Page 7 of Die for You

He barks in response.

Nico finishes his juice and places the empty glass in the sink. “Grazie.”

“Prego.”

Nico’s eyes widen, but I wave him off with a smile. “I know Italian. Sicilian, not so much.”

He nods politely, oblivious to what I said. But I like it. I like that we don’t understand each other. We merely coexist with no burden of making small talk.

I do wonder what his backstory is.

I wonder how long he’s lived here and if he or his family knows of Gianna.

The thought of knowing more about Gianna is tempting because she’s still as much of a mystery now as she was when I first met her. But it also feels like a betrayal of her trust.

Lenny’s judgmental voice sounds in my head.“Why are you so loyal to her?”

Truth be told, I don’t know.

She saved us when no one else did, when no one would take a chance on two misfits like Lenny and me. She protected us and showed us affection in the best way she could. I accepted that she isn’t someone who shows love the way most do.

But her actions prove she cares.

If she didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.

What I did was my choice, and it was a stupid choice at that.

But I couldn’t stop myself.

I was sick of waiting.

I was sick of being weak.

I was sick of my childhood memories controlling me.

Yes, I am now a fugitive on the run, but ironically, I have never felt freer than I do right now.

No one knows who I am.

Or what I’ve done.

“You can’t run away from who you are.”

It seems my father’s voice follows me wherever I go.

A part of me begins to fantasize about what it would be like to start over in a place where I am no one. I started my life this way and wanted more, but now I somehow want that simplicity once again.

I could be like everyone else and blend into a society I’ve never been a part of. I could get a nine-to-five job. I could gossip to my girlfriends about my loving boyfriend, whose name is Tom, and our three Bengal cats.

I could be normal.

“Who are you fooling? You can never be normal.”

He knows me better than I know myself, and the reason for that is because heisme. Perhaps, I don’t hear my father, but rather, it’s my own conscience.

Memories of Father Merry’s mutilated corpse hanging from the crucifix flash before my eyes, confirming what I know to be true—I can never be normal, and honestly, I don’t want to be.

Things here are slow-moving, and eventually, I will get bored. Thoughts of a normal life make me want to vomit, and I can’t help but want to set something on fire for something to do.