Chapter 2
Ophelia
Four nights earlier
LAVENDER. ORANGES. LINEN.
The song of a goldfinch in the distance. Where am I?
With confusion coursing through me and my temples pounding in a punishing rhythm, I open blurry eyes, unsure of my surroundings. When, out of habit, I try to sit up, my ribs scream in protest, wetness gathering in the corners of my eyes from the sudden pain.
Lifting my eyelids allows the migraine to set in deeper, the dim light slithering through the parted curtains doing little to accommodate me. My tongue feels as dry as the Sahara, with a cut on the side as I glide it over the roof of my mouth.
While feeling the foreign sheets, I let out a hiss of discomfort. This is not my bed, not my dark silks. At the jarring realization, I bargain with myself to keep from falling prey to panic, scrapping to regain my focus, one detail at a time.
Despite this, I can’t shake the anxiety that grips my bones like wildfire or ignore my alarmed heart in response to the threatening situation I’m in. Although, among the dread, a dilemma presents itself: my instincts tell me that I'm rather safe.
Then why does every breath dissolves me to ash?
It's almost dusk. The light outside is slowly fading, while a silence that invites to a long and deep sleep envelops my ankles. I wonder how long I've been here and, more importantly, why? How come I feel so weak and frail?
"Water," I plead as I drown in scattered thoughts. I can hear the pulse in my ears, the blood rushing through my entire body with the fluidity of a natural disaster. I've never felt more exhausted, more beaten down.
"How are you feeling, Ombra?" a grave masculine voice asks with visible concern from my right, its textured undertone feeling almost like sandpaper smoothed after a lifetime of abuse.
Ombra? Did I hear him right?
I lean my head in his direction, but can't see past the barrier since a plain white sheet hangs as a makeshift partition between us.
"Where am I?" I ask wearily, my hand reaching out of habit to the nightstand next to the bed. There, a tray with a carafe of water and a plate of orange slices, lie precariously on a stack of aged books.
I bend forward, but a painful sting in my arm halts my abrupt movement, only now noticing that a needle is stuck in my central vein, attached to an infusion bag near the wall.
Trying to get a better look at the information written on the side of the IV pouch is barely possible in the dim light, but I assume is a vitamin mixture given my cloudy but conscious state.
Whoever had brought me here wants me alive and comfortable, at least for the time being. The thought alone calms me some.
"Do you need help, sweetie?" asks a blonde woman who has just materialized out of thin air in the doorway, making my heartbeat thud in my ears at her intrusion after I've barely gained a sense of safety.
We make eye contact, but she remains silent as I take my time to study her. From her stance and overall energy, the woman appearing to be in her late forties doesn't seem to want to dominate the situation or instill fear in me as if I were a hostage, her mannerism speaking of sincere kindness.
On the other hand, there's something off about her, as if she's here to make sure I don't do anything reckless rather than to merely assist me. She's unmistakably fierce, protective.
But why or of whom? And what does that have to do with me?
"What happened? Where am I?" I ask, trying to get into a sitting position and adjusting the pillows behind me.
She takes a moment to answer, glancing in the vicinity of the man to my right before turning her gaze back to me. This time, she's the one observing me in an unhurried tense silence, most probably weighing what I should know or rather what I shouldn’t.
I wait patiently, playing the role of being cooperative for my long term benefit as I calmly pour myself a glass of water, pretending that her prolonged stillness doesn't affect me with each passing second.
"You were in an accident. You don't remember anything at all?" she asks, crossing her arms.
I hear myself gasping as if all the air in the room has evaporated, the one I managed to steal, now being trapped in my lungs as the walls close in on me from all angles.
Dense lakes of terror engulf my being as polaroids of what happened force themselves on my retina, trapping me in a suffocating grip.
Pitch black. My screams covering the stifling confines of the trunk. My head slamming with each sharp turn, closely followed by the screech of tires. My feet pounding as broken fingernails clawed at anything I could find to defend myself at the first opportunity.
Then, nothing. Just cold darkness and a tomblike silence.
Once I try to make sense of the accident itself, I grow cold with panic.
