Le Parole Lontane (Distant Words)

Chapter 8 - Parisian Eulogy

Note: This chapter is unedited.

"That is all I want in life: for this pain to seem purposeful."
— Elizabeth Wurtzel, Prozac Nation

Paris, France, 30th of May 2022

I hear the word loud and clear. A terrible verdict that I was aware of ever since I've seen the first drop of blood staining my pants. But, in the moment when Ethan says it, my world is broken into a million pieces of sharp glass.

"Miscarriage." A deadly pause. "I'm sorry, Damiano."

How they got to me is a mystery. What time is it? Where am I? Am I going to make it? A series of questions with no known answer are haunting my mind. What did I do? I wonder if I'm dead or insane and this is all happening in my imagination.

"She might hear you," Ethan adds. "Talk to her and I'll see what I can do."

I don't feel any pain. It's like someone simply pressed a 'stop' button to my suffering. It's unexplainable, but I accept it. After all, a gift is a gift, and that one is so good it can't be returned. If possible, I'd love to live in this state for the rest of my life.

"Vic, are you here?" There's a lot of hesitation in Damiano's voice and I wish I could be able to do something to indicate him that I can hear. "Don't worry, we're taking care of you. Nothing bad is gonna happen anymore. I'm not leaving you."

He takes a break. A long sigh.

"I got your message." Another pause. "And the song. I took Ethan with me and came as fast as I could. Thomas is on the way too. We'll be taking you to Paris on a jet. It's gonna be okay. I got you."

I let his sweet phrases be the song of the mermaids and I, like a sailor caught in a trance, start to slowly follow their path to the land of unconsciousness.

"It hurts." Are some lonely words that escape from between my lips while the actual pain hits me. "Make it stop."

"I know, I'm sorry. Try to focus on breathing. We're helping you." Damiano sounds like the broken pieces of his heart are clinging to the sentences that he's trying so hard to formulate. "I'm here. Squeeze my hand, please."

I listen to him. Between that agitated sea of pain I manage to find his fingers united with mine and use all the force left in me to materialize the movement.

"Sing something," I cry.

He obeys with no hesitation, however my exhausted mind can't perceive the words anymore. There's a rhythm, a known one, but somehow lost in the vastness of my delirious memory. Nothing can save me anymore, I have to let the darkness win this battle for good and let it take over all my senses.

***

The first thing I see when I open my eyes is a familiar hotel room. We've been here before last fall, but it feels like it's been decades ago.

Damiano is sitting in an armchair. Eyes closed. Rhythmic breathing. My sweet boy is finally getting some rest.

His hand in mine, as it was when he talked to me on the way here, only I couldn't feel it back then as much as I do now. But, damn, in this moment I acknowledge everything.