Pretty Poison

Eleven

Four Years Later
Quattro Anni Dopo

***

I shot up from my bed, my back drenched in sweat and my hair matted to my sticky forehead. I reach for the necklace hanging around my neck, taking hold of it and squeezing it tightly. My chest rises and falls as I struggle to calm down, the reminisce of the dream still playing in my head.

The bed frame squeaks as I bring my legs over the edge, pushing myself to sit up. The clock on the small table beside the bed reads five forty and I instantly sigh, rubbing the remaining grogginess from my eyes. I stand from the thin mattress and nearly trip over the books that littered the floor, the apartment too small to fit a proper bookshelf.

I step featherlike to the kitchen, reaching in the cabinet to make coffee, only to find the shelfs barren on any boxes. I let out a frustrated groan, and turned away.

The apartment was small, no larger than five hundred square feet. There was no proper bedroom, and everything was connected. A worn red couch with few stains rests along the right wall, and the kitchen on the left. It contained limited counter space, five cabinets and three drawers that had few dishes I have acquired over the past two years. A small table sits opposite the kitchen, with two chairs pushed under it, but only one of those seats was ever occupied. A scratched wooden coffee table stands littered with papers and old language books, even more books spilling onto the ground beside it. The bed was pushed against the left wall, the frame just barely fitting between the kitchen fridge and the beige painted wall that enclosed the apartment from the outside like a parallel parked car in the street. Beside the bed was a door leading to a balcony, this was my favorite place.

I would sit out here for hours upon hours with a book in hand and would watch the sunset. I would watch the sky turn the most beautiful shades of blue, and would stare at the sun as it disappeared under the old roofs of building tops. Just before dusk, the sky would turn into an ombre of yellows that faded to purples that then faded to a perfect shade of indigo, and I was always reminded of him when my eyes connected with the colored atmosphere. The stars sparkled how his eyes used to but not quite as beautiful.

For the last four years, I have been hiding, moving from shelter to shelter, desperately avoiding orphanages, hiding my face, hiding my skin, all in an effort to survive. I sold the jade necklace I stole to a jewelry shop who in return gave me a hefty sum of cash, and when I did I couldn't help but feel extreme guilt. When I sold it to the greedy man, I was instantly brought back to the night of my escape, and Luca's shimmering eyes pleading for me to stay. Ever since then the thought of him has never effaced; ever since then the image of that naive sixteen year old boy has been following me around like a shadow, imprisoning me in a sort of cage that I cannot escape from.

That necklace was the last thing I held from that old life, and I had thought that once I rid myself of it the memories would soon be forgotten, but the constant guilt gave way to a flood of memories of that past. I saw vivid images of the painting of the Bianchi family, but something always appeared to be different about it, and it was the mother's innocent smile; it disappeared. Instead, the woman peered back at me with sadness that conveyed my own guilt, and every time I saw the image that sadness grew and grew, haunting me.

I shake my head back and forth lightly, pacing to open the door to the balcony, and I'm instantly refreshed. I take in a deep breath of air, the breeze blowing wisps of brunette hair into my lashes, tangling them together with every blink. I leaned over the edge of the thin iron bars, the white paint chipping and exposed metal becoming tarnished.

People stroll below me, walking along the battered and crack path that continues for as long as the eye can see. Moss and weeds grow between the cracks, always some little creature peeking out of their little world to see the life flourishing around them. In a sense, I felt the same way. It felt as if I were a little ant lost in such a large world, I felt so tiny compared to the life around me, so small compared to the world that was at my fingertips.

From time to time, I felt lost, but every night when I returned to this balcony, I felt at home, and at peace with everything around me.

The breeze picks up for a moment, throwing my long hair over my shoulders as my thin white shirt unsticks from my sweaty back and flies like a flag. I take one last breath, looking out far beyond the rooftops and to the ocean, far off in the distance waves can be seen coming to shore, peacefully colliding into one another and moving with rhythm.

I stand up straight, pivoting on my bare heel and stepping back into the apartment through the elevated threshold. The air undoubtedly changed, the inside cold and unwelcoming. Everything felt dead on the inside as opposed to the outside, and when I stepped inside, I felt dead too.

I take hold of the cold bathroom door knob, twisting it and stepping inside, closing the door behind me. I lean my body over the counter, staring at my spitting image in the old mirror, its edges turning black with years of damage and antique age.

I stare back at myself, taking in my slender figure and indented cheeks with uneven bone structure. My hair falls over my shoulder, reaching past my breasts and down to my ribs, the brunette locks glowing under the dim light. I stare back into my own eyes, the blue within them unnatural and cold, like frozen ice caps that can never melt because they are too thick. I stare a little while longer, only one question in mind: who are you?