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When you were very young, your parents died in a car accident. With no one willing to take you in, you were given to a Catholic orphanage. There, you were fed and clothed, but not much more. You had to earn your keep doing chores--cleaning pews, scrubbing floors, lighting candles. You prayed every morning and every night just like they taught you, but you kept your words to God a secret. While they wanted you to give thanks for the blessing of their care, you simply wanted God to give you a family. You didn't remember much about your parents, not enough to really miss them, but the other children were distant--cruel at times, as only children can be--and you found no kinship with them. What you truly wanted was someone who'd care for you, protect you from the evils of the world, love you. As the years passed, you feared that time would never come.
With the orphanage attached to a church, you often saw other parishioners when they'd come for Sunday Mass. With the scent of perfume and incense in the air, you patiently let them past before you seated yourself in the furthest row from the altar. The old women were the kindest to you, smuggling small candies in their bags and dropping them on the collection plate for you. It was the children, blessed with a mama and papa, who gave you trouble. They harassed all the orphans after Mass while the adults were amongst themselves but you especially. You were small, timid, and weak looking. They would pull your hair and call you names. They'd spit on you, curse you, say that you deserved to be an orphan. You cried at first but over time, your tears dried up and you took it with a stony face. You'd been taught to turn the other cheek, love those who hate you. The weight of it was becoming unbearable.
One day, after Mass and in that brief and beautiful time of day where the sun shone through the stained class, you were sweeping the floors when you found a small boy curled up on one of the pews. You'd approached him from behind so he hadn't noticed you, giving you enough time to get a good look at him. He was small, thin, dark haired with purple-red bruises up and down his legs. His clothes were disheveled, like he'd picked them off the floor and put them on himself, and one of his shoes had a hole in the heel. You recognized him, not by name but by reputation. He was Giorno Giovanna. No one had a kind word to say about him. His mama and papa both hated him, scorned him. You didn't understand why then. To you, he was just a child like yourself, alone and helpless. As you watched his shallow breathing, you felt your heart swell in pity. This was a boy who understood how cruel the world was.
"H-hello," you whispered, startling him enough for him to roll out of the pew. "Don't... don't be afraid."
He picked up his head and looked you in the eyes just briefly. They were dull, glassy, like a starving dog's. But they were also the most beautiful shade of green you'd ever seen. He broke eye contact first, quickly gathering himself up to leave. He had a small book in his hand that you instantly recognized as the Book of Psalms. He kept his thumb firmly in its pages, holding his place. After years of teaching and pouring over that same book, you knew what he had been reading. As he backed away, you said the first thing that came to your mind.
"Psalm 140, right? I know a little of it. 'Keep me, o lord, from the hands of the wicked; protect me from men of violence who plan to trip my feet.'" He stopped in his tracks, his head down. You continued. "Uh... 'Let the heads of those who surround me be covered with the trouble their lips have caused.' Um... 'I know that the Lord secures justice for the poor and upholds the cause of the needy.' That's all I remember."
You stood there in silence for a long, tense moment. You began to shake, afraid. Surely he'd been offended that you'd spoken to him, that you'd presumed to know what he'd been reading. He could tell that you pitied him, that you had no right to judge him as lowly as you were. You braced yourself for harsh words or a fist.
"There's... there's a part about them being thrown into fire too, 'miry pits, never to rise.'" He audibly sucked in a breath. "I... I always liked that part."
"M-me too!" You tried not to sound so squeaky or excited. Taking delight at your enemies burning to death wasn't exactly pious of you.
He laughed, just a little, and raised his head. His smile was just a little quirk of his lips, but you felt like you'd seen something exceedingly rare. You smiled back as best you could. It'd been awhile since you'd had any reason to do so. You caught his eye again, blushed, and looked away. This was becoming too much, too personal. It would all have to end, be washed away like rain. Happiness was fleeting but you wished it wasn't so. This moment, this tiny piece of humanity, was one of the best experiences of your life.
"Everyone calls me Giorno," he said, putting his hands behind his back, "but my real name is... Haruno. Can... can I come and see you again?" He looked up, saw your puzzled face, and shook his head. "I mean, obviously not. Why would you want to see me again? I should j-just go."
