He wants it all

by Marilena Barbagallo

  Nothing has changed.

  I feel exactly the same sensations of the past: resignation, curiosity, courage and… attraction. Insane attraction.

  I can't keep my eyes off of him for more than a few seconds. I need to study him, to observe him, to spit on him - with my eyes - the contempt I feel. For a moment he seemed afraid, not normal in his world. I read in his eyes such a bewilderment that made me act impulsively. I ran away because I felt he was wavering, he was losing control and softening up.

  This man has no idea what good manners are. He could have taken me away in a thousand different ways, asking me politely - as I proved ready to follow him - instead he wanted to explicitly treat me like an animal, like a beast to drag away.

  Violent, overpowering, but - God forgive me - incredibly attractive.

  My body surrendered, reacted to his touch, I felt languished in his arms ready to receive the expected treatment. But when I slapped him I felt alive. For a moment that knot of darkness in my stomach dissolved and exploded in the form of violence.

  I did exactly what he did: I used violence and I am deeply ashamed. But he deserved it, he deserves it and deserves much more.

  My mind is already plotting other actions against his body, just like I said to the psychologist: "I would like to crush him with my feet, as we do with the slimy insects"

  Slimy.

  “Your thoughts are noisy,” he angrily exclaims.

  I look at him incredulously. How can it be that even what I think bothers him?

  “Does it make you more angry knowing that my thoughts make noise or not knowing what I'm thinking?”

  I'm not scared of him, so I prick him.

  He brakes abruptly, although there is absolutely not a living soul in front of us. Is it his way of answering?

  I stare at him trying to scold him with my disappointment, his lips open, he is about to say something. I stare at his mouth, surrounded by an uncultured beard, and I recall the time he set it on my forehead.

  Fluid magma flowed between my legs, as his touch became devastating.

  “What do you want?” I shout. “Why are you looking at me like this?” It looks like he wants to devour me.

  “I know you like to provoke me.” He engages the first gear and starts off again.

  “I don't consider you so important.”

  “I wouldn't say so, since for seven years, you have done nothing but think about what I did to you!”

  His way of driving makes me sick. He takes the curves with the same anger he speaks with. I hold on to the armrest, but I don't say to slow down: I'm sure he would drive twice as fast just to contrast me.

  “You were right!” I reply. “I think of what you did to me and what I have become because of you. I certainly don't think of you and of what you are!”

  The wheels of the car creak, the curve appears narrower than it looks. I close my eyes tight and when I re-open them, he is gnawing his jaw and staring at me.

  I wish he would focus on the road and not on me.

  “What am I?” he asks.

  “I told you, you are a coward, a monster, a beast…”

  He brakes again abruptly as he raises the handbrake and the car spins out.

  My goodness. I sigh, scared, it's like being on a roller coaster.

  “You're completely crazy!” I yell. My head is spinning.

  “You didn't consider me a coward, monster, animal when you looked for my protection!”

  I widen my eyes at the memory of that moment.

  “How can you say that?”

  “Now do you want me to believe that you protected me, after all the times you left me without food and water, in the dark, and that you pulled my hair for days making it fall out?”

  I'm shouting, I feel the tears again bathing my flaming face out of anger.

  He's speechless, of course, he cannot reply. His eyes become sad, they are dark beyond any definition, and seem to become so black it hurts. His look hurts me, perhaps because he is really sorry.

  It hurts me to think I'm believing he's sorry.

  I don't have to fall into his trap.

  “You are behaving the same way,” I remark. “Even today.”

  I say it as if I wanted to answer a question going through his head.

  Suddenly he starts laughing. His laughter is disturbing, full of bad intentions. I cannot believe that he is making fun of me and of what I've been through.

  “Oh, if you only knew what I could do to you today!” he says almost to himself. I get a shiver down my back and soon that same shiver expands throughout my body. Everywhere, it's everywhere, it is made of him.

