The Collection

Venice

"Are you okay?"

She's talking ot me. I force myself to meet her eyes and swallow odwn my frustration.

"Of course, Amanda." I say, convincingly.

She relaxes, the creases in her face disappearing, if only for a second. I grin back at her, hoping I don't look as fake as I feel.

We're sitting on the terrace, watching all of Venice over mugs of cocoa. The sight would be breathtaking, if by now it weren't so commonplace. The bold sweeping arches,  the glistening sheen of the water below and the continuous passage of the boats as they cut their way to and fro: all feeble now. Extraordinary once, magic even. When we first moved here, certainly. But, just like our morning ritual, it's becoming dull and grey, like a looming storm cloud on the horizon. 

I sigh quietly and return my attention to her, idly running a finger down the side of my mug as I contemplate. It's been quite a rocky past few years. There's  very little love lost between us these days, despite the fact that we live within a few hundred square feet of each other. Sometimes it sucks to have a kid sister.

She's saying something now. I nod at her, and take a long sip of the chocolate to excuse myself from talking. 

"Adam." She's looking at me with concern again. It's clear I haven't been listening. Her eyes narrow.

"Amanda." I repeat back at her, unflinchingly. 

She deflates.

"You know, I wonder why I even try  with you." Her face is moving in an all too familiar way. It's the crestfallen mask waiting on one side of tears. I look away.

"Your face..." she continues haltingly, forcing me to return my gaze to the sorrow in her countenance "it's a mask. I can tell when you lie to me, you know. But...just barely. I watch you leave every single day, doing who knows what, going who knows where. Returning, every night, with a fresh scar and another storm cloud over your head... Every damn day. "

I look away again, tracing the pattern of the pattern printed on my mug. 

She's on her feet now. 

It's going to be one of those  mornings. 

My heart feels like it's going to beat out of my chest. the only warm part of my body is the hand clutching the mug of cocoa. And it's shaking. 

I knew this day was coming. But this soon?

She's never really asked before. About any of it. Not sure why. Maybe she's never really wanted to know. It's much easier that way, especially when you're a struggling college dropout. Move in with your rich half-brother in his fancy villa in Venice. Jobless, penniless, hooked on drugs, it seemed she was happy to live comfortable on my dirty money. But now, she wants answers. This isn't going to be easy.

She's furious. 

"I see it all. You don't think I do, but I do notice. The broken bones, the sore spots, the way you still favor your left leg over your right. Something's going on here, Adam, and I am sick and tired of being left in the dark." She's almost yelling, her hands balled up into fists, her cheeks red and angry. "I used to wait up at night to hear you come back, imagining that you were taking an extra shift. That if I waited for just a few more hours, you'd  arrive.  And every morning, I see the part of you that wasn't missing the day before. This has got to stop." She stops then, her eyes turned a crystalline cold that chills me to my core.

"Say something!" She screams now, her whole face a deep cherry now as she hangs the phrase in the air like a death sentence.

"Amanda.." I manage, weakly. 

"Adam!" She barks back. Her eyes are dripping sorrow now.

I shift uncomfortably. I never was any good at this.

The metal plate in my leg, a parting gift from Afganistan, throbs . I force myself myself to slow my breathing, my leg still pulsing painfully from the sudden shock of the moment. 

"Look," I finally say, breaking my silence under the full force of her verbal advances.

"Amanda..." I clear my throat. My voice won't stop shaking. I see spots.

"Adam." she seems a bit calmer now.

Her voice seems to coming from a great a great distance. I start to shake. My vision blurs and my brow feels hot and sticky. The ground far below seems like a fairly good alternative right now.

"Amanda. I'm not... a good person."

"Adam. What are you talking about? What really going on?" she sounds scared now. I don't blame her. I've never let her see me this way.

I shrug out of my suit coat. I'm overheating. I shiver. The air is chilly, biting, exposing my weakness like the bitter retribution of God. 

I stagger, my hot chocolate spilling across the white marble of the terrace. The ceramic mug shatters. I'm leaning on the balcony now, looking out over the watery paradise of Venice. Tears sting my cheeks as I somehow find the strength to turn my head and look her in the eye.

There's no use hiding anymore.

"Amanda....

...I kill people"