Like a dead memory coming back to life, I relive horrifying glimpses of a man I've never seen before, moving towards me with a desperate, sinister expression on his severe face. I remember vividly how my survival instincts kicked in as soon as I caught sight of him in that dark hallway.
Moment after excruciating moment, in no particular order, unfolds like a grim play before my eyes and all I can do is watch, motionless and unblinking.
Fortunately, I'm familiar with the clash itself through the eyes of others. Only this time, I am the one in those visions and not the trapped souls begging me to be heard when all ears are deaf to their cries.
Unfortunately, these memories I am now reliving, stem from personal experience and detachment doesn't come as easily when it's part of my own experience.
It hurts just as much.
I remember how my stiletto heel broke as I desperately made a sharp turn, how my nails scraped along the calcified wall, running with all my life force stuck in my throat.
He was bigger, physically stronger and faster. Just the image of him almost made me freeze with fear as he chased me down the empty corridor of the mansion where the annual charity dinner for missing children was held.
Unknowingly, I made myself an easier target, further amplifying my weakness by having a few glasses throughout the night, in hopes of making the anxiety-filled evening pass by faster. And in that moment, I paid the price, my balance and eyesight getting worse by the second as the sound of his heavy footsteps came rushing up behind me.
I remember in harrowing detail the smell of sweat and the sight of his heavily liquored pores that reminded me with sadism of my father, before his rough hand forcibly silenced my screams.
That harsh grip made me feel like he could crush my jaw in a matter of seconds, forcing me to lie still against him as he dragged me toward the open patio doors.
"Stay still or you'll pray on your damn knees you did!" he warned me in a threatening tone as I struggled in his suffocating clutches.
I do not know what he planned to do with me but I had the conviction that a fate at his hands would undoubtedly be worse than death. I had no uncertainty about that, given the putrid energy emanating from him. So, I dug my nails as deep as I could into his exposed skin until I drew blood, needing to have his DNA under my fingernails in a worst-case scenario investigation.
Someone had to hear us. I couldn’t have been the only loner hiding in the shadows, indulging in some much needed nicotine.
"You…" he groaned in pain when I hit him in the nose with the back of my head before he landed a hard blow to my stomach. After the impact, we both lost our balance, crashing by a bed of roses near the terrace.
I couldn't afford to waste another second, crawling on all fours and screaming for help as loudly as my hoarse voice would allow, between fits of panic.
Standing up brought along with it a new wave of nausea as I limped towards the mansion entrance, a broken sandal dangling off my ankle. Despite the pain in my ribs, I ran like a wounded animal across the dewy grass, not daring to look back for fear of what I might see.
I should have; he was closer than I thought.
"You're lucky you're no good to me in a body bag," he hissed, roughly yanking my hair as he spun me around, the burn adding another layer of adrenaline-filled dread as pieces of it clung to his fingers.
Before I could process what was happening, my face flew to the right, blood coating the inside of my mouth as the force of the strike knocked me off my feet.
He didn't give me the time to react or fully digest what he was doing to me as he delivered another excruciating blow with his steal pointed shoe to my stomach. The jarring jolt was powerful enough to send my whole body straight into the fountain behind me, my back hitting the rigid marble with unpreceded force.
Everything inside me felt like it had been split in two and rearranged by negligent hands, the throbbing pain bringing me in and out of consciousness once a few seconds.
With my head dropped to one side, I vaguely saw his form approaching me from that odd angle, which made him look even more menacing. Nausea coated my throat at the thought of what he might do next, at my weakness in the face of someone who didn't know the meaning of mercy.
My vision got gradually darker, a faint purple light floating around the edges. I feared I might be bleeding internally from the force of the blow, and the prospect terrified me.
This earthly body is my temple, the home where my soul resides.
I knew I shouldn't allow anyone to touch it in such a vile way, but I felt so utterly powerless.
In the distance I could still vaguely hear the sporadic echo of fireworks which at that moment sounded to my ears like a solid mass of gunfire. In the air, there still lingered this scent of roses mixed with the metallic smell of my own blood, keeping me somewhat conscious.
I closed my eyes tightly as his arms lifted me up as if I was nothing but a stuffed mannequin before throwing me over his shoulder.
In all these years, I had the impression that I deeply understood the pain of all the women I desperately tried to save from similar situations, but if what I felt in that moment was a fraction of the hell they went through, I was nothing but ignorant.
