3. Chapter Three—Carlotta #2
The lock jiggles, a rather musical sound, before the shrill voice of my mother shrieks, unbothered about potentially disturbing the recently deceased. “Carlotta! Open this door!”
I raise two warm fingers to my numb lips, placing a kiss there and then touching Cristiano’s hollow cheek.
“Goodnight, Cristiano.”
Before the words are fully out of my mouth, the door bursts open, revealing the image of the priest, his eyes bloodshot, tucking a set of silver keys into his pocket.
My mother wastes no time in stomping past him, this time with a rather tall, older looking gentleman that I’ve never seen before, a step behind her.
“Who are you?” I hear myself bark. “This room is for friends and family only.”
The man smiles, revealing sharp, sharklike teeth.
“Thorn,” he utters quietly, stepping closer to my mother to wrap her up in a lover’s embrace and offer her a clean tissue for her ‘tears.’
Bile rises in the back of my throat.
Of course, how could I have been so na?ve and stupid? Just because it’s the funeral of her only son, doesn’t mean my mother isn’t going to take her chance to bring her new flavor of the month and flaunt him around the room like a pedigree dog.
I’m sure her little posse of bitter friends that will show up for ‘moral support’ will be panting after him like they’re in heat.
God, the whole thing makes me feel sick.
I turn on my heel, striding for the door. Only when I’m halfway down the corridor, do I feel like I can fully breathe again—even if the corridor is permeated with the strong scent of spicy incense.
Patting my pocket, I reassure myself with a quick touch of the bunny’s ratty ears and then I step outside in the watery February sunlight.
Mourners are already gathering like a flock of black crows at my brother’s designated graveside.
They raise their heads, conversation stopping in their tracks when they spot me, but I don’t get a single greeting in passing.
With me being something of a pariah—a disappointment for running away from my family and never looking back…
until now, I guess—nobody dares utter a word to me.
Something, for which I’m thankful for; I don’t have it in me to talk.
I take my spot at the very front, the spokes of my heels sinking into the wet, waterlogged grass. This winter has been brutal, showing no sign of stopping with the lack of spring air on the horizon.
Fitting, I think, mind fuzzy with grief and anger and a little bit of everything in between.
I sway like the branches in the mild wind, so drained I feel like I could fall asleep on my feet, and maybe I would have if it wasn’t for the sound of a number of footsteps, a large group approaching by the noise, which has me straightening up like I’ve been electrified.
I turn to find twelve men, all dressed in varying states of black, standing just off to the side.
They stand in something resembling an arrow formation; the leader of the pack in front, with a line of men on either side of him.
I stare at the tall, dark-haired man standing front and center, towering above over half of his men, my heart beginning to pulse against the protective bone of my ribcage when our gazes meet.
His is one of cool composure, expression blissfully blank.
Without taking his eyes from me, he tips his head to one side and smiles.
Narrowing my own eyes, I start forward, intent on finding out who the hell these men are and why do they think they have every right to be at a private burial.
I vehemently ignore the dryness of my mouth, the shiver snaking up my spine and the rapid fluttering of my heart, which warns me of the predator hiding beneath the dark-haired leader’s smile.
He watches my every step, never taking his eyes off me, as I fight against the murmurings crowd of onlookers to get too—
The funeral dirge begins to swell, the creaking of the trees in a sudden gust of wind only adding to the solemn music emanating from the pallbearer’s carrying the coffin containing Cristiano.
Whoever these twelve men are, they’ll have to wait for their interrogation. I will get to the bottom of who the hell they are, but for now…
I return to the graveside beside my sniffling mother and her newest beau. He towers, rather intimidatingly, over me, grinning widely in a way that is completely disrespectful to the scene before us.
I turn to see if my mother caught his grin, but of course she didn’t. She’s too busy accepting a fresh tissue from one of her friend’s, with their botched Botox, and dabbing at her dry cheeks.
God, I want to shake her until her bones rattle. If she’s going to pretend, she needs to at least make it look a little bit more realistic. Just one tear, for god’s sakes!
I know she loved Cristiano more than me—her sweet angelic boy—she would call him, showering him with gifts. Very rarely did I see her hug him. Once or twice, I caught her pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head. But that was way more motherly love than she ever showed me.
I’m debating if it’s the amount of filler around her eyes, or if it’s simply the black corpse of her unloving heart which is making it impossible for her to shed a real tear at her only son’s funeral, when the pallbearers descend into silence.
Nothing but the squawk of a bird, a crow I think, flying into the barren oak trees, can be heard as they begin to lower the coffin into the already dug earth.
“Ashes to ashes,” drones the priest, eliciting gooseflesh to break across my forearms. “Dust to dust…”
The rest of his words fade away into the background, the sound of my heartbeat heavy in my ears and blocking out all other sound.
I rest my hand on the stuffed rabbit hiding in my pocket and press my lips together tightly, biting back the sting of tears and the watery run of my nose.
I stay there, hidden in churchyard, among the rest of the dead, while the sacred ground, wet with water, is filled in around and on top of Cristiano’s coffin.
I don’t move even when the mourners begin to shuffle away; mother, her new boyfriend, and the garbed priest leading the way down the path, cracked with underlying growing tree roots, to the chapel for a bite of bread and a goblet of wine.
Clutching my elbows—the only thing holding me up—I blink away the droplets falling into my eyes as the heaven’s opens; thick, ice cold bursts of rain splattering onto the ground.
Still, I don’t move.
I stare at the plot of consecrated ground containing both the coffins of my father and brother, at the fresh upturned mud, devoid of grass seed, in front of me, feeling bile rise up in my throat.
When I can no longer stand the pinch of my little toes in this god damn heels, I simply rip them off, sighing when my bare soles make contact with the cold and wet, but soft, grass. The skin of Mother Earth.
And still, I don’t move.
I don’t know how long I stand there, staring straight ahead, lost but without thought.
It’s a testament to my fog of grief that I don’t even flinch at the shadow that blocks out the sun, and the cold rain, offering a slight bit of bodily warmth from his chest.
I know it’s a man when I peer up at him, blinking through lashes wet with tears and rain and sleet, finding him staring down at me, his once blonde hair just as damp as mine and the color of wet hay.
He doesn’t touch me or smile. He simply regrips his hold on the umbrella he’s holding above the both of us. Not that it’s going to make much difference—I’m already soaked to the bone.
At least, I think I am.
I can’t feel much of anything at the moment.
“Aren’t you cold?” He breaks the silence between us, his voice gruff and masculine but with a string of concern lacing his tone.
I shake my head, once again reassuming my gaze on the fresh burial ground.
“But your feet—”
“I can’t feel it.” I swallow dryly and with difficulty. “I can’t feel anything.”
He doesn’t reply to that, something I’m grateful for.
Instead, he stands beside me, umbrella in hand.
Hours later, when the sun has begun to set, a shroud of darkness creeping across the entirety of the churchyard, do I finally leave the final rest place of my father and brother.
I should thank the kind stranger for protecting me from the rain, but I can’t make my lips form the words.
I can’t make them form much of anything.
Rather, I walk away, leaving my heels behind, not once looking back.