How Did I get to Wattpad? — The book of the moon
“What a convoluted book,” I remarked weeks later, flipping through its pages in my room. My mother passed by the door, intrigued by the sight of me engrossed in a book — a rare occurrence that she didn’t want to interrupt the miraculous moment.
“Are you enjoying it?” she inquired with a proud smile, checking in on my newfound reading venture.
“Yes, I am,” I responded, squinting at the words as if they were ancient hieroglyphs. Occasionally, she’d leave her own book on my bed, attempting to cultivate my interest. Once, she left Alexandre Dumas’s “The Corsican Brothers,” an adult version with an intriguing cover that I cherished for years, even if the concept of Corsicans remained elusive. Following this Corsican trend, she later handed me another book, “The Black Corsican,” marking the beginning of my reading hobby — a passion that lay dormant for many years. But fret not; you’ll witness this evolution in the upcoming chapters. For now, picture me as a 13-year-old who despised reading, with rare exceptions.
Fast forward to a dull weekend at home — either a monotonous Saturday or Sunday. The book had slipped my mind, and I wasn’t entirely sold on the tale of my so-called “cousins.” Skepticism led me to stash the book in a corner of my desk, where it languished throughout the weekend.
At some point, my mother approached me, discussing something about classes with Amabile. Apparently, she wouldn’t be available to assist me in the first semester, leaving me to navigate the academic waters solo. My response, delivered with the disinterest only a 13-year-old preteen could muster, was a nonchalant, “Okay, see you later.”
And that was it. Time flowed, and classes commenced. About three months passed between my uncle’s passing and the start of classes — three months in which the Amabile and Sandro episode had faded into the recesses of my memory. Can you blame me? Out of nowhere, someone swoops in, talking about magic, enchantments, and mental powers. If anyone claims they would have fully embraced this experience without a shred of skepticism, I’ll be skeptical of their claim!
Then, one day, on my way home from school, I encountered Sandro on a street near my house. He was returning from the hardware store, showerhead in hand, and glanced my way.
“Hi, Sandro,” I greeted him, met with a brief nod. A few steps later, he stopped and called me.
“Beto.” (a casual moniker for Robert)
Relieved that the conversation persisted, I decided to play it smart, sidestepping the tutoring classes but yearning for those magic lessons. The desire had waned over the months, but the reappearance of my distant cousins reignited my interest in delving into the occult.
“When are we starting classes?” I queried. Sandro chuckled at my audacity, a gentle reminder of how I had evaded even the slightest responsibility three months prior.
“It depends. Did you even start reading the book?”
Caught off guard, I attempted to argue, but the truth was, I hadn’t cared a bit about the book, and I had no idea where it was.
“Towards the end,” I lied.
“What is the difference between deity and divinity?” he posed, right after I finished speaking.
I stood there, mouth agape, looking every bit the fool in his eyes — somewhere between disheartened and nervous. The walk back home was shrouded in a macabre silence, the book now the object of my begrudging search.
Eventually, I unearthed the book from the chest at the head of my bed, nestled alongside “The Black Corsican” and “The Corsican Brothers.” Presumably, my mother had stowed them there to prevent haphazard scattering and the inevitable soda spill. Determined to prove my cousin wrong, I begrudgingly started reading.
And so, roughly, this is what I read…
