"A sea of unshed tears is lurking within me."
. . .
C O R A L I N E R O U X
Poisonous words have seeped themselves into her heart. Harsh blows have left their marks on her body. Degrading lies have implanted doubts in her mind.
She wanted nothing...
The moon is still shining when I wake up from my regular six hours of sleep. The stars are slowly leaving the sky, and the garden is still waiting for the daylight
I sigh loudly. Not because I want to be sighing – I don't even comprehend why people do that – but because I got rather accustomed to the odd action.
Spending more time with normal human beings has been paying off, I guess.
Sighing – again – I draw the curtains close and step away from the window. I feel a solid weight under my left foot, and realize I stepped on the metallic borders of one of my notebooks.
I didn't feel anything painful, but I hear myself cursing anyway, because what the hell is this doing on the floor?
I bend down and pick the notebook, stare at it for a few seconds, then incline it on its shelf next to the others, right in the middle, in a way that it would be on a good height compared to the rest.
Then I check the clock on my right nightstand. It's 5:56 AM, which means I'll have to take my shower soon. In four minutes, to be exact.
Closing my bedroom door, I head out to the bathroom through the main – and only – corridor of our old house. I take off my shirt, sweatpants and underwear. I fold them then neatly place them in the laundry basket.
The bathroom is barely a decent one. The lamp's light is too weak. The paint in the corners has peeled off. The faucet never closes completely. Not that I care.
I get in the shower, and open its faucet. I can feel the droplets on my skin, probably lighter than they really are. I try to guess the temperature of the water.
I don't.
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"Mrs. Sartori, I am sorry to inform you that your son has been diagnosed with congenital analgesia, more commonly known as 'Congenital insensitivity to pain'. It is a rare and genetic condition that inhibits the ability to perceive any form of physical pain, due to the mutation of a gene that blocks the transmission of pain signals between neurons. It explains why he hasn't shown any form of normal disturbance, especially crying, despite his frequent injuries. Which is quite dangerous to a boy his age. This condition shouldn't be taken lightly. His inability to properly complain about painful hits could cost him his life, if not regularly followed by an occupational therapist. Stay assured, CIP doesn't affect the mental and effective psycho development of the child. However, in Edoardo's case, I cannot explain his emotional indifference. It could be due to a mental illness. Hence why I suggest you assign him to a psycho-therapist, as I cannot be of any help in that domain."
Those were the words my doctor said to my mother after many attempts at finding out what was wrong in me.
She hasn't let me out of her sight for many years, since then. But when I grew old enough, twelve to be precise, she went with ignoring me, acting like I wasn't there. I wish I could feel hurt. I wish I am normal so I could get angry at her. But I'm not. And I don't care about her or what she thinks of me. If she thinks of me at all. That is.
Now, on my way to school, I'm wearing my usual white t-shirt and black jeans.
The building appears in my line of sight, a modest public high school with way more students than it can handle. Yellow and orange, two floor, modern with a hint of old.
As I walk through the rusty gates, I trip over a feet and almost fall over. Laughter fills the schoolyard, and a stare blankly at the students there.
"Look, look! The heartless is here!" one kid yells over the crowd. His friends laugh. A group of girls is eying me with what I assume is pity, I am not quite sure.
I ignore them and continue my way, expecting the punch on my shoulder. It throws me off, although I did not feel it.
Some students continue their whistling and sniggering. Good for them. At least they can laugh.
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Classes went calmly. To me. They probably weren't for that girl who went out of the class crying, or that boy who was helplessly trying to get the attention of a brunette.
When lunch came, I headed towards the lunchroom, not feeling hungry at all. I never felt that. I took a tray and half filled it of whatever pasta they were serving, because I need to eat so I don't die.
It was rather tasteless, as usual. It's always tasteless, but only when I'm the one eating it. If I was normal, I think I would smile. But I'm not so I don't.
As I'm making my leave, I bump into someone, and their drink spills on me. A girl – the one whose drink is now soaking my shirt – is about to lose her balance, and fall.
I should probably catch her.
Instead, I watch her hit the floor with my hands still on my sides.
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Hello! I hope you are having a great day.
As I said in the preface, Edoardo's condition will be more developed and explained in the next chapters. I don't want to give it all in one go. I think it'll be better for the story if it is gradually explained.
This book will have a dual pov, BUT Edoardo's ones will be way more frequent. I really love writing from his pov. He's the first male character I write about so he's also very special to me.
