Prayer of the Damned (Between Delusion and Sobriety Duet #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Bellcolor

T o all those I leave behind,

Mother left an unbearably heavy burden behind her that I could no longer carry on my shoulders. Therefore I leave my last letter, my suicide letter, so as not to curse you as well with the guilt I’ve carried.

It’s important to me that you understand I’m not doing this lightly. I did extensive research before making the decision to put an end to my life.

I read many letters of souls with whom I’m about to share a similar fate, but for some reason I couldn’t identify with the poetic imagery they used to depict their desolate lives. Although there was one metaphor that caught my attention – a sense of drowning.

All I have to say about that is that at least those bastards gathered enough courage to charge straight into the great wide world. All I did my entire life was watch those brave ones from the sidelines, locked up in an aquarium.

They all live – some succeed, some fail – but at least they try, damn it. Meanwhile I’m still waiting to take the first breath of my life…

I crumple up the sheet of paper and crush it in my hand. It’s so damn dramatic and not like me at all. My father would be furious. If it’s at all possible he’d bring me back to life just to kill me again.

I let out a frustrated breath and throw yet another draft into the garbage can by my desk. Shit, why is this so hard?

Don’t get me wrong, the choice to die was ridiculously easy. It’s just this damn letter standing between me and absolute freedom.

You must be thinking that I’ve gone crazy, and I wouldn’t be surprised. Everyone thinks Bellcolor Fermi is crazy, so why should you think any different?

I know. Bellcolor, right? I’m sure my name just made you raise an eyebrow. Yep, I’ve caught you red-headed. And I know, it’s horribly Italian. My father named me that because he believed that my arrival into the world would paint my mother’s life in beautiful colors, but no color could pierce the darkness she existed within. All I ended up with was an unusual name, just like me. Maybe that was what triggered the other kids to trip me up every fucking chance they got my whole life.

But why you ask, why would I choose death over life?

For me, the answer’s simple – because I’ve never truly felt alive.

I think you only understand the depths of the tragedy called “your life” when you tell your story aloud. My story? Well, I’ll let you be the judge. But I retain the right to be the one to pass the sentence I deserve.

Because that’s the fate of all damned ones.

So let’s rewind a bit, I wouldn’t want you to judge me before you really knew me.

My family emigrated to New York many years ago, but the Italian accent clung to my father like he’d never left Italy. Unfortunately, I never really knew my mother. She killed herself before I could gather actual memories to accompany me through my adult life. All I have left of her are fragments of memories that never really come together to form anything tangible, but just enough to be haunted by. My father claims we share the same curse. My mother suffered from a deep depression that eventually led her to put an end to her life. She left nothing behind, aside from fucked-up genes and a broken little girl. That’s me, by the way.

Since we share the same cursed gene, my father sent me to therapy. As a result, I’ve been on mood stabilizers for as long as I can remember, and meeting Dr. DiAngelo on a weekly basis. Yes, another Italian devoted to my father. Despite the existence of the term ‘medical confidentiality’ I don’t think it counts for my therapist, since after every weekly meeting my father quizzes me like I’m under a microscope, and his expression always lets me know he’s not at all pleased with the results.

Italy still rules his heart and his entire being, he rules New York – and money rules us all. Othello Fermi owns a medical technology company, something involving genetic engineering.

Go figure, I never understood exactly what his work was all about. Despite his pleas for me to major in Chemistry and Biology and start my training, I stopped listening to him years ago. I’m the sole heir of Fermi Medical Inc. – original, right? But I chose to disinherit myself before my father could do it. I always knew I was meant for failure, so for once I decided to be the one who’d have the last word.

I always wondered, out of all the cities in the world, why New York? My father always complained about being a wolf among sheep, a genius in a nation of morons. And if I was born here, what did that make me?

As you’ve no doubt figured out, my family is stinking rich. I live in a penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park, which I’ve never even walked through. I have a closet the size of an average New York apartment, which I’ve barely used because the schools I attend have a uniform dress code. I own a fleet of cars I don’t drive because I have a driver. I have VIP tickets to every event, and I don’t go because I have no one to take with me, because I’m Crazy Bellcolor Fermi. That’s the thing about the crazies, no one wants to be friends with them.

My daily routine includes waking up, carefully getting organized, having a bran-rich breakfast, school, a schedule of extracurricular activities and private lessons that change on a daily basis, meeting Dr. DiAngelo every Wednesday, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling until I fall asleep. Rinse and repeat.

Tomorrow is my high school graduation ceremony. A ceremony where no one will whistle or cheer for me in the crowd because my father’s in Tokyo on business. Maybe my driver will do me a solid and join me.

Marcus is pretty nice, but he’s wrapping up his role as my babysitter since I’m leaving for college tomorrow. Sorry, ‘university’ – as they say in Europe. I’m flying out to Italy all summer so I can get acclimated before the semester begins. Yes, I’m going back to my roots. My father’s choice, of course. The University of Bologna.

