Guilty Conscience ~ Abbacchio/Fem Reader

Chapter 13: A Blanket of Desolation

To someone with so much on her plate - so much to train for, so many people to please - for Y/N, three weeks felt like an eternity and mere seconds all at once.

Three weeks had passed since the incident.

Three weeks of early mornings and late nights spent in utter solitude.

Three weeks of training in the park on her own.

Three weeks of scribbling down notes, stitching together essays with strings of vowels. Weaving numbers into equations like a single thread into a sheet of fabric. All on her own.

Three weeks.

All to herself.

The tan walls of her cramped apartment cradled her conscience as she drifted off to sleep each night. And the ruffling of her dark curtains greeted her each morning as she woke. And for the first time, Y/N didn't feel as though she was alone. She felt lonely.

She had become so accustomed to the feeling. The idea of being alone. Her weeks spent in solitude, only getting to meet with her university friends on weekends, had become a part of a regular routine. She found comfort in the quiet, letting thoughts crowd the empty room, drifting freely in the air, not interrupted by the presents of others. But after having spent a week with someone she didn't even consider a friend, his absents had quickly sent her desire for alone time fading away with the warm summer wind, and blowing into a chilly autumn breeze that told her she needed to spend more time with the ones she had convinced herself were just there to help her pay off her debt. The ones she bombarded with questions she knew they couldn't answer. The ones who did their best to welcome her into a team as tightly knit as a warm woollen scarf, even though she never once showed them an ounce of her gratitude. The ones who she could one day call family.

It was autumn now. And that chill breeze caressed her cheeks and whispered in her ear as she walked alone down the cool streets of Naples. It told her to start appreciating. To start acting like an adult. To give respect. It told her that there was no turning back now. That if she wanted the life she'd always dreamed of, a life of comfort in the company of those she trusts most, she'd have to make it herself. Not beg for it to fall into her gentle grasp.

And it told her that she wouldn't be able to keep up her charade of lies for much longer.

The thick soles of her ankle-high boots clicked against the cobblestone as she made her way down the sodden street. Bucciarati was the only one to stay in contact with Y/N those past three weeks, explaining that the others were needed elsewhere - to take care of some private business. And that Abbacchio would be out of commission for a while. He needed time to recover. Y/N walked down the brightly-lit street, crunching fallen leaves under her boots and doing her best to avoid the puddles that swirled in the dips of the sidewalk. The sun was setting, and she was on her way to meet with her university friends - a cluster of kids her age that didn't mind spending their weekends chatting away with her. It was the first night in the past three weeks that Bucciarati was giving her to spend as she pleased. I didn't expect you to keep up with your training and studies, he'd said one evening over the phone. Next Saturday. It's all yours.

The training, even to her surprise, became something she took very seriously. Instead of learning from someone before her, watching closely and mimicking movements, Y/N resorted to texts. Written words that went into great detail about breathing techniques, the best type of stance, the fluidity of movement, and what to look for when facing an opponent. She spent each of her mornings carrying an array of books to the park, where she would run, punch, kick, jab, and block all on her own. Even when the mornings become cooler and leaves the shade of crimson spilled onto the park's mossy floor, she was still up, still improving herself.