Chapter 2 - Marella
Ialways wished that we’d been granted the freedom to sleep inside the stone.
But that would have been too much of a mercy, I suppose, and the witch was not known for such things.
And so, each and every month, we remained awake, day in and day out, as we watched the world pass by from the center of Piazza Centrale, the square in the middle of the city’s historic center.
Frozen in place, surrounded by water that flowed through and around us but which we were unable to feel or taste, nothing but a tourist attraction for the thousands of people who milled about the square on any given day.
There was an inscription on the base of our fountain-prison, right in front of where I stood, legs crossed and breasts exposed, which told a story, in both English and Italian, of how our statues came to be.
It was a lie, of course, one which depicted the Fratelli as heroic holy men who liberated the city from a horde of angry monsters and suggested that the depiction of us that existed in the square was a means to honor what we once were—beautiful, peaceful creatures made to work with and serve the men of the city.
Each time I awoke, I tried to smash the inscription to bits. But it always pulled itself back together with the sunrise, even as I found myself solidifying once more into stone.
And every month, I swore I’d go mad from the oppressive monotony of this eternal prison, always awake, yet never able to move.
But alas, I was never given the blessing of madness either.
In the face of eternity spent as nothing but a statue, lunacy would have been a gift, and the witch was as hesitant to provide gifts as she was to offer mercy.
And so, I watched humanity pass me by. Watched as clothing evolved, hemlines grew shorter, and men became more openly brazen in their wickedness. My sisters, my father, and I watched together as eternity marched on before us in the form of people milling about this ancient town square like ants.
That day was no different.
The afternoon sun burned down on the piazza. Tourists circled our fountain in colorful linen dresses and straw hats, snapping photographs with their slim cell phones, as locals weaved around them expertly, still clad in light jackets and long pants, perpetual annoyance painted across their faces.
I knew exactly how they felt.
The hotter the day and the brighter the sun, the seemingly more insufferable the city’s guests became.
Their perceived permission to drink wine—heavily—at lunchtime only made things that much worse, and it was never long before a pack of rowdy young men sauntered forward to giggle and gawk at our frozen bodies, as if they’d never seen real women before.
I highly suspected they hadn’t, in fact.
That day, they showed up before two in the afternoon, at least according to the clock on the basilica across the square.
They stumbled out of a nearby restaurant that served overpriced tortellini to tourists, clearly having over-imbibed on mid-day wine.
There were five of them, all with nearly identical haircuts, clad in what I’d come to recognize as expensive sweaters and khaki shorts in varying shades of beige.
Some wore sunglasses covering their eyes, some wore them draped across the back of their heads, upside-down against their necks.
I’d spent enough time encased in stone to know the modern word for men like this: douchebags.
They paid no attention to the crowd of families and older visitors surrounding our fountain, instead pushing and shoving one another in what I’m sure they assumed was a cute and playful manner.
More than once, they nearly knocked over a small child or an elderly tourist, and even though I held nearly as much disdain for all the people who came to gawk at us, something about these men set my teeth on edge.
Their clumsy, flat accents made their words sound harsh and brash.
One of them, a short man with dark hair and a clean-shaven face, locked his gaze on me, dull eyes lighting up as he took in my bare breasts and abdomen.
A wolfish grin split his face, revealing too-white teeth and a propensity for cruelty that danced across his features.
He leaned over to whisper something to the man beside him, who laughed while pulling a mobile phone from his pocket.
Slowly, with confidence earned through a lack of hard work, the short man approached me, his drunken stare now fixed on my chest.
It wasn’t the first time a man had done this.
In fact, the stonework around my breasts looked nearly polished in comparison to most of the rest of my body.
Wading into the fountain to touch us was technically forbidden, but police in this area were generally more concerned about preventing pickpocketing than monitoring the statues, and offenders were rarely punished with more than a quick rebuke and an instruction to leave.
But something about this man, the way he looked me up and down with a desire that bordered on entitlement, made my frozen blood run cold.
He removed his shoes and socks before climbing into the fountain.
A few conscientious tourists tried to halfheartedly berate him for entering the water, but he laughed them off as his friends whooped and hollered.
As he stood to cross the few steps towards me, he nearly slipped, sending water splashing all around his shorts so that it looked like he had soiled himself.
The effect only made his friends laugh harder.
I truly hoped that the bacteria in this disgusting water gave him an incurable foot fungus.
But after shooting another toothy grin over his shoulder at them, he sauntered forward. And when he reached me, he put on a show.
"Hey there, beautiful," he shouted loudly enough to be heard around the square. As more interested (and a few annoyed) eyes found him, he put his hands on either side of my face, leaned in, and planted a sloppy kiss against my lips. His friends cheered as they filmed him on their phones.
I hated that I could feel the sensation.
When he pulled back, he wiped little fragments of stone grit from his own lips, still smiling. "You’re a bit frigid, aren’t you? Don’t want to kiss me back?"
He looped his arm around my waist and turned back to face the growing crowd of people around the fountain.
I felt the instinctive urge to pull away, to distance myself from him and his atrocious aftershave, but, of course, I was unable to move even a centimeter from his grasp.
Several sets of parents shouted for him to consider the children in their midst, and a few others simply chastised him for breaking the rules.
But no one tried to intervene as he reached up with the arm not encircling my waist and placed his hand atop my breast. He massaged it roughly, open-palmed and greedily, first one, and then the other, while his friends continued to cheer.
More than one man in the crowd joined in, and I made a mental note of each of their faces.
He touched me longer than most men find entertaining, leaning into both the cheers and the disapproving mumbles from the crowd, and I felt it all: every sloppy pinch and squeeze, every lascivious breath on my neck.
But mostly, I felt rage. Not a physical thing, but a quiet, rumbling reminder of the humiliation and indignation we were forced to endure each and every day of our miserable, trapped existences.
He was standing beside me for most of this torturous interaction, but I still made sure to memorize his face. I memorized the faces of his friends as well, taking stock of every freckle and misplaced strand of hair.
And I prayed a hollow prayer that today was not the last day of their vacation. I needed them to be here tomorrow.
Viscerally.