He ducked his head, obscuring his face, and turned away. You stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. That felt nice. Gentle, soft touch was something you'd longed for and never truly forgotten, even after all this time. He stilled, even his breathing stopped. You took away your hand.
"You can come visit me... here. I come to clean up every Sunday after Mass." You swallowed a lump in your throat you didn't even know you had. This was the most you'd talked to someone as an equal for many years. "I'll see you next week... Haruno."
Your words broke the spell, snipped the thread that bound you together in this moment, and he ran out of the church so fast you knew you'd be scrubbing away skid marks. When he was gone, you let yourself sit for a moment, staring up at the images of saints surrounding the altar. You felt the eyes of the Blessed Virgin on you. Mother Mary had given you this gift, this chance, this friend. You clasped your hands in prayer and thanked her. You would not forget her mercy or her kindness. In a life so bleak, you had finally encountered a miracle of your own. Looking back, you'd come to regret ever thinking that.
Giorno, or Haruno as he insisted on being called, came to visit you every Sunday, just as he promised. Your encounters were awkward but enthusiastic. At first, you'd talk about scripture, especially the parts where sinners and evil doers would be punished for all eternity, but you started to get to know one another as well. As the weeks passed, you shared what little of your past you knew, how the men and women who ran the orphanage treated you, and you saw him snarl and shake. That rage, that righteous anger, was something you could never harness yourself, and it scared you a little. He loved to talk of justice but also of revenge. There was something brutal and savage lurking under his quiet and kind facade. It was months before he opened up to you. He was born far away, someplace he didn't know. His mother essentially abandoned him at a young age, only doing the bare minimum to care for him. She preferred parties and drinking to her own son. He didn't remember much about the time before she married his stepfather, who was cruel and wicked and beat him at the slightest provocation. They moved to Italy shortly after their marriage, and Haruno was given the name Giorno to match his stepfather's last name Giovanna. He took care of himself most of the time, only leaving the house to go to school, Mass, and to get groceries. You could see the misery radiating off of him as he told you what the other children would do to him. He hesitated to say so, but his tone of voice and the way he talked told you that he believed he was scum--just like you believed of yourself. You tried to convince him otherwise, that he was kind and gentle, but he refused.
"I was born bad," he said one day, sniffling. "All I can be is bad."
You very cautiously took him by the hand, deliberately avoiding eye contact, and sat with him as he cried. Silently, you looked up to see the saints watching over you. That couldn't be true, not of either of you.
There were happier times, of course. He brought you flowers he'd picked, small treasures he'd found, that sort of thing. You couldn't keep the flowers without being discovered but you enjoyed them all the same. The little treasures--shiny buttons, bottlecaps, pieces of ceramic tile--you kept under a loose floorboard by your bed. Whenever you couldn't sleep, you'd think of it and you'd smile. The other children noticed a change in your demeanor and doubled their efforts to bring you down. But you had found an inner strength, a source of happiness.
It couldn't last forever. Nothing good ever does. The day came when you were adopted. It took you by surprise. At age nine, you thought you were too old for anyone to want you but your new mama and papa insisted on you the moment they saw you. They were good hearted, simple people who ran a small café in a small town by the sea. Their own daughter had passed many years ago, and they wanted to bring joy into the life of a little girl just like her. They saw you, saw your sadness, and wanted to take you away. You were conflicted. Your prayers had been answered--your family awaited you with open arms--but you couldn't forget Haruno. He'd been your savior, your saint. It was only through his place in your life that you'd made it this far without sinking into total despair. Of course, you didn't think about it quite so eloquently, but the sentiment was there. Haruno had to know. And he'd be happy, wouldn't he?
You told him that Sunday, as you crouched behind the pews. The sunlight, filtered through the stained glass, danced across his hair and in his eyes. The moment was so perfect, so beautiful, but it shattered into a million pieces.
"You're... going away?" He said, his hands twisting in his pockets and his eyes narrowed. "How can you do this?! How can you leave me?!" He grabbed you by the collar, brought your face to his, and shouted, "You don't have to do this! We can run away, together! We can move to Roma a-and and and--"
He broke off into sobs, his grip iron-tight on your clothes, and you saw the absolute fury, the venom in his eyes. It was so unlike the Haruno you'd known, that sweet boy who'd listened so patiently as you poured your heart out. He was... scary, dangerous. You tried to move away from him but only succeeded in tumbling over onto your back with him on top of you. He was panting like a dog. You could feel his chest press into yours. His mouth opened, wide. You wanted to scream but you couldn't. How could you do that to him? You could calm him down; you could get him to understand.
