Page 51 of Giovanna

The lights are out throughout his wing and his bedroom door is closed. Tip-toeing through the dark lounge, my gut churns, and something feels off.

Quietly I turn the bedroom door handle in case he’s sleeping, but as soon as I get it open a crack it is clear that is not the case. A small bedside light provides just enough light for me to see the RTD model riding Elio like a bucking rodeo bull, her dark curls cascading down her back.

Before I can get out of there, Elio raises his head and smirks at me. Noticing his straying attention, the model turns to look at me too, her expression says ‘What are you doing here?’

“Elio,” I grind through my teeth. “I literally sleep in that bed.”

“I figured you’d sleep somewhere else tonight,” he grunts.

“I hate you,” I spit at him. “I fucking hate you.”

Motherfucker. I want to scream and shout and rant and rave. Instead, again, I walk away. Except once I reach the door between the suite and the hallway, I’m running. It’s like ropes are tightening around my chest as the panic sets in. There is no escape from the feeling of walls closing in on me. I know that it won’t even take one year of marriage before my spirit is completely broken.

In search of relief, I contemplate throwing myself in the pool again, but I don’t want to calm myself down; I want to express some of the rage and frustration that pulses at my temples. Tears are streaming down my face as I charge down the stairs to the living area. Sobs and hiccoughs rack my body.

I wish everyone would just go home. Having drunk strangers gawk at my distress is doubly embarrassing. Seeking refuge from their stares, I find myself running down the stairs that lead to the underground garage. My bare feet hit the cool concrete at the base of the stairs and goosebumps scatter up my legs. Wrapping Giovanna’s big jumper closer around me, I wrench open the heavy door and let it thud shut behind me.

Cold, pitch-black darkness blankets me and I shiver as if a ghostly finger has run up my spine. I scramble around clawing the wall for a light switch and am relieved when bright lights burst from the ceiling, walls, and floors, to illuminate a large collection of cars, motorbikes, scooters, jet skis, and even a segway.

I pace back and forth, weaving between the cars. My tears are drying, but the uncontrollable desire to break free from all the minute ways I am controlled and pushed and pulled only grows stronger.

Maybe I should try screaming. People do that to let out tension, don't they? I’m like 90% sure that the Marinos will have soundproofed this garage. I decide to give it a go, but what I intend to be a powerful roar comes out strangled and half-hearted.

I’m so fucking repressed. I want to be the girl who defies everyone. The challenger. But that has never been me. My survival has been about acquiescence and adapting. For once, I want to be the badass.

I could punch a wall? Except down here, the walls are concrete and that would be entirely self-harming. For the first time in my life, I feel a pull to violence, but I’m impotent to enact it.

I’m still pacing when I pass a tall bin full of sports equipment. Judging by the amount of sand clinging to the equipment it has been used at the beach. A shiny steel baseball bat catches my eye and, before I have time to think, I slide it up and out of the bin and slap it against my other palm. It is heavy; satisfyingly so, and my pulse begins to tap dance as my eyes lock in on Elio’s car.

I don’t pretend to know a thing about cars. I don’t even drive. But I do know that Elio loves his car. It’s a sports car, an Italian brand, and it is black-on-black-on-black.

Like a predator approaching prey, I prowl toward the sleek metal beast and my spine straightens at the power I’m about to unleash. A heady mix of adrenalin and empowerment mingle and I have the thought that this could be something I never come back from. What if I love destruction and just keep hitting and lashing out at the world until I’m put in a padded room?

My distorted reflection stares back at me from the driver’s side window and I tap the baseball bat lightly on the bonnet. Not heavily enough to damage, but enough to create a percussion beat that serves as a lead-in to what I’m about to do.

My eyes flutter shut and I slowly inflate my lungs like balloons. One breath. Two. And three.

Today, I give myself permission to choose violence.

My first swing hits the sleek black wing mirror sending glass, metal, and plastic splintering and scattering. The second puts a dent in the bonnet the size of Elio’s big arrogant head. When I take aim at the windscreen, my inhibitions finally vanish and I let rip with the kind of scream that belongs in a horror film. It is animalistic, raw, and delicious. The tendons in my neck pop out, sweat gathers at the base of my spine, and I scream some more.

Glass flies everywhere. It cuts my feet as I circle my metal prey, slamming the steel bat into its body over and over again. An alarm has been sounding since my first whack connected with the vehicular manifestation of Elio’s ego, but I pay it no attention.

My arms ache with the reverberation that rebounds with each swing and hit. With all the adrenalin surging through my veins, I barely register the pain from the rebounding force, but tomorrow I will pay for it.

A movement to my right has me snapping my head around, bat held up ready to strike. Giovanna stands a few metres from the car with her hands up as if to indicate she isn’t armed. Her mouth is moving and I think she is saying my name. I force myself to concentrate, to hear what she is saying.

“Francesca,” her voice is low, calm, and reassuring. “Darlin’, pass me the bat.”

I stand, unmoving. Massimo appears in the internal doorway, followed by Matteo and Sammy.

“Elio has finally literally driven a woman crazy,” Matty mutters and earns himself a scowl from his sister.

She is reaching out for me and the concern in her eyes throws cold water on my rage. My shoulders sag and I let the bat clatter to the ground. Her eyes don’t leave mine, but she flinches when the tears begin to trickle down my face.

“Stay there,bella,” she points to my bleeding feet and I suddenly begin registering the pain from walking around on broken glass. “I’ll come get you.”

The glass crunches under her Nike sneakers and she approaches me like I am a scared, abused animal she doesn’t want to startle. She cautiously touches my shoulders and then sweeps an arm under my legs to pull me into a bridal carry. I let my head drop down onto her shoulder and begin to dread the moment she will put me back down.

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