Chapter 6

Another sleepless night. This time I had

school in the morning.
“Damn it,” I said at last, throwing my blanket off in a
single sweeping motion. I sat up, dropped my head into my
hands, my hair falling like a curtain around my face, and
cried. Only for about thirty seconds, and the tears were more
out of frustration than sadness. I—as in the real Emily—
couldn’t tolerate the delusional, wreck-of-a-person who had
taken over. It wasn’t me.
Sometimes I wished I were a player inside a board game.
One of those tiny, colorful plastic pieces that move from
square to square. Whether the piece moves forward or
backward doesn’t matter; the path is decided for you by a
quick roll of the dice. That was what I needed, someone—or
something—to tell me what path to take. I clearly wasn’t
choosing the right paths on my own, otherwise I wouldn’t be
in Italy, crying like a sissy.
I brushed the tears away with my fingertips. This had to
stop, this overwhelming hopelessness that made me feel
hollow inside. Oh God. When my thoughts turned dark,
barely making any sense, it meant I needed air, a long walk,
and possibly some Bob Dylan.
“Backtrack,” my shrink had said. “Write down your
thoughts and feelings to find the root of the problem.” My
father had paid the man three hundred bucks for that little
piece of advice. I wasn’t opposed to writing. Sure, I could do
that. It was easy. I even brought a journal with me from
California. But will it help?
Getting out of bed, I snatched my sweatshirt from the
bedpost, pulled it over my head, sticking one arm in at a
time. I groped around in the dark to find my backpack
propped up beside the desk. My journal was in there, along
with Bob Dylan. Not the Bob Dylan, of course, but a
smaller—sound only—version of him that existed in that
lifesaving contraption called iPod. I unzipped the large
compartment, shifting through my belongings until I found
both items, including a pen, which I pocketed, and then
headed to the door. I wedged the earbuds into place and
turned the music up loud. Hello, Bob.
With my hand hovering over the doorknob, I weighed
my chances of getting caught. Back in California, I could
come and go as I pleased. Not because I didn’t have a curfew
or rules. I did, in theory. But my parents, toward the end,
anyway, were too wrapped up in themselves. My mom in her
despair. My dad in his sneaky escapades. They didn’t notice
the comings and goings of anyone, especially me. The maid.
The cook. The gardeners. We were silent shadows, steering
clear of my parents’ crossfire.
Slipping my feet into my shoes, I cracked open the door
and leaned into the hall. Was there any light escaping from
under my aunt’s and uncle’s door? It didn’t look like it. So I
tiptoed down the hall, taking extra care as I passed Carla’s
room. The last thing I needed was for her to catch me
sneaking out. After what she had witnessed the other night, I
wouldn’t blame her for tackling me on the spot. It’s true she
kept her head in the clouds most of the time, but when it
really mattered, that girl zipped down to reality long enough
to shake some sense into me. Thank God for Carla.
Maybe that’s what I needed. A pocket-sized Carla to take
with me wherever I went, whispering in my ear, “Let your
conscience be your guide,” just like Jiminy Cricket told
Pinocchio. No, that’s not what she’d say. I smiled,
entertaining the thought of my cousin—no taller than my
thumb—perched on my shoulder, a constant companion
pointing out all the hot guys who walked by. Not like I cared
about hot guys. That much.
For some reason, I thought about Giovanni as I entered
the living room. I swear it was him I saw in the opera box. I
was certain it was him. Frowning, I forced his image out of
my mind and focused on the task at hand. Escaping for an
hour or so would clear my mind and help me sleep. And I
needed to be exhausted so I couldn’t dream. That would take
a few miles of fast walking. Otherwise, I’d be stuck with the
same dream I’d had every night since the incident.
 Moonlight streamed in through the windows overlooking
the street, throwing a silvery-blue tint on everything in the
room, myself included. It made the apartment feel like a
lonesome tomb, a perfect place for a hollow ghost like me.
But unlike a true ghost, I was a solid object and was
reminded of that fact the moment my knee slammed into a
sharp corner of the coffee table.
Pain shot down my leg. Dropping my journal, I buckled
onto the nearest couch, covering my mouth just in time to
stifle a tremendous groan. I cupped my knee, rubbing it
softly, waiting for the pulsing ache, as steady as a heartbeat,
to go away. My head flopped onto the couch pillow,
thoroughly annoyed. I breathed slowly, trying to calm down.
Seriously, what next? Shaking my head, I looked over the
edge of the couch to find my journal. Meanwhile, Bob
Dylan carried on as if nothing had happened.
The journal laid open on its spine, baring the pages
within. I stared at it for a moment or two, knowing
something wasn’t right, before I realized what had happened.
Why I hadn’t figured it out sooner was beyond me. My
journal was still as pristine as the day I’d bought it, and was,
without a doubt, zipped up in my backpack. This wasn’t my
journal. This journal had words scribbled from top to
bottom.
 How could I have forgotten? This was the journal I had
found lying in the grass after the kiss, only moments before
Giovanni had disappeared. Paying no attention to my aching
knee, I inched to the edge of the couch so I could reach for
it. Its pages, aglow in the moonlight, held my gaze, my eyes
already attempting to read the black lines of flowery print. In
this dim light, it was a useless endeavor.
I hadn’t given it a second thought since finding it in the
graveyard. But now, now my stomach fluttered as my fingers
plucked it from the carpet. Its worn cover, rough against my
skin, reminded me of that flicker of recognition I had seen in
Father Rossi’s eyes as he held it.
I also remembered how determined I was to keep it for
myself, expecting Father Rossi to hand it back, as if it
belonged to me. I couldn’t explain why I had felt that way,
other than to say I was compelled to make it mine. Now that
I thought about it, it was the same compelling feeling that
overcame me during the opera, the feeling that had pulled
me from my chair and had led me to the opera boxes where I
had hoped to meet Giovanni again.
I hobbled back to my bedroom, switched on the desk
lamp, and slid down the wall next to the bed until I sat cross-
legged on the floor. My fingers flipped through the journal
all at once, getting a feel for how many pages there were to
read. But unlike reading a normal book, I opened to a
random page near the end of the book.