I’m sure some of you are rolling your eyes and thinking to yourselves: “What a spoiled little brat. Swimming in cash and getting sent to Europe. Boo hoo.”

But my life isn’t mine. It’s an imaginary negative of the daughter my father always wanted and is insisting on getting. Meanwhile I’m screaming as loud as I can, and it’s like no one hears me.

So what other choice do I have besides choosing death? No one will notice that I’ve disappeared anyway. Because that’s the thing about New York, it’s a city where nobodies try to become somebodies, and I’m somebody trying to become nobody.

So in that case, farewell.

I’m settling accounts of my life with my imaginary audience because I don’t believe we see our lives flashing before our eyes when we die. Maybe it’s just an excuse to count off all the reasons I’m doing this, so I don’t get cold feet before actually carrying out the dead.

To hell with everything.

I take the pen, and write the following on a new page: “It’s not your fault. This is my choice.” And I sign my name at the bottom.

That’ll do the job.

I take the bottle of mood stabilizer pills, which I’ve been taking all my life, and pour it out into my mouth. I swiped one of the hideously expensive bottles of bourbon from my father’s alcohol cabinet – alcohol I’ve never seen him drink – and I take long gulps to wash down the ridiculous amount of pills filling my mouth.

Eww! Gross, how do people drink this shit? And pay a fortune for it? Who’s really crazy here, huh?

A burning sensation spreads down my throat, and I choke down the sense of nausea threatening to bring the pills back up. Breathe, Belle, slowly, I say to myself, trying to fight the sense of disgust, which is relatively absurd for a girl who’s chosen to stop breathing.

Heh, the irony.

The sense of nausea finally subsides and I stare across my room with wide-open eyes.

Okay, now what?

I get to my feet and pace impatiently. Maybe I should lie down instead? Yes, it’d be better if they found me sleeping the sleep of the just in my bed. It’ll be much more grateful than having Betty the housekeeper find my body sprawled in some unflattering position on the floor.

Yes, that’s what I have to do.

I get into bed and pull the covers up to my neck. Actually, maybe I should take my arms out and cross them over my chest, like in the funerals you see in the movies. Corpses looking so peaceful in their coffins.

I do it and wait for the Angel of Death to come take me. I take long, rhythmic breaths, and I wait.

Okay.

He’s not coming.

I open one eye and peek at the clock by my bed. It reads 11:25 PM. Maybe he’ll come in a few more minutes and it’ll be over soon.

This may be my last day.

I really hope it is.

I close my eyes again and wait.

Damn it, this is taking way too long. Maybe my calculations were off. What’s going on here? It looks so different in movies. Liars, they’re all liars.

I open my eyes again and see that it’s 11:39. Oh God, this is torture. If it doesn’t work, I’ll sent a sharply-worded letter to every screenwriter who ever wrote a suicide scene and thought it would be fair to deceive their viewers that way.

My stomach suddenly turns and the nausea comes back, big time. I try to fight the horrible feeling but it’s stronger than I am. Vomit bursts up from inside me like a dam surrendering to the mighty water rebelling against it, unwilling to be tamed.

I throw up the contents of my stomach, and examine the amber-colored puddle on my white sheets. Within my stomach juices I find the mood stabilizer pills. Shit… maybe some of them already managed to dissolve in my stomach and it’s not over just yet. Either way, gracefulness has gone out the window. Wonderful.

My head starts pulsing with pain and I shut my eyes tight.

Fuck, maybe I should’ve taken painkillers instead. My whole body spasms with pain. I look at the clock. It’s 11:53.

“Oh God, make it stop, please, spare me, spare the stupid, and the Lead Dumbass which is me,” I wail, rocking in bed in an attempt to relieve the pain. It’s everywhere now. Like knives stabbing into my skin, drums beating within me.

Those damned screenwriters are going to hear from me when all this is over. Maybe I’ll even haunt them after I become a ghost.

Rocking back and forth helps a bit, and the pain subsides. I hum a chant to soothe the melancholic thoughts sprinting through my mind. I have no idea where I know it from, maybe my mother used to sing it to me and the memory just got pulled out – it could be a nice last thought – but it’s pleasant to me, invoking the serenity I yearn for.

I keep my eyes open because the bit of alcohol has done its work, and every time I shut my eyes my head spins and threatens to bring back the nausea I’d finally chased away.

I keep humming, but my eyelids are getting heavy. I peek at the clock. It’s 11:59. Before I close my eyes I manage to see the clock tick over to 12:00 AM – a new day has started, and my life is ending. Darkness envelopes me and my lungs no longer cry out for air.

I think I feel a hand caressing me as my eyes close, but it could be a pill-induced hallucination.

Because this is the end for me.

Farewell.