The further he advanced, the heavier his footsteps became underneath me, shaking my body with dread each time he gasped for air.
With my line of sight turned upside down, I could see the light reflecting off the wet asphalt as I tried to map where he was taking me.
Obviously, he was in a hurry, probably being in a visible spot where he could have easily been caught. I tried my hardest to lift my head, to cry out for someone to help me, but my mouth was wadded up completely.
I tried to open my eyes fully, flinging out my arms that were hanging to the ground without him noticing. But my bleeding nails were the last thing I saw before I heard the rustle of keys and being tossed carelessly into the cramped trunk of a car. It happened so fast that it was just a blur in my mind's eye.
I remember thinking that if he drove off, no one would even notice I was missing. They would have thought my early departure was impolite, but would have overlooked it as soon as another glass of champagne was replaced by the waiter.
My terrified thoughts were interrupted by hurried footsteps and unintelligible shouts that sounded more like roars than words as the engine revved violently. Someone had seen us.
I remember thinking that maybe not all was lost, that it wasn't my time. The following minutes, were a haze shrouded in darkness and the sound of bullets trying to hit their moving target.
I tried, with what little strength I had left in me, to look for something sharp enough to attack him with once we stopped, or a latch that could open the back seat compartment. But I soon learned that the make of that particular car was fairly new, and the trunk was empty save for a shoebox.
How far would I go to live another day? Have I ever truly lived to begin with?
Those were the last thoughts I remember having before I took off my stilettos, broke off the heels and mentally prepared to use them on his eyes the moment he was going to eventually open the trunk.
As I tried to maneuver my body into the tight space, I was suddenly thrown into the hard surface, followed by my head hitting the metal edge with a loud thump.
"Breathe for me," a voice that seems like a lifetime away echoes from my right, and for reasons unknown to me, I listen. As if it was the incentive I needed all along.
The low, gravelly voice of the man beside me brings me back to the present, where I'm apparently safe in a bed, with a plate of oranges to my left and a drip in my vein.
I exhale in relief, letting the dreadful memory seep out of my body, while my entire being still trembles despite the innate need to keep my composure. I’ve never been too fond of exposing my wounds to the outside world.
I've been through my share of inner struggles and traumas, believing at times that I can withstand any storm that passes my way, yet life continues to show me that regardless, I am still human. And also vulnerable in many ways I don't like to admit.
"Merda," the man says under his breath, inching closer. I can barely hear his voice, all my senses lying dormant face down underwater, the memories dulling my soul that has been beaten far worse than my body.
I hear the curtain flutter, and my pulse freezes as I feel his hand wrap around my wrist in a firm but oddly tender grip, pressing on my pulse point as far as his thumb can reach from this angle.
He withdraws it shortly, only to retrace his path over my bruised skin in soothing strokes. Up, and down...
How strange. The fluidity of the motion alone brings tears to my eyes. The heavy, burning kind and I get the sense they have little to do with my touch starved skin, or my inner torment.
"Shh, you're safe with me," he says in a low voice, trying to soothe my distress for some unknown reason.
He is all that I can feel.
His touch becomes an extension of him on my body, while my breath curls in rhythm with his fingers flowing like a nocturnal wave over my pulse point as if conducting it according to his will.
Needing to see his details, I let my gaze drift to him. I learned a long time ago to detach myself from expectations, which is why I'm not prepared to be utterly captivated by the sight of his arm, covered entirely in a canvas of ink; by his vine-like veins and toned strength screaming of potent masculinity.
Only his nails are visible in a sea of faded charcoal tones, a hyper-realistic black and white tattoo depicting well-known motifs of Renaissance grim symbolism being interrupted by the curtain between us. I need to see more.
He is unaware that I am reading him between the lines, continuing his effort to bring me a sense of peace in the midst of an inner hades.
There is an air of absence with every brush of his fingers, a need.
Does he feel the same tides that I sense between us?
I recognize as clearly as I know the dark night of the soul that there is an abundance of darkness in him. The ink, beautiful as it may seem, embodies only a hint of what simmers beneath.
