Page 41 of Pas de Trois
Chapter 9
Anya
I slept in that same spot on the floor last night. It was uncomfortable…painful, actually. My back hurt, my neck hurt, my stomach felt stretched and achy. I know I was being stupid not to sleep on the bed, but I just couldn’t.
The memories of what Vigo did to me on that bed when he had me drugged and paralyzed would flash across my mind each time I thought about going to lie down on it. So, the result was a painful night of unsatisfactory sleep on the floor.
Renata has just come to collect me for a visit with the family doctor this morning. She leads me downstairs to the first floor and I find myself constantly looking around me. My mind hasn’t come to terms with the fact that Vigo is truly dead yet. I can just see him popping out from around a corner, grabbing me, dragging me into the nearest room, terrorizing me until night falls again. The thought of it appears like a crystal-clear vision in my mind, so clear that it makes me gasp and I stop dead in my tracks.
The vision of his torture won’t let me go. It grips me like a rope coiling around my chest, squeezing my lungs, and crushing my heart. My heart explodes in a flurry of beats, pumping wildly as panic overtakes me again. One hand comes up to my chest as the other lands on the wall by my side to steady myself.
I feel like I can’t catch a breath.
I feel like my lungs are being squeezed so tightly that they won’t inflate, no matter how much I try.
I feel like I’m going to pass out again.
No, no.
Not here, not now.
I try to calm my mind and think of anything else, but the vision of Vigo in my mind keeps playing like a movie, an intrusion of a thought that I can’t exorcise from within me, no matter what I do. So, I do the only thing my mind will let me do.
I count.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
I count until the horror film plays out in my mind, until it fades away into non-existence and I can think of nothing but the numbers, the counts of eight, the basic structure of my dance steps, the dancing that makes me feel free.
Renata is at my side, as is another man. They speak in Italian with concern and their concern is directed at me. I realize that I’m on the floor, my back to the wall and my legs pulled up against my chest.
But I don’t remember sitting.
The man puts a hand on my shoulder and I jolt at the sensation. He removes it as I turn my head to look up at him, as he crouches to his haunches beside me. I don’t feel threatened by him—he doesn’t give me the same creeping, prickling feeling down my arms that all the other Vittoris give me.
“I’m Doctor Lombardi,” he says to me, his Italian accent thick but understandable. “I want to help you. Can you stand?”
I carefully study his face.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
I believe he wants to help me. I nod and he holds out his hand to help me off the floor.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
I take his hand and let him help me up. Renata says something in Italian, and though I don’t know what she’s saying, I do know what she’s feeling. The anguish is written all over her face, and her rage and grief are all directed at me. Her feelings mix with mine in a tangled web of hopeless anxiety. There are dark circles beneath her eyes, the whites of which are tinged with red as if she’s been crying.
Of course, she’s been crying.
You killed her brother.
You’re a murderer!
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
