I don't believe Amedeo was ever again able to sleep soundly. There were times when he awoke in the middle of the night screaming and screaming with a voice neither of us recognized as his own.
The excitation-patterns of abuse had been stamped into him for years.
On another colourful occasion, I surreptitiously called the police. When they arrived, I begged them to commit Aldo, I was hysterical, quartered by grief. The two young blue-shirted men were mortified - so kind, and so completely impotent. My mother's signature was required for him to be committed and so the whole deal fell through. She wasn't signing anything.
Aldo knew this. Exuberant in his supremacy, he then delivered one of his most extraordinarily insane monologues to the two men (his eyes rolling back into his head, the bolts in his neck turning, hair sprouting from his palms, lightning forking so dramatically in the background, a raven perched on each of his hunched shoulders, et cetera).
Mother stood and gazed at all of us with minimal recognition, a deliriously and deliberately vacuous monster. She was dressed, I think, in lemon chiffon. New jewels, the usual four-inch-heeled mules. Her son's blood was on the wall (and on the tables, sinks, doors and her husband's hands), but this was irrelevant. Unpleasant truths had no place in her life. Reality was such a bore and anyway, it was nothing to do with her, nothing at all: it wasn't really happening, it was a dream. Her denial mechanism reduced all hate-crimes to a trick of light.
No response to “the results of one codependent relationship ...”
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