"You're the only one," he said, choking on his words. "You're the only one who loves me. You can't leave. I won't let you." He had this look in his eye, something dark and terrible. It made you tremble.
"I won't let you go! Never! Never!" He was screaming now, his voice reverberating against the faces of the saints and the wisdom of the Lord. "You're never going to leave me!" He grabbed you by the hair. "We're going to be together forever!"
"Haruno--" You began but the sound of footsteps stopped you. They came faster and faster, stomping towards you. Haruno was pushed away so hard he slammed into the pew, and you were gently picked up and bundled into warm, strong arms. It was your papa, and you could tell he was angry as you felt his heart beat against you.
"Don't you ever touch my daughter like that, you scum!" Your papa said, spitting at him. "Bastardo! Il Mostro!"
Haruno didn't respond, didn't even raise his head. He just slumped over by the pew like a rag doll. Your papa took this as a sign of defeat and carried you out of the church, but you knew better. As you left, you saw Haruno's eyes on you. They were like two daggers, plunging into you. He was down, but not out. He'd have his revenge, his justice. You hoped that it would never come to pass. All you wanted was your only friend back, not this monster who wore his skin. You buried your face in your papa's shoulder to hide your tears. Goodbye.
You settled into your new life easily, just sliding into place like you'd meant to be there all along. You went to school, an actual school where they taught you mathematics and literature and science. You played in the sun with the other children, running and laughing until night fell and it was time for supper. Your mama and papa tucked you in every night, sang you sweet songs, and gave you gentle kisses on the forehead. It was like a wonderful dream, like heaven. Your new friends didn't ask where you came from, and you didn't tell them. Those memories were too painful, too raw, but they began to fade like old scars in time. You would pray, each morning and each evening, that you'd transcend your origins, that you'd come to live a happy and peaceful life here for the rest of your days. For a while, your prayers were granted.
As you grew older, you noticed strange men coming in after closing, the smell of cigarette smoke on their jackets and their eyes hungry. Your papa would talk to them politely, bowed and scraped before them, and handed them an envelope stuffed with money from the till. You might've been sheltered in your upbringing, but you weren't stupid. These men were mafioso, and they ran your town. You only ever saw the little fish, the small fry. They'd stop by your school, walk into class, and leave with one of your classmates. They'd return with bruises, blood, and empty wallets. You knew they ran a gambling ring out of an old theater by the shore, and there were rumors that they dealt in drugs. Your family was lucky. Your papa and mama had no appetite for gambling or contraband, and they kept their noses clean and dutifully paid the men their due. It was just the cost of doing business. You knew it was wrong, but you let it happen. There was nothing one person could do, especially if that person was you.
The winter you turned fifteen, your classmates were gossiping when you met them to walk to school. You weren't allowed to have a cellphone, so you'd missed out on the latest news. There was a man, a boy really, with golden hair and a beautiful face who was going from shop to shop looking for someone. He was rich and powerful, maybe even a capo. He'd come all the way from Roma in search of a girl. Your friends thought it was romantic, like something out of a movie or novella, but something about it chilled you to the bone. A capo, here? The last thing your town needed was more cocky gangsters. You went to school as you always did and buried yourself in your studies. Capo or no, it didn't concern you. You were an ordinary, good, god-fearing girl. There was nothing to be worried about it.
The town kept talking about the mysterious man, and you felt the terrible weight of dread on your shoulders. You couldn't quite place it but when you'd chat with your friends or go shopping, you felt eyes on you--cold and oily. You would look around corners before you passed them, checked your reflection in shop windows. You saw nothing, heard nothing, but you were afraid anyways. You lived like this for a few days, the pressure slowly mounting, until he showed up at your parents' café just before closing time.
You were in the back doing the dishes, listening to the latest Jennifer Lopez single over the radio. It had a beat to it, a rhythm, that you really liked. You were looking forward to getting the full album for Christmas. (Your parents had finally caved and let you have a CD player in your bedroom.) You didn't even realize something was wrong until you heard your papa's voice.