As numb as I am feeling at the moment, I can still perceive him from a distance without having to look into his eyes or know surface details such as a name or social status. All because I recognize that darkness in myself.
I don't cower before it. Instead, I relish in the comfort that someone containing it wants to console me, while I can only observe everything from afar.
"What happened?" I ask once more, wetting my cracked lips.
It crosses my mind to ask him if he has anything to do with what unfolded, but I let the question slide back down my throat. I don't know a thing about this stranger, his intentions or whose side he's on; even though my intuition tells me he wouldn't hurt me. So, I choose to be cautious, considering I'm still treading into dangerous waters.
I need to see his eyes, read his facial expressions, lay my palm on his soul and take him in. Apart from his empathetic response to my suffering, I have nothing of substance.
"I think you already know," he says with a cold air, stilling his fingers on my wrist.
Unconsciously, I lift my hand over my cheek and temple, the suture thread raw and tender to the touch.
"How did you find me?" I ask, wanting to see if he'd lie, how trustworthy he is. Because, if he's telling the truth, he'll also have to admit that he was one of the people who followed us.
The theory that a long string of coincidences brought us together, here of all places, seems outlandish to me. Especially since I know deep in my soul that he was there – on my side.
We are obviously not in a hospital, so the authorities are not involved. There is no viable possibility that an uninvolved stranger could have accidentally checked that trunk and brought me here instead of a medical facility.
My thoughts may be scattered and confused, but I know the truth when I see it or, in this case, feel it.
He makes me wait for an answer, dragging his fingers along my sensitive skin, their mystery – a shadow on my translucent one. He is holding back, trying to distract me. Interesting.
"I could lie, but I won't," he says with stoic resolve, as if he's just put his thoughts in a certain order that aligns him. There's something in his voice that I can't quite place, a hint of despondency. I wonder why.
"Where are we?" I probe further as I catch his wrist in my hand, for some unknown reason, needing to feel his skin. The mere contact, grounds me like an anchor.
In other circumstances, this fact would have seemed worrisome to me, but today I am selfish and too exhausted to desert it.
His fingers circle my wrist once more and press slightly harder into my flesh, letting me know I'm playing with fire, so I should be cautious.
"Somewhere safe," he says with finality in a voice that trails like a dense chain through the air, as if trying to tell me that soon the line of questioning will cross into forbidden territory.
Safety. There's no such thing.
"What happened to you?" I ask, genuinely wanting to know. If he truly had nothing to do with what happened to me, why would he be here, of all places?
"Poisonous things," he says almost imperceptibly, telling me nothing and, in truth, everything I need to know.
"Will you tell me?" I ask with the curiosity of a child, which is so out of character for me that it takes me by surprise.
"Rest," he says in a somber voice with definiteness, brushing his thumb over mine with an affection that perhaps I haven't felt since before I occupied this human flesh.
Silence settles over us as I fiddle with the sheets, my torn nails covered in gauze burning with every touch. I welcome the pain; it reminds me that I'm still here.
"Did anyone mention a man? He was the one driving the car I was found in," I ask in a neutral tone, hoping that by not showing emotion the answer will be different this time.
"He was taken care of," he says absently, lacing our fingers for the briefest of seconds, as if it's the most natural thing he would do when lost in thought.
This brief touch reaches my marrow, and for this second in time, I cease breathing because I feel safe enough to exist in peace by simply being connected to him.
He doesn't give me a chance to mention it, untangling them almost instantly, as if burned. Shortly after, he resumes the waves of his touch, which are bound to lull me to sleep before long.
How does he have such a magnetic effect on me?
I try to follow the crumbs of information he mentioned earlier, but my foggy mind won't let me fully process everything I’ve heard and seen. There is something sinister beyond the obvious, though I can't put my finger on it. Too many pieces of the puzzle are eluding me, and the incessant pounding in my head isn't helping matters.
This mysterious man makes an effort to disguise the darkness underneath, covering every word that leaves his mouth with a palatable layer. He's trying to protect me.
The choice of words doesn't leave room to think that despicable individual is currently getting medical attention, nor does it imply that he died in the whole ordeal. But rather that someone made sure he disappeared.
I can't lie to myself. The thought that he won't repeat his vile actions on another person brings me a sick sense of relief.
