Little Satan.

Like a constant dream state, he slipped through the silky shadows like shadow on a wheel. The cold obstacles of night passed by the boy in such a way you’d think he wasn’t there. His feet were tattered and possessed the traits of a feather as she slinked through the corners of Florence’s under streets. You couldn’t see his face in the darkness’ shield, but you’d expect nothing more than a background of ruddy hues of red and black. The chimneys were especially brutal during the harsh light of street lamps and brooms.

‘I never thought I’d see you here, Claudio Ricci, the lame one,’ an unknown voice drifts through the folds of endless ink, to the he slipping like a snake through the corners. The he, now identified as Claudio, stopped just as he was to make a rough turn into an open street. His feet were poised in the next step, but his mind was elsewhere, on the voice of the stranger.

‘My name is not Claudio,’ he says. He can’t see the person, but Ricci can feel him, impermeable and unfaltering, standing just mere feet behind Ricci.

‘Isn’t it? Care to inform me of your righteous name, O lame one?’ the voice was mocking and unfeeling. Ricci felt a shiver in the core of the back of his neck. Only a few more feet, a few more feet under the comfort of Florence-fashioned Street lamps came into view.

‘Salai,’ the boy says. He hopes the stranger is a dunce.

‘Ah, Gian Giacomo,’ Ricci flinches in the darkness. He had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but it seemed, as it were, it had come to this. He felt for the metal in the folds of his worn clothes. But he found no such comfort.

‘No. No, not Giacomo. Salai. Little Satan. A protégé of the One,’ Ricci says. He inches closer to the mouth of the street. Hoping for the comfort of the wooden lampposts and bright windows. He couldn’t see any of it. The world was passed with a thread blanket.

‘Yes. Yes, Giacomo. Tell me, do you steal, Little Satan?’ he was being goaded, Ricci knew this. He knew this, so he did not answer this. ‘Will you not answer, Gian? Why not? Will you not answer?’

Ricci was almost sure this man was beyond crazy. Just a pinky above insane. Ricci knew this. He was afraid of this, he still said nothing. Just for his sake of not being gutted in the middle of the mouth to the street.

‘Answer me, little Satan! Answer me, my protégé! Answer, you fool’s son! Answer!’

Ricci’s heart constricted like a boa at the madman’s words. He felt like a prisoner in his own skin. He abandoned the man, and walked further into the street to find the massacre in his mind was just that. The lamps had been extinguished just one hour after the sun’s set and the fire in the windows had been long distinguished as a plain, cold wick. The night was inky quiet and soft like a slipper.

‘Where are you going, little Satan? Sodomite!’ Ricci ignores the man’s ravings. He has to, just have to. He leaves him to his own business. He would pay no mind to the madman. He would just walk down the street at maybe a brisk walk. He would put as much distance as time would allow it between himself and this man. Who, most likely, just for the record, has most likely recorded his presence in a sodomy act, thus proving the accusation to Ricci himself, demeaning and full of fake truth.

He could hear the rushed padding feet of the madman behind him. Really, Ricci couldn’t help it. He felt a push, as if the devil Himself was pushing his very heart cavity. He felt like a sodomite at that moment, he felt like a sin to the world. He felt like he needed to punish himself. Whip his back with he’s mother’s whip, the one with the crusted blood on the sharp leather.

‘Are you running away?’

‘Don’t run, just stop, I won’t hurt you little- you madman!’

‘Like a puppy lost, tail between its thighs, run, puppy, run!’

‘Are you going? Running. Like your ma.’

‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’

‘Don’t stop now, you’re getting so far, don’t stop now, don’t you stop now. Don’t stop until you get to the comfort of your sodomite of a family, you heretic.’

‘Heretic? What is this the-the-the- damn it all to down! Down it all, damn it all!’

The voice of the man crept farther away, the farther Ricci walked, the farther the voices got. He walked the pebbled streets of old Florence. He felt like he was back in a history novel. He felt small in this vast world of history. He truly did feel like Salai. A thieving, sniveling man stealing and being little Satan Himself. He felt like Leonardo da Vinci’s little partner in crime. He felt like he was swaying messages back and forth between Monna Lisa and da Vinci. He felt invincible in the face of all history. Now, he did. He truly did. He felt like Jeanne Kalogridis’ characters in the streets, betraying, being betrayed. He felt like Guiliano de’Medici, he felt like Lorenzo. He felt like a knife putting through butter.

He got farther away from the man, he hoped. He hoped he got farther away. In the middle of the streets where the new cars past through. Ruining the history. He felt like a fictional character in a novel. In a novel, where he couldn’t die. The main character never died. Never. Ricci was the main character in this novel.

The voice of the man couldn’t be head, wasn’t able to be distinguished, at least. It was too far away. Ricci felt like he was being watched, from the man, the man in the shadows of the houses, the houses that used to belong to rich merchants the houses that people died of the epilepsy curses. Those houses very ancient and they were being used as a sin.

He was nearing the end of the street; he had been walking faster as he thoughts started to move faster. They started to move so fast, so fast that his feet couldn’t keep up and his calves started to burn with the fast stomping of his worn-shoes on the pebbled road.

He was going to near the water soon enough. Soon enough the currents of the water would irritate his skin and chill his hands to a rough white-red.

He was at the water, Ricci was at the water and he was overlooking the rushing waters and the waves and the unseen fish. He felt tiny, and small once again, looking at the great expanse that cut right through the location of Florence.

He felt small, he felt like a sinner and he felt like a failure in this huge place of art and culture. Of history and of everything every historian has ever wanted to touch. Small. And tiny. And unimportant.

Claudio Ricci stood, staring at the waters that chilled his hands and froze his skin. He stood and he watched until the day broke the horizon and the air returned his skin to a healthy glow. Claudio Ricci stood as the madman passed the streets, looking at Ricci himself. Claudio Ricci stood as the streets started to buzz with the sounds of the residents, the school hour had arrived. Claudio Ricci felt small, once again.