“Who are you? What do you want?” I cannot curb my tears.
“If you are good, you'll go home soon.”
“Do you want a ransom from my family?”
It is the most credible hypothesis, since we are very rich. I don't want to think about anything else, it would be my psychological death.
“Don't ask questions and be good,” he turns and goes to the exit.
I would like to tell him that I'm thirsty, that I would like to tell my parents I am ok, that I will do all that he says if he doesn't hurt me; that I would be good if only he treated me as a human being and not as an animal.
“Do you want to leave me here?” I shout. My sentence is repeated by the echo.
He stops, does not turn, holds his fists and shows only his profile. It's a scary black silhouette.
“Be quiet.” Those are the only words he says.
I don't know why, but I don't follow his orders and I get up, with the intention of asking him to let me talk at least with my dad. As I go toward him, I see a clump of my hair on the floor. The light reflects filaments the large footprint left by his boots.
He turns around and looks surprised, as if he could not believe his eyes. My braveness seems to bother him and... he loses his patience. I don't have time to open my mouth that he - again - grabs my hair. M y scalp burns more than before and my throat with it. I can no longer scream.
He clutches my hair and I feel his hard chest on my back. I perceive the wool of the ski mask resting on the lobe of my ear and hear his booming voice invade that piece of skin.
“Don't move!” he snarls.
“I just want to talk to my dad…”
“Don't say a word,” he rudely leads me to the corner again.
“I just want to tell him I'm fine…”
“I've just said you mustn't breathe!” His voice assumes a diabolic tone. He pushes me and I fall down on my knees, trying to use the corner as a shelter, a refuge of terror.
I turn around and I'm not afraid to look at him again in his eyes. It bothers him visibly and, instinctively, I lower my eyes.
“Don't move from here or I'll come back with chains and tie you like a beast.”
I get goose bumps. A burning tingle ploughs the corners of my poor body. Tears come down, but they are silent. I don't want to cry in front of this man, I don't want to act as a child, even though I'm just a young girl.
He leans toward me and holds my face with one hand. It's big and covers my chin and jaw. He clasps a bit too hard, and his way of speaking sends me into the depths of a still unknown fear.
“If you do as I say, you will go home soon. Otherwise…” His hand slips down to my neck.
I gasp for air.
He strangles me.
“Otherwise, I'll hurt you to the point that no one will recognize you when you get home.”
I widen my eyes, trying to let him know that I'm going to suffocate. I put my hands around his wrist hoping he understands he is exaggerating. He cannot really hurt me or he won't get any ransom. I'm afraid, but not stupid.
“You understand?” he shakes me. I nod an infinite set of yeses. The grasp loosens and I cough in search of breath.
He turns and goes away without paying any further attention. When I hear the noise of the shutter lowering, silence comes down like a heavy judgment, I clench my knees to my chest and cry, as I've never cried in my whole life.
I awake gasping. The usual nightmare floods my sleep with terror. I'm in a cold sweat, I try to breathe, but…
My God.
A hand covers my mouth, two fingers tighten my nostrils preventing me from breathing.
Am I still dreaming?
The dim light of the garden lanterns is just enough to illuminate the scene. I see a man leaning toward me, with no intention of taking his big hand from my mouth. He has released my nostrils, I can breathe only from the nose, but the air is full of his smell and it's terrifying. Toxic.
I'm afraid, but something within me makes me brave and able to oppose the situation. It's like I was used to it. The feeling is ugly, bad, inhumane.
One shouldn't be used to this.
I try to shriek, but my voice is muffled by his hand pressing on my lips. I blow on it and I feel its heat.
“Shhh!” he orders, and brings the index finger of the free hand to the tip of his nose.
I have my heart in my throat and am astonished not to be so terrified by the scene. I feel bad, I feel crazy.
Maybe I was expecting it, maybe I knew that, in the end, it would have been this way. That is why my fear is tainted by this new brave shell, that slips away as I focus on this man's figure.
I keep complaining, my moans are incomprehensible.
He sits on the bed, in the little free space between me and the door. The quilt protects me from his touch, but my skin crawls up anyway at this dangerous contact.
“Now I'll free you. Don't scream”, he whispers very lowly.
He extends his hand to the dresser, I follow him with the tail of my eye and see him turn on the lamp. My attention goes immediately to his face and his eyes hit my stomach, literally.
I tremble.
I mutter something else and he again starts to press his hand on my mouth.
He puts an arm behind his back, gets up a bit, and when my eyes can see it again, he is holding a gun. I open my eyes wide until I feel them pulsating, but this is not what scares me most.
What makes my mind go crazy is him.
Him.
The guy.
The man in the perverts' club.
He has those eyes so similar to the color of my past.
He shows me the gun and I feel I am becoming short of breath. His threat is clear, he says: “Try to scream and I'll kill you.”
I wouldn't scream anyway, because at the moment the need to know why he is here is stronger than wanting to be safe.
“I am releasing you, promise you won't shout.” I stay still and he repeats gritting his teeth: “Promise!”
I nod strongly. I feel the air beating on my lips and I am free.
