Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 52105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 261(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 261(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
“Is there any room left on your body for more tattoos?”
My eyes are fixated now on a tree that runs up his side. There are fireflies swirling around it, and it nearly appears to be lit up. His body is truly art and watching him before me is better than entering any gallery in the world. No artist could measure up to all the perfection inked onto his skin.
I wish I could paint him. I wonder what colors I would use? Would there be a thick and heavy black around him with pops of bold and bright colors? He’s both. Dark but also so very bright. The painting would be gothic, macabre, and even evil. And yet it would also be whimsy, joyous, and exciting. If I could truly capture this man in a painting or even in one of my sculptures, it would no doubt be a masterpiece.
“A little.” He glances over his shoulder at me for a brief moment and adds, “The part of me that isn’t scarred.”
His words are like a slice to my flesh. So full of pain even in the simplicity of the sentence.
I want to hold him right now. I want to lift to my knees, extend my arms and embrace this man before me. But it’s not him in the flesh who I want to hold. It’s the broken boy inside of him. I see this child. I can almost hear his tormented cries. For the briefest of moments I can see the terrifying monster before me transition to a lonely boy who has no choice but to become a beast or be devoured. Choices were made. Survival had to happen.
Nick was not born the villain. Life simply swallowed him up, and when he crawled out from the pit of the belly… a cane-toting, dark-souled madman emerged.
But that boy who desperately needs to be loved is still there. I know it. Whether Nick wanted to or not—he revealed that little boy for the briefest of moments.
“Nick…” I say, waiting for him to turn and face me again. “I’m sorry. I’m not just saying that because you’re angry. I’m not just saying it because you’re here and—I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye. I didn’t even leave a note, and… well… you deserved better.”
His eyes seem to soften, and I can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.
“I acted impulsively—”
“So did I—by coming here.” He pauses for the briefest of moments. “In truth… the best people do,” he adds. “Act impulsively. Our guts are the voice we should listen to. You and I are alike in that way.”
“I didn’t mean to make you feel I’m not grateful—”
“I’ve never asked for your gratitude,” he cuts in.
“But I should give it. I’ve pulled you into my mess, and that’s why I left. I’m done making my problems others’.”
“You didn’t pull me in. I stepped into this situation. This is of my making.” He stretches his arms over his head, tilting his head to the side to work out the kinks, his lean body causing a yearning for more of his touch to stir inside of me. “Don’t try to write the narrative in this story incorrectly. I’m not the victim. You aren’t the victim. We are the victors. Apologies are not for a time like this.”
“So you aren’t mad?” A flicker of relief washes over me, and I start to feel as if Dylan and Sasha’s life may not be in danger any longer.
As long as I… behave.
“Oh, I’m fucking mad,” he says. “Beyond. But”—he tilts his head and looks at me—“don’t apologize for doing what you had to do for you. It may not be the best for me, or for anyone else. But if you had to do it for you. Stand by your decision. Consequences or not, be confident in the choices you make. Right or wrong. Safe or not. They are yours to make.”
I nod, not sure what to make of his words. The man confuses me, but then again, he always has. He makes me feel strong even though I’m at his mercy. He raises me up even as he holds me with a constricting grasp. He gives me the power to soar even though he holds the dagger to the feathers of my wings. There is no black and white with this man. There is no clear or straight line. I can’t read him because all the words that describe this man are jumbled on the page.
Who is this man? And why does he make me feel the way I do?
“Why did you come to Italy?” I ask again, realizing I never got an answer when I first asked.
“For you.” His answer is simple. Firm. Nothing more than a simple truth.
“Yes, but why?”
He stares out the veranda doors again. Silence is heavy in the room.