METANOIA

Lynette Wollstonecraft

There was an eerie silence in my father's study, but I couldn't hear it over the loud thoughts. The dark wood gave off the chill of years of coldness from the emptiness inside the mansion, which had been there long before Robert Wollstonecraft's death. I bit my lower lip thoughtfully, once again studying the letters written on the sharp, white piece of paper — the consequences of the life I'd chosen. Pulling out a drawer in the desk, I took a cigarette case and a lighter from it, leaning back in the leather chair. The acrid smoke, reminiscent of burnt popcorn, settled on the root of my tongue, and each time I swallowed, I could feel the imminent end to the events that had begun with the botched truck robbery.

Liam's intentions had hardened since his return; the game that had spiralled between us had grown to unbelievable proportions, crushing everyone around us — which meant not only the co-workers' cooperation and constant gunfire, but also the deaths of loved ones. Weber hadn't hesitated to leave Italy after my response to his attack, and he hadn't been heard from in all those years, he'd been carefully hidden, though I'd tried not to take an interest in his life, wanting to forget everything that had happened, which, as I could see now, had been an unbelievable mistake. Liam had come back to take revenge, to win — only one of us could get out of this game alive, and the other's hands would definitely be covered in blood, or the nonstop slaughter would never end.

Dry, terribly tired eyes, which were trying to discern the wooden cabinets through the shroud of smoke, sank once again to the white sheet of paper. My leg twitched nervously, my jaw clenched, and I looked up to the ceiling. The will I'd written was one of those things I'd managed to keep secret despite the years that had passed. There were only three names on that paper — Jensen, Thomas, and Antonio; they were the ones who would divide my assets and finances when I died, the ones who would be free to run the Salerno, the casino I'd worked so hard to beg from my father. All the hotels, the wineries, the cars, everything would be theirs. I had no wishes for my body; it could be left in the cemetery, cremated — unless Liam decided to dispose of it his own way. My pride wouldn't let me surrender to Liam without a huge fight in Salerno territory, but as much as I wanted to depersonalize Weber, he also wanted to kill me.

I remember as a child my father often reminded me of a special hairy frog — these animals can break their phalanx bones and extrude them through the skin, thus forming small claws and using them as weapons. The metaphor was as repulsive to a six-year-old girl as it was to a mentally ill woman, but it was effective. My father's words had made a big impression on me, and in many ways had instilled in me the ability not to give up. I exhaled heavily, wondering what he would say if he saw me right now. All the furniture that filled his office retained a part of Robert Wollstonecraft in it, it was like I could feel his heavy gaze on me. Most likely, I would be the most pathetic, hopeless and pointless person he had ever met. He would be disappointed in me.

The cigarette is out. The ash slowly fell on the dark wood table, the filter turned yellow, and there was an unpleasant bitter taste on the tongue that I wanted to spit out right there. Robert Wollstonecraft is not here and never will be. No one will ever know what was going on in his head, what paranoid thoughts made him burn with anger, what made him such a cruel person, for whom violence was a middle name. He will not say that he is proud of me, he will not say that he is pleased with my work. I pressed the hot filter against the ashtray and leaned back in my chair, closing my eyes. Tobacco smoke began to intoxicate my mind, thoughts began to disappear, as if the rest of the world slowed down for a moment. At what point did I take a wrong turn? If I had made other decisions in my life, would I be sitting in this chair, studying hundreds of pages about the life of Liam Weber? Would Nick be alive?

My chest was constricted, either from smoking, or from mental pain, from which my heart was torn into small pieces. As if someone took and pulled it out of my body, and then began to squeeze and pull with his fingers until the tissues of the organ began to slowly separate.