22. Carina
CHAPTER 22
Carina
L oneliness.
Like an old lover or friend I thought that I had become familiar with it.
The hollowing feeling inside one’s being makes you resemble more of a carcass than human.
The thoughts in your head, even dreary and dreadful, being your only companion.
And when dusk would fall and the moon brightened the night sky with millions of stars you would sit in the dark corner of your room and contemplate the meaning of your existence.
If you were to disappear would anyone notice? If you were to make a sound would anyone hear? And if your life is so inconsequential, why are you here?
Loneliness.
I thought I had experienced the truest meaning of the word when my mamma decided to leave this earth ten years ago.
But it wasn't the loneliness I felt when she left me to end her own suffering and pain. It was grief.
I was grieving mamma.
Because even in her years of life I felt lonely.
Not seen.
Not heard.
Inconsequential.
And it’s a bitter truth that’s hard to swallow. To finally admit that my mamma never once saw who I really was.
Her eyes were too clouded by fear. Her heart always in a panicked state. Her mind surrounded by dark ominous clouds.
Mamma only ever saw the little girl in me. The baby she held in her arms was precious and pure. And she had wanted to protect that light she saw in me when she first cast her eyes upon me.
But mamma too, was blind.
As was I.
I’ve always been tempted by sin.
I’ve always had darkness inside me.
And instead of accepting it my mamma refused to see it.
She refused to see me.
My mamma’s own beliefs have wreaked havoc on my mind. They caused me to wage a war upon myself of good and evil, right and wrong, darkness versus the light.
Mamma believed that one person could only be all good or all bad.
And when she died I held onto that belief.
That I had to be all good for mamma. That I couldn’t be all bad like my brothers and papa.
Until the day came where I couldn’t be anymore.
And I thought I had found the meaning of loneliness on that day. I abandoned the girl mamma loved. I ruined her with one perfect shot. There was no direction in my life. No meaning without being good.
I thought that I had shed all of my innocence that night but what if I was wrong?
What if I still hold components of goodness?
What if the light inside me dances with the darkness in a beautiful rhythm?
What if I can’t exist without the two?
And how come the only person to ever truly see me, know me better than I have ever known myself, is the man who I had first loathed but have grown an undeniable connection to and feelings towards.
Constantine Donati is the only person who has made me feel seen.
The only one who has made me feel heard.
The only one who has made me consequential.
And in these past ten days apart from him, ten days of not being seen by avoidance, ten days of not one word uttered to one another, ten days of feeling bereft and hollow, I know the true meaning of loneliness.
My heart I’ve neglected flares.
As I sit at the dining table, a plate for one but longing for two, I have a strong burning sensation prickling at the back of my eyes.
My hands tighten to fists. Clenched enough to where my knuckles have gone white.
I could lie to myself. A beautiful lie, as he calls them, of how I don’t ache for the sight of him.
Or of how I don’t crave to hear him roll my name off his tongue.
His tongue.
The first time I have ever kissed a man and I already know with absolute certainty he has ruined all men for eternity.
My lips still tingle with the sensation of him devouring mine. And I have often found myself lost to that kiss. How he kissed me with a tenderness I never thought to be true. A tenderness that awoke more than my desire. A tenderness that resuscitated my heart.
Kissing him felt like coming home.
Being in his embrace I finally felt the warmth I thought only the sun could cast upon me.
In that moment, that tender and passionate moment I felt like I belonged in the world.
That I belonged with him.
That I’ve always belonged to him.
Constantine Donati is not the dark abyss. He is my beacon of light.
And it terrified me.
So I did what I did best. I pushed back. I denied us. More of those beautiful lies spilling from my mouth but tasting bitter on my tongue.
I succeeded in destroying us and I feel. . .sick.
I feel so terribly and utterly alone.
Loneliness.
So this is what it feels like.
With no hunger I push the plate that has gone cold aside.
I stare at the empty seat to my right and a wave of sorrow crashes over me.
I should hate him for it.
Curse the day he was born for breathing life back into me. For giving me the sense of belonging that I have been subconsciously searching for my whole life.
I should hate him.
But I can’t.
I can’t hate Constantine Donati.
It’s a startling revelation.
A rebirth.
