He said it so softly. So vulnerable, like he was handing me something precious. I moan as I remember the way his expression shuttered when I couldn’t respond. The silence in the car as he drove me home, cold, brittle, and so unlike the warmth we’d shared just moments before.
I finally stop heaving and curl into a ball on the cold tiles.
I have to tell him.
I have to confess that my father gave me poison, and I actually put it in my purse and planned to kill him.
And when I tell him, what then?
I push myself up on shaking legs and move to the sink. My reflection in the mirror is a mess. Smeared makeup, wild hair, eyes red from crying and vomiting. I look exactly like what I am, a girl who’s been playing dress-up in a world too violent for her.
I grip the edge of the sink and make myself breathe. Make myself think. The poison has to go. Tonight. And then I have to tell Vincenzo the truth.
Even if he hates me for it.
I take one more shaky breath, wipe my mouth, and walk back to my bedroom with purpose I don’t quite feel.
The poison sits in my nightstand drawer where I left it. A small glass bottle holding white powder and death. I pick it up and carry it to the bathroom.
I twist the cap off and hold it over the toilet bowl.
In my mind’s eye, I imagine telling Vincenzo about the poison and what I planned on doing with it.
We’re in his kitchen, or maybe mine. Somewhere private. I’m trying to explain, stumbling over words, and I see the moment understanding hits him. The way his expression changes. The way his blue eyes go cold and flat, just like my father’s do before he strikes.
“You were going to kill me?”
His voice isn’t soft and gentle anymore. It’s lethal, like ice.
I try to explain, to make him understand, but he’s advancing on me now. His hand comes up, and I flinch, powerless to stop the blow. The crack of his palm against my cheek echoes through the imagined room. My head snaps to the side. Pain blooms across my face, sharp and familiar.
I fall in a heap at his feet, sobbing, but he doesn’t try to comfort me. He’s disgusted with me.
Men in this world, no matter how many times they call you “doe” and hold you when you cry, all have violence in them. They all have a breaking point. Maybe he’ll make me drink the poison myself. Or lock me in a room until I understand what I almost cost him. Or beat me until I’m as broken as my mother was before she died.
The vision is so real I can feel the sting in my cheek. I can hear my own voice, small and pleading.“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to do it, I swear.”
Just like I used to plead with my father.
My hand shakes violently over the toilet.
So maybe I shouldn’t tell him. Maybe I should just flush this away and never say a word. Let him think I pulled away from him tonight because I’m scared of commitment, the Vici name, and of getting my heart broken.
But somewhere beneath the fear that he’ll hurt me if he finds out about the poison, there’s a tiny voice that whispers,What if he doesn’t?
What if he forgives me the same way he forgave me for being part of his family’s massacre?
The hope is so fragile I’m afraid to trust it.
I stand there frozen, my hand poised over the toilet.
The bottle shakes in my grip.
I wakeup just after nine in the morning with gritty eyes. I feel hollowed out, like I haven’t slept at all. I finally passed out sometime after four in the morning, and even then, my sleep was fitful, full of dreams where Vincenzo’s face shifted between tenderness and rage.
Sunlight streams through my curtains, too bright and cheerful for how I feel, but the morning light has a way of making things less complicated and overwhelming than they seemed in the dark.
Hiding in bed and running away never solved anything. I have to talk to Vincenzo.
