Chapter Twenty-Six
Elio
“A man like you shouldn’t feel.”
“Love is only a sentiment, boy. It is a weakness. Take out your heart and paint it black, a man like you shouldn’t love.”
“Be ten steps ahead of your enemies and your friends, boy. Never show remorse. Never show regret. And most importantly, never show weakness.”
“Chin up, soldier; everyone you shoot today will deserve it.”
“So what? You lost a few men. Get back on your fucking feet! I didn’t send you here to make friends.”
“Elio, I wish I could help you, but the voices in my head won’t let me see your pain, my love.”
“If you keep this up, you’ll be dead as soon as you take my place. Bold, Son. Be bold.”
“You kill a father? Make sure you kill everyone he has fathered; you don’t do it? They’ll come for you.”
“You are like your father! You’re never here; you’re always shadowing him! What about me? What about your mother!”
“I’m scared, Elio.”
“Family is only necessary when they’re useful.”
“I hate you!”
“I need help, Elio; help your mother.”
“They were screaming for you; where were you?”
“Open your eyes, Elio! This world is not black-and-white. It’s whatever color you paint it.”
“Lock him up until he comes to his senses.”
“He’s a monster; he murdered his whole family; best not cross him.”
“You are not my family.”
“What reason do I have to believe any fucking word that comes out of your mouth!”
“Weak. Incompetent. A fucking failure.”
“Did you love your mother’s scream while you stabbed her? Or Mariana’s and Lorenzo’s tortured wails while you fucking burned them alive.”
“The world will be a much better place without you in it!”
“You’re so gone beyond redemption, and you don’t even see it, Elio.”
“You need to hurry the fuck up and get the fuck out of everyone’s faces. No one needs your bullshit. Neither do they want you here…”
Words.
They were simple alignments of letters to form something meaningless or meaningful, depending on how they were used.
You’d think a man like myself would be accustomed to taking things in stride.
But I was impressionable when it came to compliments, advice, or reprimands. I couldn’t help it. I was built that way.
It was probably abysmal that I had to share this idiosyncrasy with a clinical depression that I’d never bothered to treat since I was diagnosed years ago. It was the same illness my mother had. The same one my father had ignored.
When I got symptoms, I’d hoped to God that I hadn’t inherited it, seeing who she became down the years … I was scared of what I’d become with the kind of hand I was brought up with.
My childhood hadn’t been normal. It was replete with abuse, verbal, physical, and emotional.
I’d done things I would never forget or forgive myself for, things I had punished myself for.
But sometimes, the punishment was never enough. Nothing was ever enough.
Angelo would tell me to go for proper treatment, but there was no point in treating myself; I didn’t deserve to get better, not after everything I had done in the name of revenge. In the name of care.
Deep down, I knew I was just a sick bastard.
I was delusional. I didn’t know consequences.
I grew up learning to forget the meaning of that word.
I didn’t care for useless emotions because I knew how my life started and how it would end.
There was no point in building relationships or dwelling on something less than its worth.
There was no point to me.
Why was I stalling in the name of revenge … on the father who didn’t even give a shit, on a brother who hated me—on some false delusion of poetic justice. Did I even deserve that?
No one really needed me here. I was alone with the books most of the time anyway.
A waste of space and valuable oxygen just to fulfill a promise made to a dead sister who probably would have wished for my death if she were alive.
Until Zahra mentioned it about an hour ago, I didn’t realize all I was doing was stalling. Because even when it came to finishing this, I still couldn’t do it.
How meaningless could I get?
I shook my head, gripping the steering wheel tightly, dark thoughts spinning and dancing around my head.
They meant business this time. They were merciless. Uncontainable. I needed to be alone.
I neared the drugstore, itching to get out of the car—away from the woman beside me.
In my periphery, Zahra’s head rested against the window, but her eyes were trained on me.
I should have known.
I should have known she’d alter my streak from the moment she opened her mouth when we first met. I always stayed away from things that drew unwarranted emotion. Things that made me feel. But her … this woman.
First, she provoked curiosity in that torture room; anger in the boardroom; irritation and competitiveness with the chess game; regret on the rooftop; lust in the supply closet and the exhibit; impulsiveness in the car chase; desire, denial, and remorse in the woods …
care in that shed … then acceptance and realization by the roadside.