Awoken inside I find myself compelled to be beneath the starlight. And instead of seeking for the light to cleanse my soul I bask beneath the night sky.
With my head tilted upwards the smallest smile plays on my lips. One that’s serene. One of acceptance.
I know where I belong now.
I know who I’m meant to be. Who I’ve always been.
A change happens in the air. A charge.
As my blood hums through my veins and my skin prickles with goosebumps I know who it is without having to see him.
My body is aware of him even before I am.
It’s as if we are one of those whispered twins, souls tied to one another and can speak without words.
And when my eyes meet his, the charge in the air sparks.
But the spark fizzles when I take in the amount of blood soaking his shirt, his disheveled appearance, and the busted knuckles.
My chest tightens.
I find myself closing the distance between us. Walking to him with hurried legs to assess the damage. My heart beats at an accelerated pace, an irregular rhythm as I halt to stand before him.
What is this feeling? Why does my heart feel like it’s going to burst out of my chest?
And then it hits me.
I’m worried.
Concerned.
Afraid.
I’m all of these feelings at once. Worried about his well-being. Concerned about his wounds. Afraid of the amount of blood that his wounds could prove to be fatal.
Reacting to my emotions I gently place his hand in my own, raising it to eye level to inspect it closely.
Knuckles that have grazed my cheeks with such tenderness are busted wide open.
My heart flares with pain.
“You’re injured.” My voice comes out as barely a whisper.
I hear his deep inhale of breath and I feel it fan against my face as he exhales. It’s the closest we’ve been to one another in nearly two weeks. And while my body is rejoicing in our nearness my heart is hurting from the mental barriers placed between us.
“Don’t act as if you care, Carina.” The way I have longed for him to say my name and now it’s spoken with disdain. “Don’t wound me just because you know you are the only one who can.” He slips his hand out of mine and I ache at the loss of contact.
I swallow thickly. Although it doesn’t pain me any less his behavior is warranted. He doesn’t know how my feelings towards him have changed.
I go to open my mouth but he silences me with a harsh look. “And I don’t want to hear another lie. They’ve lost their beauty. You’ve lost me.”
Splintering.
My heart that beats only ever for him splinters.
As he turns and begins to walk away the panicky feeling returns tenfold. The only thing I know for certain is I must stop him before I lose him for good.
Wetting my lips I then boldly ask, “And what must I do to have you again?” He stops in his tracks, his back before me tense. “What must it be to have your affection once again?”
The silence is deafening. And I wait each dreadful second with my hope dwindling.
Then he turns towards me. With the scathing look upon his face I wish he hadn’t. “What games are you playing, Carina? What are you trying to accomplish? To desecrate me?”
“No.” My voice is trembling. Clenching my hands in fists I steel my spine and say more confidently, “I don’t wish for that.”
He laughs but it’s hollow and dark. “Well, you’ve certainly done a great job in trying. You’ve nearly succeeded.”
Wounded. Constantine Donati is so very wounded. More than just his pride, but also his heart. And I’ve done that to him.
“My feelings have changed, Constantine.” His eyes soften for a mere second at the sound of his name. “I don’t loathe you, Constantine.” My confession softens him once more. “Perhaps I never really did.” Confessions. He might as well be my priest for how I’m confessing everything. “How can I hate you when you are the only one who has ever seen me? How can I hate you when you are the only one who accepts all that I am?”
He’s weakening. I can feel it, sense it. Yet his eyes remain doubtful. “How do I know you aren’t trying to fool me? How am I supposed to believe these strong feelings of disdain and hatred have changed?”
I’m not used to begging. Even as young as I can remember my papa told me how a Fiore is to never beg. We aren’t dogs, he had said, and we aren’t weak blooded. And so I never did. Cried, when the lashings proved to be too painful, but never begged for mercy.
And I won’t beg now.
I won’t beg for Constantine to believe me. I won’t beg for his forgiveness. Not because I am a Fiore but because I am meant to be his Queen.
Queens do not beg.
They are women of action. Of words.
This is how I will prove it to him.
Without second thought and throwing away all rational thinking I grab the very same steak knife I used against him weeks ago. Except this time I place the sharpened edge of the knife against my own throat.