“Are you finished?”
I brought my eyes to his and nodded slowly. I didn’t speak much when he was around, and I was sure that it was out of embarrassment. The things he made me do were humiliating in so many ways, and I always went along with it. It didn’t help that I could never tell what he was thinking. He always held that same stoic expression on his strong, defined face, as though it was a mask that he never allowed to fall. Even when we’d experienced certain things together, I rarely saw it falter.
I began to draw that expression along the old blanket on top of the bed around me. I traced his eyes, as I had that first evening. I wondered whatever became of all of my drawings. Were they still in the house, and was it left untouched? I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d burned my family’s home down to the ground, along with everything we’d cherished. It would make sense for them to have burned my parents' bodies alongside it. The thought caused my stomach to knot and my finger to stop mid-trace. I let my hand go limp as I felt the tears returning to my eyes.
“What’re you doing?”
I drew a quick breath and tried to stop my lips from quivering. “What do you mean?”
He pointed to my hand, which had just stopped tracing across the blanket. “With your hand on the blanket. What’re you doing?”
We had never discussed anything beyond our arrangement. It was unlike him to even ask such a question and I wasn’t sure how to respond. I always figured he was just toying with me, so why ask a prisoner about what they’re doing? I waited for a moment, allowing the silence to seep into the space between us, just in case he wanted to walk away without hearing the answer. I figured he would, but he stayed.
“I draw,” I said finally, lifting my finger up from the blanket. “It’s something I’ve always done. I guess I miss it. I’ve started tracing along things to make up for not being able to practice.”
I didn’t tell him that I was tracing his face against the blanket, or the fact that I’d drawn him before. The indent of my finger having drawn his eyes was still prevalent in the navy blanket as I swept my hand across the surface, as though erasing what I’d traced.
“Do you draw often?”
I stared at him, my eyes narrowing into fine slits. “Not here, but when I was home, I did.”
He fidgeted with the plate in his hands. “Were you good?”
“I don’t know,” I said and shrugged it off. “I didn’t really show anyone when I was finished drawing something, except for Alessandra. She never really told me whether it was good or not. I think it would’ve been weird if I asked.”
“How long have you been drawing?”
“Since I was little.”
He glanced back down to my fingers, which made me want to hide them behind my back. “I’ll see if I can get you some paper or something,” he said and paused. “Why do you always look so uncomfortable?”
Having a full conversation with him was jarring and strange. What was even worse was the fact that he’d asked me point-blank why I was uncomfortable when, in all reality, it should have been obvious. I wanted to say something that would cause him to realize the severity of the situation.Oh nothing, just the fact that your family murdered my parents, no doubt my brothers as well before kidnapping me and my sister, and incarcerating us in this prison!I knew that it could cause him to become angry, and I had no idea what he was like when angered, but I didn’t want to find out.
“It’s nothing, really.”
He began to tap his fingers along the plate as he peered down at me. “I don’t like it when people are dishonest with me. I want to know why you’re so uncomfortable.”
There was an edge to his voice that caused me to feel even more wary. What did he expect me to say? If he wanted honesty, he shouldn’t have kidnapped me from my home, or begin taunting me and using me to gratify his sexual desires.
“I’m just a little fearful,” I said, my voice wavering. “I mean, I’m scared you’re going to hurt me one of these days.”
His entire body stiffened at my words. For a moment I thought I saw that stoic expression on his face soften, as though he was hurt by my words. I wasn’t sure what I expected, but it certainly wasn’t to have him show some form of emotion around me. That mask that he wore was beginning to slip, and I wasn’t sure what to make of it.
I recoiled slightly as his fingers gripped the plate, his knuckles white. I was sure he was going to break it in half, and then take out the remaining frustration on me. I realized that I shouldn’t have been so honest with him. I could feel a cold sweat forming along my skin, causing my long brown hair to stick to my back. I swallowed hard, unsure of what to say.
There were no words that could remedy the situation.
I had been too honest. There was a heaviness between us as he turned towards the door, still gripping the plate. There was nothing said as he opened the door and slammed it behind him. The sound rang in my ears, and the room felt as though it had shaken.
I’d worried constantly that he’d hurt me, as there was no telling what was going through his mind. At that moment, a deepening fear settled itself into my stomach, making me feel sick. If he hadn’t planned on hurting me before, that chance had just risen with the words that had passed through my lips.
I brought my hands to my lap and sighed, hoping desperately that he wouldn’t retaliate. There was a strained silence that passed, and it caused my heart to fall from my chest. My hands were shaking as I anticipated him bursting through the door, infuriated. I wouldn’t blame him. So far he’d done nothing to make me think that he would go out of his way to hurt me. It was his family that caused me to think there was always an ulterior motive. They, of course, were monsters. Romeo and Savio were known for their cruelty. I’d heard rumors about the things they’d done to people that wronged them.
Marcello seemed different, but there was no telling if it was an act.
9
Chiara
