As God Commands Read Online Free PDF

little cubbyhole measuring about three-bysix-feet, with blue, flowery tiles encircling the floor of the shower.
Over the basin hung a long shard of the mirror. A bare light bulb
dangled from the ceiling.
    He stepped over the remains of his father's vomit and looked out
of the little window.

    It was raining and the rain had eaten away all the snow. All that
was left were a few useless white patches, melting on the gravel in
front of the house.
    School will be on.
    The toilet had no seat and he rested his buttocks on the cold
porcelain, gritting his teeth. A shiver ran up his spine. And in a state
of semi-consciousness he crapped.
    Then he cleaned his teeth. Cristiano didn't have good teeth. The
dentist wanted to give him braces, but luckily they had no money
and his father had said his teeth were fine the way they were.
    He didn't take a shower, but sprayed himself with deodorant. He
dug his fingers into the gel and ran them through his hair to make
it even more tousled, if that was possible, but taking care not to let
his ears stick out.
    He returned to his room, put his books in his backpack and was
about to go downstairs when he saw a dim glow under the door of
his father's bedroom.
    He pushed down the handle.
    His father was huddled up in a camouflage sleeping bag on a
double mattress on the floor.
    Cristiano drew nearer.
    Only the oval of his shaven head protruded from the sleeping
bag. The floor was strewn with empty beer cans, socks, and his
boots. On the bedside table, more cans and the pistol. There was a
stench of rancid sweat and dirty clothes which mingled with the
smell of an old, threadbare blue carpet. A lamp swathed in a red
cloth threw a scarlet glow on the enormous flag with a black
swastika in the middle that hung on the plasterless wall. The shutters were down, the curtains, patterned with brown-and-white diamonds, were held together with pegs.
    His father only came here to sleep. Usually he collapsed on the sofa
in front of the television, and only the cold, and in the summer the
mosquitoes, gave him the strength to drag himself up to his bedroom.
    If Cristiano ever saw him open the windows and make an attempt
at tidying up the room he knew old baldy had arranged to fuck
some woman and didn't want to suffocate her with rotting socks
and cigarette butts.

    Cristiano kicked the mattress. "Papa! Papa, wake up! It's late."
    No reaction.
    He raised his voice. "Papa, you've got to go to work!"
    He must have drunk a barrelful of beer.
    Ah to hell with it! he said to himself and was about to leave when
he heard a groan which might as easily have come from beyond the
grave as out of that bundle. "No, today ... today ... I'm going ... I
have to ... Danilo ... Quattro..."
    "OK. See you later. I have to go or I'll miss the bus." Cristiano
moved toward the door.
    "Wait a minute... "
    "It's late, pa... " Cristiano bristled.
    "Give me my cigarettes."
    The boy snorted and searched around the room for the packet.
    "They're in my pants." His father's face emerged from the
sleeping bag, yawning. The mark of the zipper on his cheek. "My
God, that chicken we had last night was shit ... I'll cook something this evening.. .I'll make some lasagna, what do you say to
that?"
    Cristiano threw the packet to his father, who caught it deftly.
"Look, I'm in a hurry ...I'll miss the bus, I told you."
    "Hold on a minute! What's got into you today?" Rino lit himself a cigarette. For an instant his face was enveloped in a white
cloud. "Last night I dreamed we were eating lasagna. I can't remember
where, but it was delicious. You know what I'm going to do? I'm
going to make some myself today."
    Why does he always talk such bullshit? Cristiano asked himself.
It was as much as he could do to cook a couple of fried eggs, and
he couldn't even do that without breaking the yolk.
    "I'll make it with loads of bechamel. And sausages. If you do the
shopping, I'll make you some lasagna so delicious you'll be