METANOIA

Questions

I was too absorbed in my thoughts to pay the slightest attention to Thomas, carefully driving the sports car. The man was speeding along the road between towns, heading for Amalfi, where I could feel at home. My emotions were stirring, though I must have looked melancholy from the outside, my gaze down on the glass, watching the landscape outside the window, where the daytime and seemingly sunny sky was covered with heavy clouds. When I was a child, my irritability was bright and fleeting, like lightning, it appeared far in the sky and never hurt anyone. Now my rage was a fierce thunderstorm — chaos happening around me, as if a strong wind knocked down any remnants of common sense; the lightning now pierced the trees, burning them to the ground and starting deadly fires; the thunder sounded so loud that all the animals fled in great fear for their lives. And it had a peculiar smell — rotten meat and blood, burnt hopes, raw pain. The whole inner world of little Alana turned into the last day of Pompeii.

I bit down angrily on the inside of my cheek, trying to control my emotions and thoughts — I didn't want to give them full control, because the first priority was to find out the details of Jensen's relationship with Vincent, who were no longer allowed to know about my business. My hot heart began to weaken from a constant internal blockage to anger at the moment, as Thomas furtively cast interested and worried glances at me without taking his eyes off the road. There was no expression left on my face, even the hard lines and creases in my tired skin as I spoke to my brother were gone, I felt all my muscles relax and my cheeks slid down, like a bulldog's if it had its head banged against the fridge. I even tried to focus on the pain in my own body, just to avoid thinking about my relationship with my brother and his betrayal, and to be honest, it helped — until I arrived in Amalfi, I couldn't shake the feeling that all my ribs were broken, like I was being turned inside out.

I entered my room swiftly, slamming the door loudly in front of a barely keeping up with Thomas. I roughly pulled off my blood-soaked and sweat-soaked clothes, ripping them at the seams, then stood naked under the jets of warm water that burned through my exposed rips, making me hiss. Trying not to wet my face, I poured the shower gel over my hand, quickly running my fingers over the dry skin of my shoulders and chest before rinsing it off. It felt like it took me less than two minutes to shower, so there were still traces of dirt and dried blood on my legs and neck that needed effort to cleanse. Turning off the water, I walked over to the mirror, finally noticing what had been preventing me from seeing with my right eye all this time — my eyelids were badly swollen, as was my eyebrow, my skin was red, resembling a large apple, and there were several deep lines on my cheekbone. Drops of water rolled down the relief of my naked body as I examined the bruises — new and old — on my ribs, legs and arms. I swallowed hard, horrified to notice that I'd been thirsty the whole time. I wasn't happy with the way I looked, but to be honest, that was the last thing I cared about at the moment.

After an hour, I could hardly put on my underwear and a long, shapeless black dress; I moved heavily, often leaning against the wall or furniture, constantly holding my left side, which stung terribly with every breath. I walked slowly around my bed and headed for the door that led to my study (my room was two rooms connected to each other). There were two upholstered red coloured armchairs by the window, the same ones that stood in the hotel lobby at the entrance, a little to the right was a fireplace with three picture frames on it, a large dark wood desk with a computer and thick stacks of papers and folders against the opposite wall. Grunting, I made my way to the nearest chair, carefully sitting down in it and stretching out my bare feet, which felt relaxed for a moment. I covered my eyes, gripping my throbbing temple with my fingers. I wanted to sit down at my desk to immerse myself in my work, but my strength wasn't enough to just get to it.

I thought that immersing myself in my work would help me to forget about the intrusive thoughts that tirelessly visited my head — various thoughts, speculations — it always helped, because I learnt not only to suppress destructive reflection, but also to increase my efficiency, though after several days of incessant and intensive work I couldn't bring myself to get out of bed. My desk was only a few metres away from me, but it seemed so far away, so out of reach, that I would have to swim the width of Como to cover the distance. I don't know how long I sat in that chair, staring frustratedly at the wall in front of me. Time, like water, flowed through my fingers and breaths, mixing the past with the present and clouding the future — fragments of memories began to fade away as if they'd never existed, and black holes formed in my head like a horrible pasting together of two scraps of photographs that didn't fit together. My reactions were slowing, it was hard to determine how Thomas had appeared in the room where I sat alone, listening to my exhausted breathing, holding a folder of papers between his long fingers. I couldn't remember if he'd knocked on the door in front of me or maybe he'd entered through my bedroom, and I hadn't noticed the man walk past me at all.