Page 73 of Petrichor

“You barely remember me. Why are you trying so hard to find a way to condemn me? I’m telling you the truth!” I dig my nails into his hand, wanting to hurt him, to open his flesh and see him bleed, set my claws deep inside and never let go.

“I do fucking remember you. All bones, fearlessness and fierceness brandishing that damn metal pipe.”

Metal… I let go a long breath.

“You still can’t see me,” I whisper, closing my eyes and slowly lifting my trembling hand. I feel his hard, condemnatory gaze on me as I move closer to his warmth until the tips of my fingers brush his nose. I trail up to his soft eyebrows, remembering the chestnut color, his high forehead is next, his cheek, but when I reach his lips I move my hand away.

“You’re not…”

I open my eyes. Hungry to see his face again, even though his expression hasn’t changed. “I suffered from damaged retinal tissues caused by recurring injuries. I could see only blurry shadows. It turned out my eye condition was reversible, but my dear father never gave enough fucks—since he was he one who caused it. You thought I was River.” I can’t believe I'm jealous of my dead brother. It’s insane to feel like this. To feel this insignificant.

Why do they call it a broken heart when every piece of me feels broken, shattered unequivocally?

The patter of rain has turned soft against the roof. I lower my arm, and lift the knife I was finally able to get out of my bag—a presentfrom Art that I keep in the inner pocket. I press the blade against his gut.

“Let's go for a walk.” I try to keep my hand steady, my gray eyes drowning in his dark ones.

“The history of betrayal repeats itself,” he mutters. I don’t know what he’s talking about, but the hateful look he sends me tears at my chest.

“Go ahead, give me another scar to match the other one,” he snaps, slightly pushing his body against the blade.

He’s talking about the long, jagged one on his side. Does it have anything to do with what Don Sebastiano told me about Marco and his revenge?

“How did you get it?”

His smirk is devilish. “I killed the woman who betrayed me. She flipped and worked with the FBI, trying to take my family down while telling me how much she loved me. She stabbed me three times, but I got her in the end. Right in the head.” He pushes a finger to my forehead. He couldn’t sound more disdainful.

But I understand now. His distrust, aloofness, the fucking around, the overworking. The way he’s sabotaging what we have.I never had a chance with him. He decided my fate from the very beginning.

I always thought that positive memories could overshadow shitty ones. Was I wrong?

“So, what’s your next move, Joel?” I hate hearing that name on his lips.

“A dying request.” I won’t run. I can’t. I’m pretty sure there’re more men around. I have no chance of escaping. Marco is bigger than me and more skilled, he can get the knife out of my handanytime. “I want to feel the rain on my skin one last time.” It comes out more pleading than anything else. I’m probably going to be killed, the tremble in my voice is understandable. Even so I’m not afraid to die. Maybe because I got close to to end too many times in the past. It's unbearable imagining Marco doing it, though.

After a long moment, he surprisingly listens to me. He lets go of my neck and takes a step back. He turns away, not afraid in the least of me or my knife, and slowly walks toward the door. Marco tells the man something in Italian. For a moment I imagine him taking out his gun and shooting me. But he just opens the door, and we move outside.

The dark sky hangs low with a thick blanket of clouds releasing a fine drizzle that turns all edges blurry. Marco stops under the roof awning while I walk into the rain.

The great equalizer. It falls on all of us, uncaring of our origin, our past, achievements, sins, intentions. Just like death, it has no exception. When it’s time, it drops on our heads and reminds us we are all the same.

It’s like the world is weeping quietly for all the moments Marco and I are going to miss.

I drop my bag on the wet ground and turn to face him as I feel the cool droplets kissing my skin, a refreshing contrast to the choking air. Each drop exposing the raw pain. The core of my fragile soul.

The beating of my heart is faster than the sound of the rain hitting the asphalt.

“Petrichor.” I raise my voice over the incessant, delicate sound. “That’s what the smell of rain on the ground is called. Did you know that? The falling water hits the soil, magnifying the scent of it. It’s the most precious smell to me. I connect it with that night,with freedom, with unmeasurable fear, happiness, and sorrow. I connect it with my brother.” He was a pluviophile: a lover of rain. He passed that love to me. “I connect it with you. You remained crystal clear in my mind all these years.”While I faded in yours.

I let the knife fall. “The truth is what you make of it, Marco. I swear on my brother, the only person who—” The blankness in his eyes makes me choke on the word. I feel my lips quivering; tears blend with the rain. “—who ever loved me that I never lied to you.”

“All the evidence points at you.”

He’s right, but the way he easily decided not to believe me hurts like hell.

“No, they don’t! Don’t do this! You know me, Marco. Please. Have faith in me.”

“Why?” I hear a hint of softness in his tone. Or maybe it’s the rain making everything mellower.

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