But the lingering question remains – what was he planning to do with me?
There is the well-traveled path that many like him take, despicable motivations marking their heinous deeds. But there's also this persistent thought telling me that he acted out of desperation rather than a thorough plan. Who are these people?
"What's your name?" I ask, at this point just needing to hear his voice instead of searching for answers I know he won't give me.
"Such a curious ombra," he says darkly, though I can detect a hint of mirth through the curtain just by the cadence of his tone.
"Ombra?" I ask confused by the origin of the word, which I assume to be of Latin descent based on the accent.
He's used it before, but I thought I misheard it.
"Ombra," he repeats in a final tone. As if it were fact, written by his hand.
"You'll leave me in the dark no matter what I ask, won't you?" I sigh in resignation.
He takes a deep breath, and even though there are a few inches between us and we're separated by a curtain, I can clearly imagine him closing his eyes as he exhales. Somehow I can perceive him beyond the palpable.
"Don't assume when it comes to me," he says as if holding back, though his voice seems closer.
Long, pianist fingers never leave my wrist, their quiet current making me gradually drowsier. Minutes pass as my eyes close of their own accord, and just before I welcome the comforting arms of my beloved darkness, I feel him squeezing one last time.
Sleep doesn't evade me, but neither does it embrace me.
I feel my entire being sinking into an immaterial state, finding myself suddenly trapped, with my arms tightly bound from the elbow down. Fleeting fragments of hands crawl on my thighs like malevolent roots, dragging me deeper into the unseen.
Deformed mouths appear among the thick shadows, screaming in agony through teared diaphragms into the void above and below me.
Petrified to the point of collapse, I close my eyes tightly as my body continues to float into the void.
Amongst the turmoil, my mind tries to pretend that nothing can touch me unless I acknowledge its existence, even though my feet are burning and I am pierced by a force I cannot see.
I can't breathe. I can't – after what seems like days with nothing but walls that have constricted me to the point of suffocation, something suddenly shifts, a presence shrouded in darkness hovering in my vicinity.
A blissful stillness envelops me as a hand, one that I know with certainty won't harm me, strokes the crown of my head. It touches my face, like a petal that just happened to fall on my cheek as I hear attached to it a pained groan that I want to soothe in a heartbeat.
There is a warm breath looming above me, followed by a gentle press on my temple. Soft lips stay on my neck as a warm hand wraps around it. No more than a breath passes before these fingers flex around it like a spider embracing its ultimate prey. Slowly, carefully.
Am I about to be eaten?
I wait, but nothing comes. Nothing but a silence that seems to harbinger a storm that will change everything I thought I knew.
"Ombra", it. n.(feminine) shadow.
"Merda", it . n. (vulgar) shit, an impolite or offensive word for the solid waste material that is passed out of the body.
* * *
The next time I open my eyes, the rays of daylight drag me back to life, carrying with them a brutal reminder of my fragile predicament.
Someone is turning pages, the morning air smelling of coffee and citrus. It only takes me a second to locate the blonde woman from yesterday, now seated in an armchair, flipping through a newspaper and sipping what I assume is an espresso as if it were a regular Sunday.
"Buongiorno, dolcezza. Sorry for disappearing yesterday, I had to take an urgent call and when I got back you were long asleep," she says in her thick accent while looking at me with an odd curiosity, as if I were something to be studied.
I glance to my right, instinctively looking for the man with the strangely comforting voice, secretly searching for his hand to hold. But the curtain was removed and the bed made. He is gone.
For some foreign reason the sight distresses me.
"It's alright, but I think you're aware that I need some answers," I say as I lean my back against the headboard, thankful that my arm is now needle-free.
"Yes, but you'll have to be discreet. Otherwise, there will be far worse consequences than the ones you just found yourself in," she says with a tight smile, her hazel eyes growing wider with each word that leaves her coffee stained lips.
I expected such a warning and, frankly, delivered somewhat harsher. If anything, her words don't affect me as much as she would like them to. I sense the threatening undertone, but not the danger.
"Vow of silence?" I ask, as I maintain a subdued approach, choosing to appease her and make my departure as quickly as possible.