She made me feel useless emotions; somehow, I’d grown comfortable thinking I’d found someone like me.
The more unrestricted, open-minded version of me.
If I hadn’t returned to find her after the amateur kidnapping, I was almost positive she’d have found a way out of that position because I would have found a way.
Somewhere between the supply closet and the shed, I’d thought maybe I wasn’t the only one without morals.
It turned out I was being delusional: even I was fucked up to someone like her.
“I could totally be your friend if you stop trying to kill me.” Her voice echoed in my head.
Guess now that wasn’t an option.
I pulled into the parking lot by the drugstore just out of town, turning off the engine.
“Why are we stopping?” Tiredness coated her voice as she stretched.
“There’s a change of clothes in the back seat,” I told her, unbuckling my seatbelt without looking her way, even though I could sense her stare.
“By the side of the building, there’s a washroom.
You can freshen up; I’ll get things for you to clean your arm wound.
There’s a local mobile restaurant near here; since you’ve not eaten anything all day, we’ll stop by. ”
Her gaze shifted from me to the back seat, probably seeing the folded clothes and the fake chihuahua painting, and then she looked back at me. “When—when did you have time to get the clothes and check the area?”
“Before I reached the shed. I’ll be back.
” I was already opening the door and getting out, making my way into the drugstore.
A mild headache paid a visit as I picked out the little things she’d need to take care of the wound.
I knew I was about to scare the person behind the counter due to all the dried blood on me.
Or … I might be scaring the person humming and turning towards the shelf I was standing in front of.
I glanced in the voice’s direction and frowned, doing a double take at who emerged, my attention focused on pulling out a drug from one of the shelves.
“Gemma?” I called.
Her blond head snapped in my direction, eyes widening as she froze, staring at me. Her gaze took me in from head to toe—surprise, confusion, and caution shining in her eyes, but there was no trace of fear.
“Elio? What a coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences. Are you following me?”
She blinked out of the daze she seemed to have been in. “No? My grandma and I decided to hit the road early. I’m refilling her meds … Are you following me?”
“No.”
She swallowed. “Is that … blood on you?” She eyed the things in my hand. “Oh my God, are you hurt? Or did you hurt someone, and now you’re trying to help them? Are you—are you really some kind of serial killer?” She whispered the last part.
“No.”
She nodded. “So … what—what am I looking at here?”
“If I told you it was paint, would you believe me?”
“Nope.”
I nodded. “My…” I trailed off, wondering what to refer to Zahra as. I couldn’t exactly use hostage, friend, or woman like I’d used in that exhibit to get Grace off my back. So, I went with my generic answer when I didn’t want to expatiate. “Someone I know is hurt.”
Her lips formed an “O” as she nodded. The warning bells that usually alerted me to be cautious didn’t go off in my head. “Well … this must be the universe … Maybe it wants us to exchange numbers,” she said with a grin.
“I’m covered in blood.”
“What does that have to do with numbers?” she said, fishing through her purse as she approached me.
“You still want to talk to me?”
She smiled, confusion dancing in her eyes. “Of course I want to talk to you. Why wouldn’t I?”
“You are not … scared … of me?”
“If you wanted to kill me, you’d have done it earlier today.” She outstretched her phone to me. “Type in your number.”
“I don’t have a phone.”
“Ah … you’re one of those types.” I watched her search inside her purse for a pen and a piece of paper, and then she quickly scribbled a phone number on it, extending it to me. “There, you can text or call me whenever you get a phone?”
“What if I never get a phone?”
“Then, if the universe wills it, we’ll see each other again.” Wide eyes shone with amusement.
I took the paper.
She walked backward, a teasing smile on her face. “If you do get that phone, don’t be a stranger.”
“Okay.”
She chuckled, shaking her head and muttering, “So cute,” before she turned and disappeared down the aisle, away from view …
I memorized the number before slipping the paper into my pocket, continuing my hunt for the last item, which was cotton wool, and then I paid a frightened teenager and exited the store towards the building out back.
Walking into it, I trekked the short hallway to the female washroom.
I raised my hand to knock. “Spo—” I stopped, closing my eyes for a second before opening them back up, my knuckle connecting with the door three times. “Zahra, I got the materials for your arm.”