"Mi scusi, signore, ma il caffè è chiuso." You could only hear him faintly over the sound of the music so you turned off the radio and the faucet. Your hands still absently scrubbed a plate as you listened. It had to be the mafioso again. He'd go behind the counter, get their money, and they'd be gone. There'd never been an issue before.
You were just about to turn the music back on and go back to washing dishes when you heard your papa shout and then suddenly be silenced. You froze, your hands and forearms warm from the soapy water but the rest of you ice cold. Whoever it was had scared him, perhaps even hurt him. You heard a thump, a soft groan. There was a cracking sound, something breaking and splintering. You looked over to the phone on the kitchen wall. Your mama had scolded your papa for installing it there instead of in the front of house but your papa insisted that it would come in handy one day. It seemed like today would be that day.
As quietly as you could, you placed the plate back into the water and stepped over to the phone. You pressed "one" and had to hold back a curse. You'd forgotten that it beeped when you hit the buttons! You took a deep breath, trying to center yourself. That was okay, that was fine. It was just a little noise, a small noise. They couldn't possibly have heard it. You just had to wait a few seconds before you hit "one" again. After that, all you needed was a "three," and the police would be over in no time.
You drew your finger back from the button and moved to press it again. A hand grabbed your wrist and another wrapped itself around your mouth before you could do so. You screamed into your assailant's palm, kicking your legs wildly. He was taller than you, a lot stronger too, but if you could just make it to the back door, you'd be in the alley and only steps away from the nearest telephone booth. You bit down, tasting blood, but he didn't let go. All he did was laugh. You had to fight back the urge to vomit.
"Ciao bella," he whispered in your ear. "Don't you remember me? I know it's been a long time..."
You shook your head frantically, trying to push yourself away. Maybe if you could get back over to the sink, you could grab a plate and--
"'Rescue me, o Lord, from evil men; protect me from men of violence, who devise evil plans in their hearts and stir up war every day. They make their tongues as sharp as a serpent's; the poison of vipers is their lips. Selah. Keep me, o Lord, from the hands of the wicked; protect me from men of violence who plan to trip my feet...'"
You went limp, his blood pooling in your mouth. He chuckled and let you go. You turned to face him. He'd grown into a handsome man; the rumors were true. His hair was bright gold and curled. His posture, his expression showed you nothing of his former self. He was confident, suave, and looked like a man of wealth and power. All that remained were those green eyes, beautiful and terrible as they were. You wanted to speak, to rebuke him, to push him away. You wanted to do all these things and more. But you couldn't. Some part of you still saw the boy you knew, all those years ago.
"Ah, now you recognize me," Haruno said, a smile playing on his lips. "Not strangers anymore, are we? Let's have a nice chat, you and me. It's been too long, bella."
You nodded, really just shaking your head up and down, and he moved back a step. You grabbed the telephone receiver and brought it down on his head with all your might. He sputtered a curse and stumbled a little, giving you enough space to push past him and into the front of the café. Your papa was there, but he didn't look much like your papa anymore.
His body was tied face-down on the ground by thick, thorny vines which burst from the floorboards. Even now, they wound around him, constricting him and tearing into his flesh. Fresh blood dripped from the bright green leaves. His face, hands, and feet were swollen as if he'd been stung by bees. You gasped and fell to the floor. Your papa half-groaned, half-sighed. Praise God, he was alive! You reached out to touch him, and he shuffled away as much as he could. He grunted loudly, insistently. He was urging you, begging you to leave him. But you couldn't--not your papa, not the man who had brought you so much happiness.
You were lifted up by your shoulders and held tight, Haruno's hand stroking your hair. He whispering such sweet things in your ear, beautiful memories of stained glass and flowers and childhood daydreams.
"Haruno," you said, letting the word fall out of your mouth, "please let us go."
His hand stopped in your hair, and it felt more like a claw. He laughed. "Haruno was nothing but bad. He was born bad, and he deserved only bad things. But I'm not him anymore. I'm Giorno Giovanna, and I have made something of myself. I have the power, the ability to make you mine. I will be your rock and your fortress and your deliverer... You'll never leave my side again, bella. Now let's take a seat and have some coffee. We have so much to catch up on."