Page 45 of Twisted Minds of Sin

“Beautiful afternoon, Rose,” Evelyn drives the cart with my lunch inside my bedroom.

“Evelyn,” I smile at her.

It's impossible not to smile at Evelyn. She wears her smile as proudly as she wears her bright colors. I'm forced to think that if there's ever a competition for which is brighter, her smile would win.

“How are you doing today?” She drives the cart to a stop beside my bed.

“I'm better today,” I sit up from my bed and drop my phone, the screen down on the pillow beside me. I have been going through newsfeeds on my Instagram and my circle of friends is talking about one thing and one thing only.

“It's great to hear you are okay,” Evelyn walks to my window and pulls the drapes apart, letting the warm sunlight in.

It's been one week since the assault from Benedetto and the charade of almost breaking down my door that ensued. My bruises have faded and the once glaring hot marks are now dimmed-out scars. The sore in my core is now healed. Every part of me is slowly feeling rejuvenated and that is thanks to Evelyn and her nursing.

I have been left to myself since that night. I haven't gone out much except to see my father and brother. And Benedetto hasn't come for me. Evelyn has told me a few times that he hasn't left his quarters much and that he isn't eating very much.

I don't know what to make of myself, if I'm stupid or just weak. I think I'm both. Because how else would I categorize my worrying for him after what he did to me?

I would have let him into my bedroom that night, because I felt for the first time that something else was going on with him that was bigger than he could maneuver, but I was too scared he would do more than even he could recover from. And it was why after that night I never went to my father or brother to say anything concerning that night, and to further seal the fact that they don't care if I rot, they never asked me.

Nobody has cared enough to look in my direction, except Evelyn and Orazio, who occasionally shows up to ask how I'm doing and bring me treats instead of picking from my food.

To every other person I'm invisible. I'm practically another piece of artwork on the wall. I'm seen. But that's all. Nobody cares enough to spare me more than a glance. And I'm okay with that. I don't want the attention on me either. I'm okay with being able to heal away from prying eyes and bothering tongues.

“What do we have today?” I look at the food on the cart. I can see for myself that it is pasta with vegetables, but I want to keep talking with Evelyn.

“Thought you would never ask,” She spins to me, tired of looking out my window, “Pasta,” she dips her hands in the pockets of her yellow and white striped apron.

“I love pasta,” I chuckle and stand, wanting to know what kept her glued to the window longer than necessary.

“You don't want to see it,” She comes in my way and spreads her hands out. But she doesn't even need to spread her hands because she is big enough to stop me.

“If it got your attention, then I'm seeing it,” I pout.

She shrugs and moves away. Then, as I start to walk to the window, she tugs at the mustard yellow fabric of my wrap dress, but I slip past her weak tug to the window.

I probably already knew what she was looking at that I wouldn't like, but I wanted to see it for myself because it's been one weeksince the last time I saw him and I both hate him and care for him.

Benedetto.

He is sitting on the hood of his car, bare-chested, and barefoot, wearing just dark gray sweatpants. His hair is a little longer than the last time I saw him, I think.

He looks relaxed, and nothing like the beast that tore me apart. He is sketching with a pencil on a sketchbook. The view of his brown waves, olive skin, and the conifer on the driveway feels mesmerizing.

“He sketches?” I turn to Evelyn.

“He is a talented young man,” for the first time I see an undertone of sadness in her smile.

“I'm sure he is.”

She cares about him so much it makes me jealous when I compare my life with his. And also happy, because he has people who care for him. He even has the best of friends, although I will never say this out loud.

But me, just one slip up and I was deserted. As if everyone was waiting for me to slip. I'm just beginning to summon the courage to go on social media again and check what is happening in theworld. And as I have seen, my supposed friends are doing okay without me.

I walk back to my bed and pick up a fork and my plate of pasta to begin eating.

“He made the paintings in the house,” Evelyn sits on the brown loveseat by the window.

“What?” My mouth falls open.

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