METANOIA

Lion

The bright moon illuminated the dark clouds that filled the sky on a cold night in Amalfi. The icy chill gave me goosebumps that ran in little bubbles down my arms and legs. I sat on the balcony of my suite, nestled in a chair with my feet on a small wooden table; I hadn't taken off the dress I was wearing tonight, nor had I washed off my makeup, which had smeared red lipstick all over my mouth. My weakened body fit neatly into the soft furniture. The elbow of my left hand rested on the arm of the chair, and my wrist, with its bulging balloon — shaped bone, slowly brought the cigarette to my lips. The tobacco was dangerously wedged between my index and middle fingers, and it felt like it might fall to the floor, but that didn't make me hold it any tighter. A bright light with smouldering nicotine was in my face every time I covered my eyes. My eyelashes were wet with tears, but none rolled down my cheeks. My head felt so weighty and empty at the same time, the bitter saliva from the cigarettes accumulating in my mouth as I swallowed, and the acrid smoke digging into my skin, that I no longer noticed the smell of raw tobacco coming from my fingers. It was becoming too hard for me to distinguish the events around me, much less react to them — there was only cold and ice everywhere, so many years of suffering behind me that I had no strength left for tears, but there was still a terrible feeling in my chest, as if anger were combined with despondency, as if I were burning up in the atmosphere, just like the cigarette in my hand.

I was an ouroboros, a snake that curled up in a ring, biting itself by the tail, for this was the cycle in which I lived. Death was painful, as were births and rebirths, but none of that guaranteed the destruction of this system in any way. My life had been so paltry and meaningless compared to centuries of the traditional mafia way of life — thinking about it at today's age and with the experience under my belt, I marvelled at the fact that I was confident that I could change the world. I was so powerless in the face of its cruelty, and any attempt to resist the senselessness of my own actions was punished by suffering that increased exponentially. I never deserved the kind of torment I experienced when I wished to have equal rights with men in their world. That I am still alive is a miracle, that I was born is a mistake.

A gust of wind flicked my hair into my face, making the ash from my cigarette mix with the brittle, dry strands. I leaned my head back in my chair, trying to get comfortable as the cold air wrapped me in its ice. My palms flushed and began to shake, but I only took another puff, exhaling the pungent smoke into the night sky. My eyelids slowly rose and fell again, erasing fragments from the painful past, pictures from the present, and any hope for the future. I was powerless even to face the present moment, let alone the responsibility for my family, for my business, for all the women in my life.

There was a grinding sound behind me that I didn't pay attention to as I continued to exhale the smouldering cigarette from my lungs. Deep breaths and closed eyes, the sleep coming over my eyelids felt so much like fatigue that it was more like death. A soft plaid was gently placed on my feet, but I didn't even move.

"The driver said you were in a loopy state," Thomas said softly and more gently than usual, moving slowly across the balcony, "you smoked almost the whole packet," he nodded towards the ashtray where a few brown cigarette filters with red lipstick marks were sticking out of the black dust.

"I don't want to listen to admonishment," I replied hoarsely, barely audible. Perhaps the man was showing his concern and care in this way, but I was too weak to discern meaning in the words he was saying — they were just noise to me.

"The evening could have been better, couldn't it?" a slight chuckle touched his lips. Thomas was trying to lighten the mood. I brought my palms up to my face, wiping my eyes tiredly, causing my mascara to sprinkle and start to fall in flakes onto my skin, then pressed my thumbs against them with my muscles, keeping my almost smoked cigarette between my fingers.