  I'm hot, I'm restless, I'm upset by my own emotions. The way he looks at me, the way he pulls out his tongue and passes it over his lips, the way he sighs and moves his fingers on the steering wheel… I'm stupid!

  “What's your problem, princess?" he asks naughtily. “What are you thinking about?”

  I don't even know what I'm thinking of, because I'm fighting with that thought, that same thought that has disturbed me for years.

  “You’re disgusting. You're revolting.”

  He hits the steering wheel with anger and I jump up. This sudden fury makes me afraid that he will attack me gain, my hair in particular.

  “Stop using this tone and those fucking words,” he snarls.

  He looks like an angry dog. His furious eyes disturb me. Maybe I should really stop provoking him. But no, I don't care! I want to hurt him.

  “Why?” I ask with wickedness. “Does the truth bother you? I cannot believe that nobody has seen what you really are.”

  “Stop it!” He whispers, continuing to hold the steering wheel. I notice his whitened and wounded knuckles, the enlarging nostrils, and his panting sighs.

  “I didn't think you were so sensitive. Does it bother you so much to know how disgusting you are?”

  He turns off the engine in the middle of the road, takes the key out of the ignition, opens the door, and gets out of the car. I feel satisfied having destabilized him. He stays out, his elbows leaning on the roof of the BMW, I guess he's holding his head in his hands, in a desperate gesture.

  Is he desperate? Why should he be? I should be desperate.

  I hear his way of breathing. He is tired, nervous. I only see his abdomen that I guess is a rock, considering the stature of his body. The unbuttoned leather jacket reveals barely the dark and elegant shirt underneath. I stare at him waiting for something to happen. Maybe I should bite my tongue, maybe I'm so unaware not to realize how dangerous he is, or maybe I know he wouldn't hurt me because - for an infinite moment when I asked him not to hurt me anymore, I was confident that his eyes were promising that.

  I hear the door reopen and I see him coming back in. I don't move my eyes from him who - instead - ignores me and stops talking, watching me, being everywhere, as I have felt so far.

  The rest of the journey goes on normally: he drives slow and doesn't look for me. It encourages me but at the same time leaves an unexpected bitterness. I would have liked to insult him a little bit more, though I realize I told him absolutely nothing of what I should have said. I feel a bit... limited.

  I don't know what stops me.

  Finally, the trip seems to have ended. He stops the car in front of a big gate. I don't even want to look at it, I don't care what's around me. He nears the car to the gate and, when he lowers the window, I see a built-in camera at the intercom. He pushes a button, nobody answers, but the gate opens. They must have recognized him.

  I observe the scene waiting for him to say something, but he doesn't. He ignores me and I'm fine with that.

  The car rides along a long driveway lined by pines and weeping willows. I love those trees, but now they will have a different place in my heart. The car crosses the cobblestones slowly, its pebbles don't let you go fast, thankfully. I'm still nauseous because of the reckless driving of this kind of man.

  I keep staring at him with contempt, never tired of spitting out my
poison. I have accumulated it for years and it is only for him, the only recipient.

  I still can't believe I have him close by, I have to realize what has happened and accept that he is here and he has taken me away, again.

  The long road ends revealing an impressive structure. I lower my head to look better out of the window. There is a huge tall building that has something divine, sacred but at the same time profane.

  The car rotates around a large fountain and my head is turned to the immense house.

  He turns off the engine and pulls up the parking brake, abruptly. Everything in him is abrupt, extreme, harsh.

  “Get out,” he orders.

  I get out, surely not because he is ordering it to me, but I want to look at this place that seems timeless.

  I'm stunned. It's wonderful.

  There is an immense garden lit by lights arranged to enhance the vegetation. I smell swamp, we must be close to the water, I turn around and see some boats moored. I turn around again and look back at the villa. It reminds me of the Greek temples.

  “Welcome to the Temple."

  I hear his voice confirm my impressions.

