I count. Ten.
My mind wanders back to the moment Rosalia had squatted down where I sat on the stairs, that golden cross dangling from her neck. She’s a believer. A Christian. She would never try anything in a church.
Well, she’s a Christian who tortured,says a voice in me. But it’s the only place I can think of that would shelter.
I try to locate the church whose bells I just heard, and it takes me half an hour to find it, only to stand in front of a monumental building with its doors closed.
Shit.
I am desperate, so I rattle at the doors. Of course, in vain.
I sink to the ground with my back resting against the doors, and dig my face into my hands. There is nowhere I can go.
I can’t go to the police, because that Rosalia and Kat will find me, I bet they’re all corrupt here anyway. I can’t hide. I can’t get to Goiuseppe. I don’t know what to do—everything is so pointless.
My breath flattens.
What am I even doing here?
I am on the verge of getting a panic attack with cold sweat appearing on my forehead and the world zooming out.
Suddenly, the door behind me clicks and opens.
An elderly padre opens the door and says something that sounds very angry.
I swallow hard.
“Mi scusi,” I say, standing up and bowing slightly. “I—I didn’t know it was closed—I was in need of—“ I begin and stop myself. “Mi scusi,” I repeat.
A scent of old books and centuries of history trails up my nose through the open door, goosebumps spreading over my arms. I know that smell. I?—
His eyes wander to my wrists, even in the dim lights, and I can’t hide the traces of what had happened.
“Entra,” he says, gesturing me inside as if he were to do something forbidden. And maybe he was. Harbouring a hunted woman.
I bow to him again when I step through the door past him and whisper, “Mille grazie.”
The church is dark, with only a few candles lit near the altar. But I have no eyes for it.
I walk down between the rows of wooden benches. I have walked this path before.
Every single one of my steps on the marble floor echoes multiplied through the resonance of a church's acoustics. Slowly, my fingers caress the backrests.
An image from my past flashes through my mind. Iknowhave been here before. My head twitches.
I stop at the seventh row because that is where I see my father sitting with another man in my mind, while I am told to be quiet and occupy myself. I must have been eleven at that time. But I can’t consciously recall being here after the age of six.
Maybe you did erase memories,whispers a voice in the back of my mind.
I slide into the row. My hands find the wood next to my thighs. A deep breath in. Ihavebeen here before.
I don’t believe in coincidences. I believe that everything happens for a reason. A magical feeling spreads through me as I acknowledge that I might be meant to be here again. A greater reason for all that has happened.
I close my eyes and fold my hands in my lap. I never went tochurch much, but I do pray. Some may call it God, I call it a universal consciousness. And so I talk to it, in my mind.
Suddenly, a voice rips me from my prayer.
“Antonella.”
