She's an innocent girl who lived with her alcoholic abusive father. Her life was barley manageable, especially when she was separated from her biological family at such a young age.
When her father mysteriously dies from a car crash, she's taken to...
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AZALEA'S POV:
"SO YOUR life in Italy is really vast from London, huh."
I told Vincent everything. From my brothers, to Matteo, just keeping him updated. He seems to always have the best advice. Almost like an older brother to me, except I'm closest to him than any other of my older brothers.
"Yes.. very different, so different and quick I sometimes miss London― but not in a way that'd I'd want to go back. No offense, but I like it way better here. London is just filled to very nearly the brim with bad, bad memories for me, y'know?"
"Bad memories?"
It had completely slipped out my mind: the fact I hadn't told Vincent about the abuse I'd endured from my dad― from Stefano. From the devil himself. Everything has just been slipping by so quickly recently, it feels like everyone knows everything and nothing. I can't seem to remember myself lately, I've been changing. Changing so much, so quickly I can't tell if it's good or mad― if I'm spiraling out of control or spiraling just into the depth of control.
Vincent doesn't know anything of what happened inside the walls of where I'd lived for 12 years. All he knows is that Stefano was depressed, I was mourning and my mother was dead.
"Yeah, um," Wheels twist in my mind, trying to find an excuse, quickly. "bad memories, when Mary died. Worst memory of all." Not far from the truth, and a pretty reasonable and believable excuse. One point for Azalea!
"Right, but in that case, don't you have more good memories then bad? I mean, London is practically your life, your home. Where you grew up, where you lived for 15 years of your life. You grew up here, learnt to talk, speak, walk, crawl― everything. Then, you just go to Italy everything is perfect?" He spurs out, almost with a hint of.. anger?
More good memories than bad my ass.
Since when did he have such a strong opinion about what I cared about, and especially about my preferences?
"No, I didn't say that. You were kind of the only good thing that happened to me in London, I'm just much happier here."
"Well, I couldn't have been the only good thing. What about life before Mary died? How was it then?" What's he suggesting at?
"Uh.. good.. I guess? Sorry, what are you getting at?"
"Well, clearly, Italy is much better than London. And I'm almost certain London will eventually slip out your mind, then the special place your heart has created especially for it," He starts, my eyebrows pinch together.
"When you say it like that―"
"―I think you should make a journal. A diary, even. Just something to remind you of life back here and then your life down there, something that reminds you to be grateful and maybe miss little things back here," He finishes, and I process anything. The idea is far from a bad one. Maybe, I should do it, or consider it at least. Journaling. Journaling my life.
