This Masquerade (eBook)

The True Story

Sandra Wilson (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2023
332 Seiten
Publishdrive (Verlag)
979-8-8670-4692-7 (ISBN)

Infos

The Masquerade ebook is a page turner! It presents a compelling true account of love, pain, and loss. After meeting Gino, a drummer, an aspiring singer's life was irrevocably altered as she faced incidents involving danger and manipulation. Although her initial aspiration was simply to sing in a band, she soon discovered the risks associated with her connection to Gino. Her experiences led to years evading the law and navigating perilous circumstances. Under Gino's control, she endured profound loneliness and suffering, compounded by substance abuse. Attempts to escape his influence were met with significant consequences.

Textauszug

CHAPTER-ONE

Fort Worth, Texas - August 1994

 

T

he day was blistering hot, and my eyes were watering from the intense sunlight. I reached across the car to pull my sunglasses from the glove compartment and began wondering if I could really go through with this. How could I bring myself to attend the funeral of a man I despised? The only reason I agreed to show up was to support my son. I had lost so much time with him already and really needed to be there for him now.

The long drive with my daughter, from Dallas to Fort Worth, gave me time to put things into perspective. The realization that nothing could or ever would surprise me about my ex-husband sank in deeper than before. Not even his death came as a shock. From the moment I met Gino, we had lived life on the edge. His sudden passing only served as further proof that after all these years, nothing had changed. Those foreboding words I had mulled over in my mind now seemed prophetic. “He should have been dead long ago.”

The arid weather and dust that were torturing my sinuses, mixed perfectly with the burning thoughts going through my head. This was turning out to be the longest drive of my life. The air conditioner chugged at its max, fruitlessly, as I cursed the beads of sweat that were trickling a path down my waistband of the dress I was wearing. My palms felt so sweaty: I could barely maneuver my car between the two identical granite markers that flanked the entryway to the Sunset Hills Funeral Home.

Oak leaves and debris churned steadily under the tires as I pulled the car into the parking lot of Gino’s final resting place. The funeral home was a large church-styled structure with tall windows, and taking it all in, my heart began to pound with nerves and anticipation. I just knew it would feel completely frigid on the inside with the air conditioner cranked up. I started to take my sweater, but I tossed it across the seat. I did not intend on staying long enough to need it. I got out of the car and with a forced smile told my daughter; “I’ll be right back.”

The front door seemed heavy as I opened it and walked into the icy foyer. The perky blonde receptionist looked up from her desk with a carefully practiced look of compassion and courtesy, as she began to explain the directions to the gravesite ceremony. She circled Gino’s gravesite with a red magic marker.

“Follow this road,” she said, running a manicured fingernail across the page, and then added, “Sorry for your loss.” Her kind words rather stunned me. I thought, “If you only knew what I’d been through with the deceased.” I nodded politely and muttered a quick, “Thank you,” and stepped outside.

Suddenly, the heat from the scorching sun quickly warmed my chilled body, as I walked back out into the Texas heat. By the time I was settling back into the car for the drive to the gravesite, I noticed the map lying on my console. The red magic marker had bled into the cheap copy paper and now it looked like a big bloody stain.

As I drove up the pathway, I glanced again at the blood-stained map, searching for Gino’s burial. I drove through what looked like a beautiful and peaceful place to be laid to rest; not at all like my ex-husbands chaotic life.

The glossy-leaved pecan trees, together with pink petunias, lined the beautiful walkways. If it were another time of year, I’d consider walking. Not today in this heat. Or with my legs which felt weak from so many emotions coursing through me.

My thoughts turned to my daughter, who had been sitting quietly in the passenger seat. Carmen had a bewildered look on her face, and I felt at a loss on how to comfort her. I’m sure she was experiencing many different emotions about her stepfather’s death. With a quick pat on her hand, I shifted my car gear into park, and grabbed my purse. Before I opened the door, I peered ahead and hesitated for a moment, not quite ready to join the few mourners that had already gathered. I noticed some of them were huddled together, talking in groups. Others talked in pairs.

I watched these people mull around and began having second thoughts about my decision to attend this funeral. Technically, they were strangers, but I knew them all. Not by names or their faces, but by the type of individuals they were drug-dealers, addicts, criminals. These were Gino’s people.