He stays beside me, isn't perturbed, and I am not, either. I cannot take my eyes off his face. It is so impassive, motionless, disturbing. His beard is longer than the evening I met him. I soon recognize the fullness of his lips, his well shaped chin, his rawboned cheeks filled with a brown beard. And his eyes… I could not forget them.
“You?” I murmur.
“Me, what?” A glimmer of fear appears in his eyes. Did he believe I wouldn't have recognized him?
“You are the guy at the Arcano.”
He seems surprised by my self-control. He looks at me interrogatively.
“Aren't you afraid of me?” he asks disappointedly.
“No.”
I fold down the quilt and push him to let me get out of the bed. I slip away and I don't care about rubbing him. He is confused, but stares at me with the air of superiority that he seems to have sewn on him.
“Did you come to get me?” I cross my arms. I'm resigned.
“Aren't you afraid of me?” he asks again.
He takes a step towards me, and now the fear he may hurt me overcomes me. And if he was not related to the letter? If he was a mad man who wants to do something else?
“Do you want to hurt me?” I ask abruptly.
I don't care, I'm so aware of what's going to happen that I try to make it short and anticipate him. I've been thinking a lot and I'm going to do as my dad said in the letter: I will give into them, I won't oppose them, I will do what they tell me, waiting for my move.
“So?” I almost make fun of him. He is misguided.
“So what?” he raised the volume of his voice.
“You are here to take me away, right?” I walk by and push him. He remains silent, still turned around. What did he expect, that I would whimper like a little girl? I won't repeat the same mistakes. I'll be smart. As Dad asked. He turns and, although I'm standing, he can overcome me completely. He is so tall and
impressive that it makes me feel tiny. “Can I get something to wear or do you want me to follow you in my pajamas?” I tease him.
My tones seem to disturb him. Maybe things are not going as he had planned.
“Get what you need,” he hides his hands in his pockets and sets on the edge of my desk. He gazes at me as if I were a stranger to our world. I'm not afraid of intercepting his eyes, and though every time his eyes meet mine, I feel pinched by a pin, I can support his glances. “You're a big disappointment to me,” he whispers, crossing his arms. I look badly at him. I open the closet and I ignore him while getting some clothes. “I thought it would be more fun,” he continues.
I want to have him in my hand, he must understand that he cannot play with me.
“I'm really sorry if I didn't satisfy your sadism. You're completely indifferent to me.” I turn and throw some clothes on the bed. I raise my eyes and stare at him. “You don't have any effect on me.” My sentence seems to stab him. He moves, moves his arms from his chest and stretches them along his hips, then crosses them again. I don't hide a smile of victory. I want to make him nervous, so I say: “One to nothing for me.” And I begin to fill a bag.
“I thought you were smarter, but you are just a stupid and spoiled little girl,” he moves toward me and pulls some clothes out of my hands, fusses with them, and throws them carelessly into the bag. Doing so, we never stop staring at each other. “You have no idea who I am,” he says threateningly.
I shudder to think of it, because it's true, I have no idea, but I don't have to lower myself to his threats, I mustn't give up.
Dad, I won't give up. I promise you.
“I'm not interested in knowing who you are,” I say pretentiously. “You are the last wheel of the wagon if they sent you here to take me away. You are nothing for them, imagine for me.”
He squints his eyes, he feels the challenge, but I hope he stops replying , so I can avoid contrasting, as I don't know how much he can take.
I pass him, not worrying about pushing him again. His arm suddenly rises and blocks my way, bumping on my belly. I look at his big arm, figuring it is muscular considering its firmness. I raise my head slightly turning my head toward him.
He's so disturbing, motionless, controlled, dangerous.
“Don't underestimate me, kiddo.”
“I don't consider you at all.”
His nostrils are widening and now… I'm afraid.
His arm, now a bar, wraps around my waist. He grabs me and turns me violently, pulling my back against his chest, which is a marble slab. With one hand he clings to my side and with the other he grabs my hair. Strongly.
Oh God.
He bends my head uncovering my neck, I feel his lips on the lobe of my ear, and now I'm really afraid he is going to tell me something terrifying.
But…
I close my eyes and swallow, what I feel is not fear and I wish it was.
No, what I feel is different, it's the same sensation I was curious about the night I first met him, even if masked.
It's that sensation.
The same emotion I've been repressing for years, which makes me deeply ashamed.
I hope my father is not watching me.
My breath seems to abandon me, as well as the energy that gives way to weakness. I feel his beard stinging my jaw, his lips brushing my lobe, his hot breath.
“I ask you again.” His words seem to slide on me as hot liquid. “Are you afraid of me?”
He wants me to be afraid of him. Should I let him believe it? It would mean I am already surrendering.
“No.” The answer comes out before it has permission to be pronounced.
He tightens the grip on my hair and forces me to put my head on his shoulder, his arm holds my belly so tight I'm afraid of losing my breath.
“You'll learn to know me well. You'll know I want many things. Let's start with the first ones...” His lips are like flames disintegrating on my skin. They burn me, but at the same time they vanish causing their effect: fear. “I want you to be afraid of me, I want you to lower your eyes every time I look for yours, I want you to speak only when you are asked to, I want you to move when I move and I want you to obey my every order. I. Want. It. All.”
