Page 33 of Cara
A year ago—two,threeyears ago—I would’ve screamed. Sobbed. Curled into a ball for days at a time.
But I’m used to this horror now, unable to do a damn thing as my heart booms… then ticks… like the last few grains of sand beaching to the bottom of an hourglass until the organ is barely beating and every memory I hoped would bring me release interweaves so deeply with my nightmares that I cannot tell them apart anymore.
It makes me wish I never thought of him in the first place. It makes meneverwant to touch myself again.
Something is wrong with me. Deeply. And rather than understand it, I pull myself up, grabbing my things.
To exist, I must push Xavier Marcello back.
One foot in front of the other.
Minute to minute.
That’s how I make it through each day.
Police have closed off the streets around the apartment. This area is famous for its vibrant summer markets, drawing vendors from various places who crowd the sidewalks on both sides of the road. As I immerse myself in the throng, my eyes roam, my chest still tight, battling my inner demons.
Red carnations are in full bloom, their fragrance filling the air. The scorching sun warms my back as I scale the length of the festival, appreciating the colorful rows of flowers. Men hand bouquets to their partners while children braid, weaving the stems into playful bracelets on the sidewalk. Absolutely everyone is smiling.
Everyone but me.
“Paella?”
I nod, approaching the vendor, my hollow stomach crying out for substance. I dig into my wallet, avoiding the picture of my marital bliss, grabbing some euros. Someone plows into my back, sending my things onto the ground. Dropping down, I scoop them up, glaring at the culprit. His brown eyes gleam mischievously as he apologizes in Spanish, handing over my passport and keys. “Damn, you arehot.”
His friends behind him burst into laughter as he attempts to grab my hand. He blinks in surprise at how quickly I’m turning, completely forgetting about the meal I was about to pay for.
“Lady!”
He’s not Spanish.I could sense it, but when he spoke, I knew. He’s not from here.
“Listen! I want to talk to you!”
“Just talk to him! He’s nice, I swear! Just a little drunk!”
Keep moving. Lose him. Them.
Strangers gasp as I plow through them, passing cops that would be of no help to me—a woman here with a false name, a false identity. My hands shake the longer they follow me, my mind spinning to dark thoughts.
“She keeps looking back! Look, she wants us!”
This is happening.
This is what you’ve been preparing for.
Reaching into a compartment in my bag, I turn onto a side street, throwing the pack onto the ground as I conform to the brick wall. With one jab of my arm, I open a baton. All breath escapes me as I hear footsteps, many of them. My eyes squeeze closed, forcing back the triggers that could paralyze me.
My grip tightens on the baton as one of them rounds the corner, and I swing, the stick colliding with his shoulder. It’s a searing pain, like a crack of a whip, and I’ve mastered how to deliver the assault acutely. When the others reach him, I’ve already landed another crack to his throat, which sends him sprawling on the ground, wailing without the ability to make a sound.
Heaving heavily, the men ignore their friend to gaze at me in disbelief.Anger. Anger that I would dare. I’ve seen that look in a man’s eyes too many times. It doesn’t frighten me as it once did.
A couple of them bend to pull up their friend.
“What’s going on here?”
We all turn, finding one of those officer’s from the festival surveying the scene, rightfully suspicious. Noticing my walleton the ground beside the man I just wrecked, I snatch it up, passing the officer who asked the question, and rush back into the street. My teeth are still chattering when I return to the courtyard, unable to hear Enzo the first time he calls out to me.
“I need to go inside,” I mumble, beginning up the steps.
