METANOIA

Truth

The nausea slowly crept up my throat as I stepped to the tightly shuttered window and carefully peered out, seeing only a wet road with the occasional family car. The rain hadn't left the ground in weeks, and the whistling wind sent shivers down my already cold skin. Temples throbbed with every breath, mimicking the frantic rhythm of his heart. I couldn't make out my own feelings, but the longer I thought about my condition, the faster it deteriorated. A frowning sky, covered in leaden clouds, loomed over the deserted suburb of Salerno, sending a sharp pain through my chest. With one eye I watched the tops of the dense trees bow under the power of the indomitable wind, which lifted the lone green leaves upwards, whirling them in a violent whirl.

There was only silence all around. The deepest loneliness slowly absorbed me into its thorny captivity, clutching my body in a vise. Tearing my gaze away from the painfully unattainable landscape outside the window, I pressed my shoulder blades against the cold stone wall, feeling the goosebumps crumble against the swarthy skin beneath the thin fabric. To the right of my face I heard the rustle of moving blinds. Heavy shadows once again shrouded the walls of the flat in their heavy darkness, making me question the time of day; a crumpled cushion lay on the couch with a few damp spots of night sweat on it, and the duvet cover I'd covered myself with in hopes of keeping warm hung tiredly to the cold floor. There was a gun on the coffee table, which I sometimes picked up to distract myself from the boredom and remember how to use, but otherwise, once my intuition about Dante had been soothed, it was useless; there was an empty bottle of water on the edge of the table — I don't know how it got there in the first place, but when I woke up this morning with a thirsty mouth, I drained it.

I tapped my fingernails rhythmically on the stone wall behind me, trying to hold back the flood of thoughts that was so rapidly taking over my mind. The suffocating emptiness around me was pressing hard on my throat, the vibration of my heartbeat hitting my ears, interrupting my own loud sniffling. I kept biting my lower lip nervously, tearing the thin skin off; the coming anxiety pressed hard against the back of my neck, increasing the rhythm with which I tapped my fingernails against the wall — an acute sense of enveloping fear, so all — encompassing and menacing. I felt as if I were standing on the edge of a solid cliff, the fierce wind whipping my long hair to the sides, blowing every part of my skin and making my muscles shudder with cold— the only thing below was the raging sea and no way back. Sentimental anxiety flooded my mind, my body obeying it's commands. My fingers increased the rhythm, continuing to pound louder until a fingernail slipped on a rock and broke under the root. I barely audibly exhaled through ajar lips. Bringing my left hand up to my face, I studied my thin, trembling fingers more closely, which, it seemed to me under the play of shadows, were bluish at the tips. Ragged welts now flaunted the long nail on my index finger. With my back against the cold wall, I glanced around again, certain that Dante wasn't in the neighbourhood— the last time he'd been out with Thomas, but now that he wasn't, I had little idea where the man might be at the moment.

I clenched my palms into fists and crossed the room slowly, heading for the front door. I held my fingers gently to the cold stone wall, treading gingerly with bare feet on the unreliable dark wood staircase that led straight from the flat to the garage, where I could hear a slight rustling sound. A man dressed in a white shirt and dark trousers was leaning over an old wooden table. His shoulders, large as ever, were tense, gripping tightly the edge of the cardboard box he was examining. He seemed too focused to pay attention to me sneaking sideways, but at the same time, his keen gaze was different from what I was used to — the chilling frost had been replaced by an unusual warmth I'd never seen before; Dante seemed so calm, as if he felt completely safe staring at the box.

I tapped my knuckles lightly on the wall, drawing his attention. De Rosso's piercing dark eyes instantly fixed on my shivering figure; to soften the possible ferocity behind his indifference, I lifted the corners of my lips slightly, wanting to soften the situation.