April 3

Today I am consumed by thoughts that bring me

no closer to my goal than yesterday. These are useless
thoughts, I know. Tell me. God. Satan. Brothers.
How will I survive yet another day, trapped in this
body, held to this Earth, shackled to my fate?
It seems the days pass quickly until I remember I
am suspended in this never-ending continuum. There
is no day, no hour, no minute. It just IS. Forever.
This life, eternal. I am here. An ever-fixed mark going
nowhere. Pinned like an insect to this board of life
with little hope.
No second chance to wipe clean the memories of
wrongdoings. They are branded to my existence. And
no matter where I look, I am reminded. Black eyes.
Lungs filled with black plaque, crushing me with
every breath I take until I no longer breathe. But
breathe, I must, if I am to remember what it is to be
human. Humanity is all that matters now.
This body is human even if its master is not.

And I considered my thoughts dark? The passage ended

there, but my mind raced to give it meaning. I turned to the
first page of the journal, searching for a name, a year,
anything that would tell me more about the person who had
written these haunting lines. I turned to the back of the
book, and there it was. His name. Giovanni, carefully
scripted and just as carefully crossed out.
His words repeated in my mind. This body is human
even if its master is not. Metaphors. That’s all it was. One
metaphor strung together with ten others, equally enigmatic.
He didn’t mean he wasn’t human, per se, but rather not
feeling human after so many wrongdoings. Or, was it his
regret that made him a monster? It sounded like he couldn’t
live with himself, even if the days passed quickly. I knew
what that felt like.
Would I, one day, feel like my lungs were filled with
black plaque, crushing the breath out me until I couldn’t
breathe? I wondered if my regret would magnify the longer I
carried it around until I no longer felt human. Was it too
late? Didn’t I already feel like a monster?
I yawned and glanced up at the alarm clock on my desk.
Ten past three. Shit. I had to be up in three hours. I turned
several pages, looking for a short passage, wanting to read
one more.

June 6

Perhaps months of little progress leads to great

opportunity. I met Anna, a Roma girl from Spain. She
dances flamenco, and her father is a street performer
who plays guitar.
The Roma are a stubborn people, too proud to
accept help from strangers. And yet, they need it, so I
became one of them. I speak Caló, most days now,
and it’s nice to have a break from Italian. I live at their
camp and have only one concern. Vincent. He will
not rest until he gets what he wants.

written by Rane Anderson

read Chapter Six at
thelitexpress.blogspot.com

art by Ashley Stewart

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