"Something like that, but I think you're clever enough to keep your mouth shut without us having to spill blood. After all, we've done nothing but help you, haven't we?" she asks, raising an eyebrow in challenge.
"Understandable, you have my word," I say, trying to maneuver through this ordeal as delicately as possible and to draw her attention back to my questions rather than an emotional reaction that will not serve me in any way.
"Very well. My name is Marizia; I'll help you get back on your feet. I'm a certified nurse, so you're in good hands," she says as she pours a finger of cherry liqueur into a glass and lights a cigarette. The sight alone ignites my craving, but my lungs have other ideas. That aside, I still don't know how welcome I really am here for such bold requests.
"You were in a car accident. The man who attacked you was a bad apple, so we've made sure he'll suffer the consequences. You were collateral damage, so we brought you here, since, after all, a life is a life," she says as she exhales the smoke towards the balcony door left ajar. "You had a concussion, cuts that required stitches and severe bruising. You're free to leave whenever you want, but I'd advise you to stay here for at least two more days for further treatment. Any other details are none of your concern."
Her answers frustrate me in their ambiguity, but I am grateful for her care and help all the same. In a peculiar way, she reminds me of the stranger from the night before; even though it's apparent she loves to express herself through the spoken word far more than the one who held my hand all night as if it were his only mission. There's a shared fierceness, a resolve in them both.
"Am I still in danger?" I ask, trying to process the immensity of what happened. I was a hair's breath away from becoming a statistic like all the unfortunate souls I've helped over the years. The irony is not lost on me, nor is the blind luck I stumbled over on both hands and scraped knees.
"No, we made sure of that. You're good," she replies, getting up and heading for the door.
"Thank you for not leaving me there," I murmur, trying to express, without too many flowery words, to which I have a feeling she would scoff at, my sincere gratitude. God knows what would have happened otherwise.
"Your gratitude belongs to someone else, dolcezza. I had nothing to do with it," she says, looking at me warmly for the first time, though I sense the sentiment behind her words is intended for someone other than me.
"Where is he?" I ask, stretching my luck before she leaves as I lean my head towards the space the stranger occupied last night.
"None of your business, dear," she answers nonchalantly before she turns around and places a tray of freshly squeezed orange juice and a croissant in my lap. "Here, eat your breakfast and relax," she says it like a command, after dropping the newspaper on my knee.
And for the next three days I did just that, given I was too weak to do anything beyond avoiding reality and pretending my wounds were only skin deep. I took my medication without protest and kept my mouth closed since the sooner I left without further complications, the better.
On the third day I announced my still guarded caregiver that I felt strong enough to return to my real life, vowing not to breathe a word about what unfolded here.
It was baffling how nonchalant she was about my silence, as if she knew with a certainty beyond my assurance that what happened would never leave these walls.
Nevertheless, I was grateful for her so-called faith in me when she told me I was free to leave, escorted by her chauffeur the moment he returned from a last-minute errand.
Later that day, while sipping my coffee on the patio, a stern, professional-looking man in his late fifties informed me that he would be driving me home. As expected, I was told a blindfold was mandatory.
Once I got into the car, Marizia's gaze didn't leave me until she placed the thick cotton over my eyes, catching me by surprise when she whispered in my ear: "Take care of yourself, Ophelia, and trust your gut."
Confused by the meaning behind the words, I almost thanked her, despite the dire circumstances in which we met. She didn't give me a chance to do so, as she closed the door, letting the cards fall where they may.
Somehow, I knew it wouldn't be the last time I'd see her.
I would be lying if I said I wasn't terrified. After all, I was in a car whose license plates had been replaced before my eyes, with a driver who was definitely not on my side, taking me to a destination unknown to me. But I had faith, since my instincts assured me that, despite appearances, I wasn't in any kind of danger.
Somewhere along the relatively short drive, indicating that I had been staying on the outskirts of town for the past days, he informed me that we were near the town square before asking if I wanted to be left there or at my address.
At precisely six in the evening, while it was pouring, he parked next to a long queue of cabs at my request and opened the door before bidding me farewell. There, he left me on the sidewalk with an umbrella in hand and without another word.
With that, my first taste of real life began.
"Buongiorno, dolcezza", it. "Good morning, sweetie"