  “Is it a temple?”

  “That's the way we call it,” he takes my arm and I move away horrified.

  “You mustn't touch me!”

  He stares at me. Is he disappointed? He sighs and asks me to follow him, with a head gesture. I only stay at his side, at a cautionary distance, as we are climbing this ancient staircase. After the last step, there are a series of Ionic-style columns.

  He rings the ancient bell and I observe it meticulously. For me this place is paradise. I've studied art history for a long time and my curiosity increases seeing something like this.

  With the tail of my eye I see he is looking at me, he studies me, stares at my every expression. I try to take my astonishment from my face and to avoid smiling, admiring some really interesting architectural details.

  “You'll have a chance to visit the villa,” he says, as if he was reading my mind. What does he know of my passion for art?

  Before I ask, the big door opens and a short lady, dressed as a maid, welcomes us.

  She doesn't say anything, bows her head and doesn't look into our eyes. She takes the jacket of my kidnapper and stretches out her arm. I guess I should also give her my jacket. I do.

  “Miss Livori's luggage is in the car,” he says.

  The woman nods and disappears in an area of the villa.

  I look around amazed.

  The entranceway is immense. He doesn't say anything, he is behind me and he lets me move on. I can't help but raise my head and notice the huge glass dome in the ceiling.

  I smile, I really smile, surprised to be in such a fascinating place. I turn around in circles, holding my head up to this awesome dome. Then, when I lower my face and intercept his eyes, I see him still, in front of the door, looking at me with his hands in his pockets. His eyes don't look as dark as they have been so far and for a moment I have the impression he is smiling.

  But it's just an impression, because when I see him crossing the space that separates us with that demoniacal step, he is glacial again and I instinctively move back, shaking my head in a way that seems to implore him not to put his hands on me.

  When he reaches me, I step back and he frowns.

  I know he doesn't like my ways, so I take advantage of it to tease him again.

  “I thought you like me to be afraid.”

  He seems to have lost the use of speech. I cannot believe he's having trouble with so little.

  He comes near me again and I cannot help but step back.

  “Why are you stepping back?”

  “Because you're coming on!”

  “Are you running away from me?”

  I realize that is what he wants, that he certainly feels a disgusting pleasure in playing prey and predator. So I force my feet to stop, raise my chin and challenge him.

  “I'm not running away, I'm trying to stand your ground.”

  I don't know if I'm imagining it, but I think I saw a slight smile appear on his lips.

  “I hope you won't succeed,” he says, and goes past me. “Follow me!”

  I follow him up the royal stairway. It's like being inside a noble palace, one of those buildings destined to be human heritage. We reach a level and I try to notice many things. The corridors are spectacular. The floors are covered with rugs softening the noise of our steps; on one side there are large windows and on the other paintings, statues, I am... I am…

  “You're entranced.” I hear him say. He has exactly described the state in which I am.

  “I love art, and this place is really rapturing.”

  The beauty of the place has put aside the contempt I feel for the man walking alongside me, but the fact we are having a normal conversation wakes me and brings me back to reality. I stop smiling in front of a statue of Aphrodite and bring my eyes straight to an empty space, tired of being observed by him as if I were one of those objects.

  “We have something in common,” he says. I cannot believe it. Does a beast like him love art?

  “We are not having a conversation,” I burst out.

  “Surely not because you have decided this.”

  “Oh, yes, you decide everything”, I tease him

  “Exactly.”

  He stops in front of a door, puts his hand in his pocket and pulls out a key, one of those old keys seen only in fairy tales.

  He opens the door and pushes it, pointing to go in. I do and decide to get impressed by the luxury of the room, only later, when he's gone.

  “This will be your room for as long as you stay at the Temple, there is also a bathroom.” He moves and opens the door overlooking a hallway, where I see a cabinet on the right and the bathroom on the left. “Do you like it, princess?”

  “Stop calling me princess.”