“That doesn't seem all to me!” He pulls my hair back and I let out a yelp. “For me it's the absolutely nothing. Because I will do none of it.
I feel his chest vibrate nervously. He finally releases his hold and suddenly makes me turn. His eyes strike and pierce me more than his hands could ever do in a different situation. It's quiet around us, but my breath fills the air, creating a macabre and unwanted symphony.
“Get your stuff. We'll talk again.”
I move trying to stay away from him, walk next to the wall, and go to the bathroom to get other stuff that I could use. I really don't know what to pick up and fill the beauty-case randomly. I go back to my room and he has my bag in his hand, his eyes are still full of bad intentions.
I cannot hide to myself being satisfied by my reaction. I will never submit to this man's pretentions. I don't know who he is, but I understand he is nobody in comparison to what is going to happen to me.
He is just someone who reminds me so much of the past; that past, that today - for the first time - I have faced after so long.
I am satisfied with myself because I feel that I am behaving as I would have liked to do in the past. Within me I'm redeeming slowly, I'm reacting, I'm killing the fear, though it is still there, present, but now I feel it… different, in a way I don't want to accept.
I. Feel it. Intriguing.
He stretches out an arm and tears the beauty case out of my hands and then shoves it into the bag.
I look at him badly, because his way of acting and expecting annoys me. It is clear that he wants something from me, but I want it to be clear to him that I'm not the girl he expected.
“I'm going to get dressed,” I say, taking jeans and a large sweater. I lock myself in the bathroom. He doesn't protest, and the idea that he is so sure that I won't run away makes me sick.
Mine is not a surrender, it's just a way to deal with my fate, to understand the reason for all this. Maybe I'm just naïve and I'm underestimating the situation, but at the moment, I definitely want to know the truth.
When I get out of the bathroom there he is. He didn't move one millimeter. He must be well-trained.
He is so tall. His eyes are scanning me from head to toe and I feel uncomfortable.
“We can go,” I say. And he looks even more bothered. He stares at me in disbelief and shakes his head. “What's up? Did you think that you would have had to force me?” I say it without hiding the contempt I feel.
“I would have preferred to drag you down the stairs by your hair.”
“It wouldn't be the first time for me,” I say bluntly and his eyes seem to sadden suddenly.
“Of course you would have liked it,” he comments with an improper smile.
I avoid continuing this debate that, to be honest, I started. I don't have to talk about me.
“I'm going to say bye to my mother.”
He just takes a step, reaches me and blocks my wrist violently. I have palpitations These sudden touches really frighten me. But I hope he doesn't realize it.
“You won't say bye to anyone!” The way he says it worries me. “Well,” he mumbles satisfied. “You're trembling for me.”
It is true, damn it!
I slip away from his grip, and my hand, furiously, hits his chest with a fist.
He gazes at my hand and then at my face. He's shocked.
“Do you dare put your hands on me?”
“I told you, I'm not afraid of you.”
I massage my wrist because it hurts me, while I probably just tickled him.
“Then I'll make sure I become your worst nightmare.”
He grabs my hair and does exactly as he had imagined: he drags me away by pulling it. He doesn't bother to make noise because he is smart; he knows perfectly
I wouldn't shout and endanger my mother.
With tears in my eyes, I let myself be dragged down the stairs, as if I were a beast to be sent to the slaughterhouse. He doesn't worry about hurting me, he is not afraid I might shout. Inside, I'm crying out loud and I'm waiting for the right moment to take revenge for this treatment.
I don't have time to look around, to greet mom, to see my house, maybe for the last time, and it intensifies those tears that insist to come out.
When we are in the garden I feel "free" with a different concept from the original and I understand my dad's words, when - in his letter - he asked to reconsider the idea of freedom.
I'm free to assail him, because I know that mom cannot hear us and so avoid putting her in danger.
Armed with courage, without screaming, I jab him on the abdomen with my elbow, gaining relief to my skin that stops being abused by his violence.
He turns me abruptly and slams me against the column of the verandah. I cough.
I'm terrified.
He could crush me with a single slap, if he wanted to.
For a moment I find my face reflected in his eyes. They are wide open and black with anger. He shakes me hard and slams me up against the column again, then punches the cement close to my face.
He angrily sighs, his nostrils widen. I understood that he controlled himself.
“Never try it again,” he snarls, so close, so angry. “It's the second time you hit me!”
I swallow but I show no fear. I lift my chin and reply: “I'll do it every time it's needed. Every time you touch me.”
“Are you threatening me?”
It's clear. He lost control. I'm not the victim he thought I was.
“I'm warning you.” His fingers tighten the flesh of my arm, leaving their mark on me for a while. “If you raise a finger against me again, I won't just defend myself next time.”
He pulls my hair. What the hell! Again… My neck is uncovered and I feel defenseless.
“And what will you do?” He whispers right on my neck. Oh, goddamn it, I'm shaken.
Shivering in fear, Ambra, you are just shivering in fear.
He wants it all Page 8