Alexis

Italiano

Italian

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Stephen King has a pathological fear. Pathological fears are silly until you have one. Until you experience the experience. Stephen King is afraid of the number thirteen. When he wrote, he'd never end the page on thirteen of a multiple of thirteen. You would think it's silly for an author– one that writes explicitly descriptive thriller and horror novels– to be scared of a number.

When I was in school– publicly, not online, which was how I finished high school– my English teacher shared her pathological fear of sweet potatoes. Another English teacher of mine shared he was afraid of elevators. In fact, he missed the birth of one of his kids because he was too scared to take the elevator. Ironically, his classroom was close to the elevator at the school.

Again, pathological fears don't make sense until you experience them.

I have a pathological fear, much like Stephen King. Mine wasn't too different from his.

My pathological fear was the number. . . fourteen. . . .

Scary. . . . The hair on my arms raised.

When I was fourteen, my cousin Paul was shot and killed while I was in the room. I could still hear the sounds from that day when I lay at night, all alone and quiet. I could feel the pressure on my chest– my confusion from that day. I was glad dad covered my eyes that day. I couldn't imagine a younger version of me dealing with what I saw my dad go through. Then again, dad would've been there to help me overcome it if I saw it.

February 14th– my dad was killed.

March 14th– I accidentally dropped a knife and it cut my leg. Then, later that day, I accidentally  (because I'm not suicidal no matter what anyone says to me) cut myself with a razor.

April 14th is in approximately thirteen days.

That means today is April 1st.

Today was the same as any other day. I had a schedule. I've been on this schedule since March 22nd.

Wake up.
Get coffee.

Read about casino management.

Go downstairs and get an alcoholic beverage: white wine, cognac, vodka, etc.

Come upstairs and practice my Italian.

I'd take breaks to refill my alcoholic beverage whenever my cup ran dry.

At one, I'd start drinking water (one or two glasses) and a small meal (slices of cheeses, olives, nuts– never an actual "meal").

At five, I'd go to the gym. I'd walk there. I didn't tell anyone about it. I figured Tito knew though because yesterday I ran into him as I was walking into the bathroom. He was leaving the men's room. We didn't say anything to each other.

I thought of that moment as I got ready for the gym now. I hated looking at my body so I dressed in leggings and a baggy t-shirt despite how hot I got when I worked out. I focused back on my moment with Tito as I started to braid my hair.

Roberto saw me at the gym. How did he know I went to that gym? At that specific time? On that certain day? Why didn't he kill me then? How did he know I went to that gym?

Then again, the more I thought of it, the more questions started to form. I didn't remember the moment all too well because it happened so long ago and so much has happened in between that time but Vincent and I went to the beach back in Italy. Roberto was there. We had to leave quickly. Roberto knew my dad and his guests were going out on Valentine's day at that specific restaurant. How did he know?