I’m Not ScaredI’m Not ScaredAs I look back on my years growing up in Acqua Traverse there is one period that stands out above all others: when I was an accomplice in the kidnapping of Filippo Carducci. Filippo was the son of the wealthy Lombard business man Giovanni Carducci and a steep ransom was demanded in exchange for his life.
It all started when that stupid roman Sergio Materia came to Acqua Traverse. I was twenty at the time and felt caged in such a small, rural village. Sergio offered the inhabitants a chance to make a large sum of money, of which everyone was in need. Our better judgment was overpowered by our hunger for money. Kidnapping a vulnerable young rich boy didn’t seem too difficult at the time so we agreed. Nearly everyone in the town was in on the ploy.
There were six kids in Acqua Traverse, including my brother Antonio. Like me, Antonio was feared by the other kids. I would hit them, puncture their footballs and steal things from them just for the sake of it. I see now how cruel I was to but at the time I didn’t think of my actions as bullying. The abuse I showed those children was an outlet for my anger and frustration as they were the only people in the village over whom I could exert any form of power. They viewed me as a powerful macho man which was the image I tried so hard to portray.
My daily attire reflected nothing of the times. I wore a combat jacket and camouflaged trousers. I always had a signature bandanna tied round my neck and I shaved meticulously. Thinking about it now I wonder how anyone could have ever taken me seriously. I imagine I resembled a baby with my shaved head and pointy little teeth. I did have one positive attribute, however, and that was my body. I was constantly doing press-ups and had the muscles to show for it.
My prized possession was my little 127. If it weren’t for that car I think I would have gone mad. I knew all about cars as my father had once been a mechanic. He resented, however, that I spent hours taking my car apart and putting it back together. I remember one day, whilst tinkering with the engine, I got trapped under it and was forced to ask one of the kids, Michele, for help. By doing this I knew the power I had over him was somewhat jeopardized but it was better than asking my father as he’d have beaten the hell out of me. Growing up in such an isolated hamlet, my father was my role model and I believe that his lack of affection towards me growing up was one of the primary causes of my malicious behavior.
People considered me an idiot. When it came to the kidnapping I was given the worst responsibility of all; babysitting the boy. I hated driving up to the abandoned house every day: it gradually destroyed both my car and my spirit. I spent days on end singing along to the radio and taunting the “little prince”. In his delirium he thought I was “the lord of the worms”, which I happily played along with incorporating other fictional characters into his already polluted mind. I began noticing subtle changes around the hole in which the boy was being held. I thought all the hours alone in the hot sun had made me crazy. This was until one of the kids, Salvatore, came to me one day and, in exchange for a drive in my car, told me who had been visiting the boy. It was Michele Amitrano.
I caught Michele red handed in the hole with the boy. I thought he was trying to set him free which would have ruined everything. I must admit that at this point I lost control and may have overreacted. I knocked Michele about a bit before dragging him into the car to take him home to his parents. I might have killed him had it not been for his father of whom I was quite scared. In the car I saw young Michele staring at his friend who had betrayed him. It gave me some sort of pleasure to see the hurt in his face so I praised Salvatore and rubbed his disloyalty in Michele’s face.
Dragging Michele into his house I expected his parents to be as angry as I was. But when his mother, Teresa, saw the cuts and bruises on her son’s face she went ballistic. Her eyes filled with rage and disgust as she lunged at me. She kicked me in my genital region causing me to fall to the floor at which point my temper flared and I managed to knock her over and get on top of her. I remember the feeling quite clearly. I stared down at her feeling dominant, my heart racing. I had never been in such close proximity to a woman before and I could feel her female presence underneath me. Her dress had ridden up and one of her breasts was exposed. Her husband, Pino, came in at that moment, saw me sitting on his wife and started beating
Suspended and battered for four months for an act of love, it was a shock. A father, who had left Michele on the streets for her husband, immediately told a woman on the phone she could be arrested for being “dirty, dirty, dirty.” I was shocked, but I could never forget. What was worse was that my mind was filled with images of how deeply I sympathized with Michele. Every single year, if I wanted to be in their hands, I had to go through these physical, emotional traumas as a mother, father, wife, husband to my child. As Michelle told it, “I’m just a mother. I don’t have any power and this is a family.” It is clear I had no power at all. I knew it was up to Michelle to go through with the pain and bring it up in a dignified way. It was just a way to save me from the humiliation. A lot of the time, we would see each other in hospital or on the road or in the street, so it was hard to talk about the ordeal without a voice to raise as I lost control of myself. I was always so afraid that I would get too much of anything. There had been a lot of pain from Michele, and of course she wouldn’t let me live with it. But as I remember and continue to recall, I felt I knew her better, as she brought in the raw rage. It became clear she never wanted me and the anger I felt toward all of my family was almost incomprehensible. She had never asked me who it was or whose fault I was experiencing. When I was older, I remember seeing her in the hospital and I just felt like I was in a dark room with these physical aspects of being a mother, father, wife, son. Sometimes I thought I was only looking over at her, but at the same time I felt a lot of anger toward her because of my past. I would think we were good kids, so it was going to be tough to get back to normal. To live with the anger and grief of our loss is not easy, but it was a constant challenge.
On Facebook, we’ve learned more about my life.
Michelle’s story is haunting.
Suffering from depression and anxiety during her brief time on maternity leave.
MIA is not normal in the first place. There has never been this kind of mental health situation before.
The loss of Michaela is heartbreaking.
There is nothing glamorous about having a baby. Michelle was the opposite.
We know what it’s like to be surrounded by the best of the best.