Page 59 of Condemned By Pain
For three hours, I tried. Like every night, I didn’t go to her before bed, but it’s not working. All I can think of is her.
I don’t know when it happened, but I’ve crossed the line where staying away from her might have solved the problem. Now I can’t. Not when I know she’shere, within my reach. Instead of letting thoughts of her occupy my mind, I can let her presence do it.
I walk into Bruno’s room and quickly move closer to her. She’s sleeping on her back, her hands resting on her stomach, her chest rising and falling with steady breaths. Her lips are slightly parted.
I sit on the floor and remove my glove. I reach for her hair—wavy brown strands spilling across the pillow—and lift one, feeling its silk slip through my fingers. I rub it between thumb and forefinger, then let it go.
Slowly, I lift my hand to her face and brush my thumb over her cheek. Her skin is soft as a rose petal.
I caress her cheek with my fingers, my touch no more than the weightless brush of fingertips, too scared to apply any pressure, as if she’s something I’ll ruin with even the slightest force. And she is. She’s like the roses: you want to pluck them and keep them with you, but they wither once removed from the plant.
She’s the most beautiful rose I’ve ever seen. I want to keep her hidden from the world, safe in some place where only I can see her, but she’s not mine. Not mine to touch. Not mine to want. Not mine to keep. I won’t be able to keep her blooming.
Yet I can’t stop the need—growing fiercer by the day.The need to make her mine.
My thumb traces the outline of her lips lightly. She frowns, closes her mouth, and turns onto her side, away from me.
I pull my hand back and put the glove on again, trapping the memory of her skin against mine.
I rise from the floor, cross to the couch, and lower myself onto it. I lie down facing her, arms folded over my chest.
The couch isn’t long enough to hold me, and it’s certainly not comfortable for anyone to sleep on, but for me, it’s the most restful place I’ve had in years.
I don’t have to fight with myself when she’s in front of me. She keeps my brain focused on her.
Without her, I have to force my mind to stay in the present by keeping my focus on the moment. As soon as I lose that grip, the memories drag me into the past, and then nothing stays in my control.
The boy takes over. He forces me to relive the past. For him, it’s a never-ending present. He never escaped those eleven days. He’s still trapped there—and he won’t be able to leave until I take his revenge.
Only one person remains. Then he’ll be free. Then he can meet my mother again and tell her we gave back tenfold what they took from her.
Before I brought her here, I was counting down the days. Only a few were left for me to endure in this cage of life. The day I brought her here, I marked the date on that knife, butshe changed everything. I can’t follow the old plan anymore. I have to hold on a few more days. Until I kill her father.
I close my eyes slowly. As soon as my brain separates from reality, the memories begin to take over.
I know I’m in a nightmare. I always know when it starts, but I can’t pull myself out. Soon, it grips me completely, leaving no escape. It pins me in place and forces me to watch.
My uncles and their friends are sitting in our living room, drinking, smoking, and laughing. It’s the second day after my father’s death. For two days, my mother has kept me locked in the storage room that’s become our new room. Today, my aunt pulls me out and brings me to these men.
“Il bastardo di Corrado,” Uncle Justin laughs.
(Corrado’s bastard.)
I clench my jaw at his insult, anger rising in my chest. He gestures for me to come closer, frowning.
“Cos’è questo? Rabbia?”
(What’s this? Anger?)
I step closer. “Sei il bastardo.”
(You’re the bastard.)
His face twists in rage. He stands and backhands me across the face. I fight back, but he’s so much bigger and stronger. He grabs my hand when I lift it to punch him and throws me onto the table. My face hits it, the corner splits the skin above my lip. Blood seeps from the wound.
Footsteps rush into the room.
“Justin, please don’t hit him.” My mother’s voice, breathless and sobbing.
