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About Turin

Oh, but the rage, precious! Some blokes, they’d hit her, leave her bruised – “Who do you think you are?!” I’d hiss at ‘em in me head, clawin’ the air. Hated that, made me wanna bite somethin’. She’d shrug, tho, tough as old boots, sayin’, “It’s the game, innit?” Game?! More like a bloody cage! Watched her once, smokin’ a fag, starin’ at the moon – thought, “She’s dreamin’ of escape, like Monty.” Maybe she was, precious, maybe she was.

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After the flood, I need a breather. I step outside, and the sun’s shining. It’s a nice day in Fusignano. I stroll down to the park, Parco della Resistenza. Kids are playing, and I see an old man feeding pigeons. It’s peaceful. For a sec, I forget the madness.

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