A wave of disgust washed over me as I realized I would be in such close contact with the low life’s I’d tried so hard to get away from. I reached deep in my purse for an antacid, trying to stop the burning feeling rising in my gut. A few moments later, the burning sensation subsided to a dull roar, and I managed to get out of the car. Perspiration immediately welled from every pore in my body, but I doubted it was just the 100-degree heat causing it all.

Carmen and I took a seat on white plastic chairs in the last row, as we tried to be as inconspicuous as we could. It was impossible to sit still though, and I swiftly started to fan my face with the bloody gravesite map. Each backward flourish displayed the eerie bloodstain that was Gino’s gravesite.

I was thankful for the canvas tent that was set up to shield us from the sun. It cast us into eerily dark shadows though, that made it hard to make out details. I focused on the casket, trying to get a clear vision. It was nice, mahogany wood and looked very expensive. I wondered briefly, who’d paid for such an elaborate box? I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t dirty money from ill-gotten gains.

The closed casket was surrounded with gorgeous flower wreaths that were packed with carnations, gladiolas, and daisies. Apparently, he must have had more money than I originally thought. Either that or he knew more friends in higher places than the slime he used to run around with.

Gazing forward, I noticed in front of the gravesite area was a long table with a large black and white photograph of Gino. He had always taken a good picture, and this one was no exception. Seeing his face after all these years startled me and wrenched at something deep inside. He still had a picture-perfect smile and cheery expression that belied the years of hard living, which had finally put an end to his life. The image brought a huge lump to my throat.

Staring at the photograph, I suddenly felt paralyzed as the painful memories of our past came flooding to the surface. For years, I’d kept the emotions confined, relegated to the dark recesses hidden deep within my soul; unwilling to think of them, loathing to speak of them, and absolutely denying that they had any effect whatsoever on me.

The photo conjured up images of just how vengeful, cunning, and ruthless he’d been. Suddenly, his face was smirking at me, grinning in that evil way, challenging me to disagree. I squeezed my eyes shut and counted to ten. When I opened them, he was smiling again.

As the buried memories were starting to overcome my senses, one of the infamous Texas winds whirled up out of nowhere from the depths of the parking lot, bringing with it the intoxicating scent of bluebonnets. For a moment, the air spun like a twister, plucking the soft white lilies on either side of the casket into a happy dance. Mourners gripped hats and shirttails, and for one tiny moment, I felt compassion for Gino. He was, after all, a human being, someone’s son, and father of my children.

The feeling of compassion and sadness bewildered me. I wasn’t sure if those were, in fact, my true feelings, or rather were they merely those that I believed I should feel. I’d always been taught to “have respect” for the dead. The other feelings that weren’t anywhere close to compassion or sadness, left me feeling guilty and confused. I struggled inside with these churning emotions. How could I possibly feel true compassion for a man who’d nearly destroyed my life, and the lives of my children.

Then, I was startled out of my thoughts when a black car pulled up next to the gravesite. I squinted hard through the blinding sun and realized it was my son Jason. It had been two years since my daughter, Carmen, and I had seen him. I was almost crying when he got out of the car but tried to maintain some sort of semblance of composure. We both ran to him, holding back tears, but giving way to yelling his name and carrying on as if he’d just come back from the war. We threw ourselves into his arms, hugging and holding onto him. Jason stood there, stiff as a statue, while his sister and I cuddled him. His skin felt cold as ice, even though we were sweating up a storm from the hot Texas heat.

Jason was nice and cordial, but there was an air of distance. He looked handsome and self-assured, but he only spoke with us for a moment; not nearly long enough. I felt abandoned by him and wondered how he could just walk away after he had been gone from our lives for so long. Those conflicting thoughts left me feeling selfish and angry when my heart yearned to feel close to him.

Carmen and I sat back down and waited for the ceremony to start. By then, the heat had become unbearable. I pulled a tissue from my purse and wiped the sweat from behind my drenched neck, hoping that this whole episode would end quickly, so I could spend more time with my son. Then I happened to glance again at Gino’s picture. This time I noticed an inscription etched into his photograph. The words were illegible from my seat in the back row, and for some reason, it seemed very significant that I found out what it said.

I’d risen from my chair and walked closer to the table with the picture on it before I even realized what I was doing. In my absent mindedness, my heel caught on a grass patch, and I stumbled. This surprising...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 29.11.2023
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Biografien / Erfahrungsberichte
• Schlagworte: Autobiography • Biography • Domestic Abuse • Memoirs • relationships • True stories • true story crimes
• ISBN-13: 979-8-8670-4692-7 / 9798867046927