  “And how should I call you?”

  Is it his way of asking me my name? He should know.

  “I don't want to be called by you. Never.” He looks down for a second and then brings his look back to me. “What else do you want?” I shout.

  “Tomorrow morning I'll pick you up.”

  “Is it necessary?”

  “Yup.”

  He turns, switches on some lights and the room lights up totally, revealing its splendor. It's all gold, red and wood.

  He stands still in the middle of the room, I'm in front of him, behind me there's a huge bed. Knowing I'm in a room like this with him is destabilizing me a lot.

  I'm hot, I pull up my knit sleeves and his eyes become sad, I feel them invading my arms. In two steps he reaches me and I instinctively protect my face with my arm.

  I see him through the edge of my forearm and I see he's sad.

  “I didn't wanna hurt you,” he argues. The tone of his voice sounds disappointed, disappointed to see I'm afraid he can hurt me. “I just want to see what this is.”

  He fixes me as if he is looking for my approval to touch me. I don't permit it, of course, but he becomes rude again and grabs my wrist, pulling me closer to one of the wall lamps.

  He stretches out my arm and examines what I felt burning, though it’s not important anymore, considering the more serious events.

  “It's all your fault!” I scold him. He bites his lip and rotates my arm checking it meticulously. “These are the marks of your fingers.” I point to the red marks around my arm and near my elbow. I also have scratches along the line where the veins stand out.

  He goes on looking at my arm, as if he wasn't sure he had hurt me. He lets it fall down and takes the other, pulling up the sleeve.

  His eyes open wide, like his nostrils.

  He is facing the result of his violence, his barbarism, his inability to be a man.

  “A real man doesn't touch a woman!” My words seem like wandering bullets with an astonishing effect on him: he is obviously regretful. He is ashamed of himself. “You also did this sign,” I say, pointing to another br
uise. I want to hurt him. He must understand he's hurting me. “It's even worse than the other mark.” He lets my arm drop, and he doesn't look in my eyes. He is mortified. “Aren't you happy?” I tease him. “I thought you were a sadist.” I cross my arms and his eyes don't leave my skin reddened by his violence. “I bet you like to see bruises on my skin.”

  He looks up and pierces me with his confused eyes.

  He shakes his head, it's like a thought is coming out of his head, something unwanted. I don't understand him anymore. Then he proceeds and he becomes a coward again.

  He clutches his fists, looks at me and stuns me with his usual bullying.

  “I would have preferred to see you bleed. I'm just disappointed I didn't hurt you as I wished.”

  The pungent smile I had on my face disappeared, goes away, evaporates, I don't think I'll ever regain the courage to tease him again, if his answers hurt me so badly.

  They hurt, yes, I feel a blade penetrating my chest, still small but existing. I feel that this blade is becoming more and more painful as I spend time here. Because of him.

  “You, you are...” I have no words to describe him, my throat burns.

  He takes a step toward me.

  “A monster,” he takes another step. “Insensitive,” he takes a new step. “A beast,” he is so close that I become evidently shaken. “Who enjoys seeing you tremble.”

  I'm losing the strength I had found, but I don't want to give him the pleasure of seeing me run away from him.

  “I'm not afraid of you,” I challenge him.

  “I want you to repeat what you think of me.”

  I am confused and bat my eyelashes. I thought my insults had annoyed him.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Because it will be easier not to feel guilty.”

  His answer misguides me.

  Does he feel guilty? Can he apologize? Doesn't he enjoy hurting me?

  “I don't understand,” I say.

  “I don't understand it myself,” he replies annoyed. “Repeat what you think of me!”

  “To give you an illusion of relief? To unload your conscience? If that's why, no! You must suffer, you must feel sick…”

  “Pritikhvam,” he says, and plugs my mouth. Is he Russian?

  His hand is hot, my body is surrendering to the first sighs of fear. He could really hurt me if he just wanted to.