and no one else will be because none understand the burden of—”
“Do spare me the sob story, Alonso, I haven’t the stomach for it. Armand was—”
“Uncle. Your Uncle.”
“Armand was a narcissistic brute.”
“My mother was a whore!”
Aisling’s expression slackened with shock, his words hanging between them as the clock ticked the silence away.
“You—“ She shook her head in disbelief. “You honestly cannot believe—“
Alonso grit his teeth. “I know what happened! I have always known what happened between her and that man she tried to have twist me around for her own gain! How she betrayed my father, would have gladly had him murdered in his own house by a man who portrayed himself as a friend. I am well aware of their plotting, and how she lost because my father had the means to withstand that sort of underhanded scheming to take what was rightfully his, what in now mine. You don’t think that my father warmed me Barozzi would return upon his death? That he was not simply waiting until my father had died to finish what he could not finish in the past?! I will not allow it!”
“What?” Aisling dared to step towards him. “That—that is not what happened at all! Alonso, she loved him, that was all! Why is that such a crime? Why does that deserve your blind hatred towards your own mother!?”
He retreated two steps to her one. “No. You will not lie to me as well, Aisling. You may believe what you want, but my mother has never been content after all that has been done for her. She has never appreciated how hard he worked to maintain this empire for her. He did not have to consent to marriage, and could have given her to someone else of a far lesser status, but he chose to keep her with her own.”
“Are you listening to yourself? Alonso, that just is not true; I cannot tell you enough.”
“And where have you been all this time to see what has happened in my own household? Hm? How can you tell me that what I have seen my entire life in untrue?”
Aisling pressed her lips together, looking at him, truly looking at him, at the distress hidden behind all of his anger. Whether it was born of confusion or something else, she could not tell, but he has been questioning himself, of that she was absolutely sure.
“Perhaps you ought to look at your mother and father through your own eyes, not Armand’s.” When he stepped away, turning as if to leave, Aisling followed after him, her voice raising as they both stomped down the hall. “Perhaps you ought to speak with your mother, if you can somehow manage to look her in the eye after all that you have done. You loved her once, Alonso; I remember that vividly, but you let someone else poison it, poison you. That does not make you strong, it makes you weak. Gullible. Foolish.”
“Enough!” Whirling around, he swung at her. He actually swung at her. But his swings have always been wide and sloppy, a testimony to how little his father actually cared I not teaching his son how to properly fight. Meaning Aisling had him flat on his back in three hits flat; one to the armpit, one to the ribs, the last to his face just because he had the audacity to try and hit her. Her. Had he not learned better than that from when they were children?
She stood over him, shaking her hand out as he squalled on the floor. “You broke my nose! You actually broke it!”
“Did I? Well, I must be a little more irritated than I thought. Honestly, Alonso, did no one teach you how to fight properly? Your Da hadn’t the time to spare for it? Or are you still in the habit of only assaulting those smaller and weaker than you?”
Glaring up at her, hand cupped over his face and blood seeping from his fingers, he scooted backwards before scrambling to his feet, storming off just as he used to as a child.
This time, Aisling let him go, but with a small, frustrated sigh. Perhaps it was wrong of them to pull away, no longer give him a proper influence in his life.
But then again, there had always rested on her family a lingering threat those few times they dared to visit the DiRussos. The situation remains precarious even now, despite that the cornerstone of their collective grievances now lays buried underground, and good riddance to him. If no one might somehow reach Alonso, however...it would behoove them all to withdraw one last time, and without leaving Carlotta behind.