I rub a hand over my face as the kettle carries on whistling, and the truth hits me.
I’m getting worse.
Exactly like Paulo.
Panic starts to crowd me.
How can I not care that I might end up in jail?
How can I not care that—
I throw the kettle across the room when it won’t stop whistling. The smashing sound, the destruction as springs and metal burst apart, tearing at the soldered seams, makes something inside me quiver.
Fuck, I need to let this out. I need to get this poison out of my system.
I eye the flame of the gas stove, and the strange desire to hold my hand over it fills me.
But that will be noticed.
People will see the burn, will notice the scars.
They will question, and I can’t afford the luxury of answering.
So I switch it off, take temptation away, and I move out of the kitchen and head up the rickety stairs that are so steep, in the dark, you could fall up or down them.
When I make it into my bedroom, a simple room with no ornamentation save for a crucifix above the bed, white sheets with a colorful patchwork quilt that was left behind by my predecessor, and books on the shelves that line one wall, I head for the dresser.
The bottom drawer contains the box I need.
My throat feels full, my body vibrating with so much emotion that I don’t even know how I’ll expel it all.
Then I open the box.
And inside, the bloodstained, steel-spiked leather reveals itself to me.
My heart starts to slow at the sight of it, at the acceptance of what I must do, at the poison I must milk from my system, and I shrug out of my black suit jacket, remove the dog collar and then the shirt, and when I’m bare, I pick up the lash.
My fingers tighten around the knotted handle, and a sweet serenity slithers inside me as, with a flick of a practiced wrist, I let it fly.
The pain is excruciating.
The pain is delightful as the barbs take hold and tear at my flesh.
And with it, I find freedom, a freedom I never felt when the French government liberated me from Ishmael and his rebels.
More importantly, I find peace.
Even if it’s only momentarily.
Six
Andrea
The taxi pulled up outside the church just as he was closing the doors and locking up.
I have to admit, I find that to be fortuitous.
Or maybe serendipitous.
As I sit there, watching him leave the church entrance and walking over to a narrow building at the side of the street, which he subsequently unlocks, I have my answer.
I know where he lives.
Fortuitous, it is.
Paying the taxi driver, I climb out of the car, wincing a little when my head aches as I stand up too fast.
A sigh rumbles from me, because I’m so beyond tired of my body not behaving as it should. Pre-surgery, I was fine. But now? Mentally, I’m strong, but physically? I’m weak.
And I hate that.
But there’s nothing I can do. Only time will heal me, only time will take some of my issues away. Maybe a few will always hover around, but I can deal with that so long as I return to a semblance of ‘normal’ working order at some point.
Impatience and drive got me here, and out of rehab ahead of the schedule by months, but my obstinacy can only do so much, and that’s clear as I hobble across the street.
For a second, I stand outside, watching as lights flicker on through the windows on the second floor.
I feel...
My hand shakes as I reach up and rub at my eyes.
I didn’t expect to feel this way, to feel so unconfident in my next steps, but seeing him in the flesh? Seeing his darkness? Sensing how on edge he is?
It’s so much more than I expected. Not necessarily in a bad way, just in a way that makes me wonder if I’m good enough for him.
My brow puckers at the thought of all my failings, all my scars, and if they’ll serve him.
My zealous need to be with him, to cement the connection I’ve felt since I was seventeen as his life brushed up against mine, even only on the tattered edges, is what pushed me through my recovery.
But nothing has happened how I thought it would.
I thought our eyes would meet and he’d feel the sparks.
I thought we’d trigger a connection, and he’d want to speak with me. Would want to be with me too.
Maybe I’m crazy without the cyst doing anything to help me.
Maybe I really am insane.
And if I am, should I be here? Should I just leave him alone?
The thought whispers through my mind at the same time as I hear a slight grunt.
After dark, I’ve noticed how quiet Rome actually is. Especially on certain streets.
I think it’s because it’s winter. In summer, I could imagine the streets always bustling with life, but at this time of year, it’s actually quiet. Only a few cars rumble down the streets, and only tourist spots like Borgo Pio where my Airbnb is, and where there are plenty of restaurants, have more people gathering, but even then, nothing like through the day.
It’s that peace that helps me hear it.
A grunt.
A slapping sound.
Faint.
Like a murmur in my ears.
I strain to hear it again, wondering what it is, then the grunt is louder.
And the whistle?
Louder still.
It’s rhythmic. A dull thwacking sound with a high-pitched whistle.
I struggle to recognize what it might be, and then it hits me.
My throat chokes, and I rush forward on shaky legs. I tried to walk across the river, back to Borgo on foot, but my body just wouldn’t let me. And even now, after the drive, I still feel weak, but for him, I’ll push it. Push myself to the limits, because this has to stop.
He has to stop.
I slam my hand on the doorbell, not letting go, my heartbeat roaring, the sound whooshing in my ears as I wait for him to answer.
I refuse to let him ignore me.
There’s a dull thudding sound from behind the door, and I think he’s running down the stairs. He pulls it open, and I see he’s wearing a shirt that he just pulled on, and only a few buttons are fastened.
The sneak peek of his chest, of those pecs, all those muscles, has me momentarily diverted before I cast him a look and see his face is pale, white even. Sweat beads on his brow, and there’s a strange light in his eyes.
A fever.
God, I want that fever breaking over me.
I stare at him, and he stares back.
From my position on the doorstep, he could slam the door in my face, but I shove myself forward, pushing past him and walking into the building.
As he closes the door, I see his back, the black shirt soaked in places, and though I know, seeing is believing.
I push forward, grab the hem of his shirt, and lift it up, exposing raw gouges along his spine. Thick train track lines of flesh.
Blood has pumped to the surface of his skin, revealing all the scars from previous mistreatment.
I can’t stop myself.
I push my hand against his back, even though I know I shouldn’t, and when he hisses, I whip my hand back as he twists around to glare at me.
He froze at my touch, but that was nothing compared to my reaction as I stare down at my fingers.
My blood-covered fingers.
So much of it.
So much blood.
My throat grows thick, and I flash him a glance, stare up at him, and see the fever in his eyes beginning to die.