𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒 |𝟏𝟖+ (#𝟏)

𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚈-𝙴𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 |

28
ALESSANDRO VITALE
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When you allow your imagination to wander to what-if scenarios, two weeks might feel like an eternity.

When the one person you want to touch is nearby but you know you shouldn't, two weeks might seem like misery.

When everyone is walking on eggshells and avoiding their name like a family curse, two weeks might seem like purgatory.

I never told them what occurred the morning they came over for breakfast and discovered me sleeping in bed with a bottle of scotch because I, myself, had no idea what had gone wrong the night before. There were too many missing pieces that I can't scour through her background to get answers. Those had to come from her and she was very clear on the fact that she couldn't explain. That she wouldn't.

I wasn't a beggar and even though I would fall to my knees to beg her, I knew it wouldn't work. She was headstrong, always crafty with the way she asks questions and the way she states things. She wouldn't tell me until she was ready. It was just a matter of how long I could wait. I was already impatient.

Maybe that's why, rather than delegating, I'm focused on adopting a more hands-on approach to dealing with the men who have betrayed me. Depending on which side of the spectrum you're on, anger might make things a lot clearer with sharp precision or murky like the water of a pond.

In front of me was Marco Bernardi, a thief. It was beneath me to kill him or even have an interaction with this man but I was bored and whatever I asked for was delivered. Today I was in my basement, the room cold and damp, the man seated in the chair hands and feet bound with more than enough room to escape. I doubt he'd try to take advantage without any directive from me.

His eyes were bloodshot, high of heroin so I know this conversation would be useless in its entirety but it would be fun. Addicts always say the most uncontrollable shit when off their ass. "Wake up Marco." I mutter, slapping his face and watching as his eyes roll back.

"First rule of business is to never use the shit you sell, Marco. Second rule is to not steal from your boss. But you don't care, do you?" His head sways and a small grin takes over his face. "Where's the fun in that?" I flick the switch on my lighter, running it over the rim of the cuban cigar freshly from its packet.

"Hmmm." I hum, flicking the end of the cigar before dragging the smoke into my lungs. This is going to be another long night, one where I'll be left alone after they clean up the inevitable mess I'll leave in this room. "Why do you do it?" I ask, not because I care but because I wanted voices to fill the space of silence that's shrouded me since she left. Or better yet since I told her to leave. 

"Sometimes I hope I overdose. Sometimes I don't. Like tonight I wanted to but now it feels like I'm on the moon." He ends on a cheerful note with a grin on his face. Seems nothing could sober him from this high. Then he struck up a conversation nonstop, and I found myself engrossed in it to distract myself from my loneliness. Everything was discussed, including soccer, basketball, and summers in Italy.

"You're a good looking guy, do you have a wife, girlfriend or something?" he asks, going back to humming the tune to Farfallina bella e bianca, an Italian nursery rhyme. I don't answer him for a while, my mind preoccupied with thoughts of everything especially thanksgiving in a few days. Another day I wish she would be here for. "I used to." I surprised myself by saying.

"She lied to me, so I had to let her go." Now I was lying to myself and I hated liars. Did she lie to me, or was she just protecting herself? She seemed hurt about the point I made thinking she was sent to spy on me, and I wanted to slap myself everytime I remember the fact. "What happened?"