Page 4 of Kadra: The Unfeeling

Just like I prefer it.

I came to this world alone and I’ll go out of it the same way.

Gulping what’s left of the tea, I start to feel a strange sensation on the back of my neck. A feeling of awareness courses through me, making me raise my head and look sideways to find no one there. The feeling only intensifies, so this time I look over my shoulder instead. That’s when I find the source of the weird feeling taking over my senses.

I’ve been coming to this cemetery for three years and not once have I ever crossed paths with another person so far back in these grounds this early in the morning. Especially someone who looks like him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone that looks like the man. Ever.

Without taking my eyes off the stranger standing not so far from me, I put down the teacup next to my book. I notice his presence feels both threatening and calm. How is that possible? I keep looking his way but he says nothing. He just stands there watching me. Not me precisely, more like he’s seeing right through me. “Are you lost, mister?” I don’t know what possessed me to speak first. I just do. Without any regard to my safety. I don’t know this man or his reason for being here. I just know that he looks just like the demons Lorenzo Nicolasi sketches and hangs on his bedroom walls. The ones that look macabre and angry but do not scare me. Not at all. On the contrary, they feel more familiar than the people that surround me at home. If you could call the Parisi mansion a home.

After a long moment of just staring his way, I find myself holding my breath as I watch the stranger taking steps toward me. It feels as if I’m in a trance watching him stomp the dirty brown leaves under his large black boots. Awareness creeps up my neck, but I push it down. After all, I’ve seen and lived through far worse than a scary-looking man heading my way. Nothing scares me anymore. Not really. Besides, I have my knives with me just in case the man in black tries anything.

I count each step he takes my way.

One step. Two steps. Three – he’s not stopping. He is getting closer now.

From this close, I notice how pale his skin is in contrast to his raven hair that he wears slid back making him look sophisticated yet the countless tattoos decorating his almost translucent skin make him look wild too. The man even has a black tattoo on his face next to his right eye. How strange. Then there’s his clothing. The same color as his hair. Black. A black dress shirt and black slacks with shiny shoes that are ruined by mud.

I think of how different this man looks compared to my father and his men. Gabriele Parisi would never be caught dead with dirt on his shoes. No, he just treats everyone else like the dirt under his shoes.

“Are you?” I frown when the man speaks, his voice rough and deep, breaking through my thoughts and interrupting my observation of him. My breath hitches when I notice his heavy accent. Not Italian, that is for sure. Russian, maybe? He talks funny. Not weird-funny but different from most people I’ve met. Is not only the accent but the deep tone of his voice. He sounds as if he were angry but he doesn’t look like he is. Not really or maybe he’s hiding his anger like I’ve trained myself to do.

The man raises a dark and thick brow expectantly. I realized he asked me a question but I was lost in my thoughts so I didn’t catch it. “What?” I ask as I rise to my full height brushing the wet grass off my black dress. My favorite velvet black dress that I paired with black boots much like the ones the man in black is wearing.

The man steps closer to where I’m standing at the same time the sky turns even darker. How… “Are you lost?” He repeats himself. From this close, I can see his face better and for a second I swear I’m looking at one of those Greek statues of angry warriors that are part of some of the most famous exhibits in the world. Pieces of art made from marble and some out of gold. This man reminds me of them.

His nose is strong and the only thing that lets me know that he’s not perfect. It has a bump as if it’s been broken a few times. What catches my attention are his lips. They’re full and a deep shade of red.

Blood red.

Huh…

And then my curious eyes travel up to his face and my gaze clashes with his.

His eyes.

I’ve never seen eyes like that before.

Eyes the color of the sky during a storm. An angry storm that unleashes havoc.

A light shade of gray that makes it seem almost as if his eyes are white.

And here I thought my own eyes were odd.

His are too.

Thump.

Thump.

My chest suddenly starts to ache but not in a painful way. Not really. I can’t explain it. I try to come up with a reasonable explanation for the odd feeling, but I come up empty. “I’m not lost.” I snap feeling angry with myself that this man just appeared out of nowhere and it’s causing my heart to race in ways it’s never done before. Not for anyone or anything. But here I am, gazing up at this man that looks like death himself and I don’t feel afraid. No. I feel curious. What is a man like him doing here? Is he going to hurt me? The man with the gray eyes and the black stars under his right eye tilts his head, seeming uninterested and as if I bored him. But why does it feel as if he’s trying to crawl inside my head and figure me out? Under his scrutinizing gaze, I feel like a lab rat. “Don’t know a lot of brats that have tea parties where we put the dead to rest…” He says dryly.

I lift my chin, “You don’t know me, and don’t call me a brat.” I muster the same dry tone as him. He looks unbothered and arrogant. I always could read people by their eyes and by their body language but this one is unlike anyone I ever met. He’s almost detached… as if he’s here with me but not really. As if this world doesn’t interest him. That I can relate to.

The man doesn’t look that old for me to call him Mister. He must be in his early twenties maybe but he doesn’t seem older like my father and his men. Not at all. For the first time since our interaction started, a small smile breaks free and I can’t help but look at his mouth. He has a pretty smile although it doesn’t reach his eyes. “If you’re not lost then why are you here?” He seems almost curious now.

I shrug, “I like it here.” It’s not a lie. I like it here more than I should.

“Why?” He didn’t speak much before but now he’s full of questions. “This is no place for a child.” His eyes narrow as if he can’t understand my appeal to this place and perhaps he’s wondering how I got here and what kind of parents would allow their ten-year-old child to roam a graveyard on her own. “Aren’t you afraid?” Is that a hint of curiosity I detect in his tone?

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