My Meeting with the Mafia Boss

When I first met Mr. Christopher, he was in a vegetative state. He couldn't speak, stand, or even sit without support. The only thing he could do was blink his eyes. He would lie in his bed all day, staring blankly at the ceiling, lost in his own world. It was hard to imagine what had happened to him, how someone so vibrant had ended up like this. But then again, that wasn't my concern.

My job was simple: I was to start every morning at 7 a.m. and go straight to Mr. Christopher's bedroom. There, I'd clean him up with a bowl of lukewarm water and a soft towel. The process felt like an odd routine-both intimate and mechanical. It had taken some getting used to, but I couldn't afford to overthink it. After cleaning him, I'd head straight to the kitchen to prepare his breakfast. His meals were always light-pap, custard, or tea. He could still eat, though it was a slow process, one spoonful at a time. I would feed him carefully, ensuring he swallowed each bite before offering the next, watching as his hollow eyes remained fixed on some distant point.

It was a strange existence for me, caring for a man who could do little more than exist. I wondered if he ever remembered what it was like before, when he was well, when he was whole. But that thought never lingered too long in my mind-there was no room for it.

After breakfast, I'd give him his medication. It was a long list of drugs: capsules, tablets, syrups, and vitamins. His regimen was so complex it felt like a choreographed routine. I'd carefully line up each pill, making sure I gave him the right one at the right time. The sheer number of medications made me wonder how someone could fall so far from grace.

Once I'd administered everything, I'd move him into his wheelchair. This task was always difficult. Mr. Christopher weighed no less than 90 kilograms, and though I was fairly strong, it still felt like a herculean task to lift him. I'd slide the wheelchair as close as I could to the bed, then position myself behind him. With my hands interlocked on his chest, I'd gently pull him forward. He would always let out a faint breath as I maneuvered him, a sound I had grown accustomed to, but it always reminded me of his fragility. When I finally managed to settle him in the chair, I'd catch my breath for a moment.

Once secured, I would wheel him out to the balcony. The fresh air and the view of the garden were the only things that seemed to lift his spirits, even if just for a moment. He'd sit there, staring at the flowers and trees below, while I took a break. The routine had become second nature to me, and I relished the quiet moments when I wasn't looking after him.

It was then that I'd go to the kitchen to have my breakfast. The house was large, and I had learned to navigate it with ease. The kitchen was my refuge-a place to have a brief moment to myself. The cooks would always greet me with a warm smile, and I'd grab something simple: toast, eggs, or sometimes just a bowl of fruit. I'd quickly eat, knowing the day would soon be filled with tasks again.

The cleaners would take care of Mr. Christopher's room while I was eating, tidying up and organizing the space. I never felt the need to ask about his condition-they would handle it, just as I handled him. For all the time I spent in that mansion, I had grown used to its stillness, its air of melancholy. But I never thought I would grow so attached to the silence, so dependent on it.