Chapter 5 Phone Call

When I looked up, Dorian Bellarmine was already there, sitting on the stone bench opposite, holding a book open on his lap, not reading a word of it.

I hadn't noticed his footsteps.

My eyelashes were still wet. My legs had gone numb. I pushed myself up, ankles wobbling, trying to walk away before he could say anything.

'If all you know how to do is cry,' he said, 'you don't deserve to survive in this world.'

I stopped.

His voice didn't match his age. Neither did his eyes.

He was twelve, thin, pale, elbows bony under his sleeves, but he looked at me like he'd already buried half the planet.

I took a step back.

My heel caught the edge of the flowerbed.

I went down hard.

My knees slammed into the ground.

My palms hit first, but not flat.

The bricks tore across my left hand in a jagged line.

Blood welled fast.

I stayed there, staring at it.

He didn't move.

He just watched.

***

I couldn't sleep.

I turned on the lamp beside the bed and lay flat, staring at the ceiling.

I didn't know why the memory had clawed its way back.

It had been years.

That place, that girl, I wasn't her anymore. I hadn't been her in a long time.

I opened my hand. The scar ran along my left palm, faint but still there, like something pressed into the skin and never fully lifted.

The clock read 3:40.

I got up, slid my feet into slippers, and walked to the kitchen.

The floor was cold.

I flicked the light on, opened the fridge, pulled out the milk.

I poured it into a glass. Stopped.

Then reached for a second one and filled it halfway.

I put them both in the microwave and pressed start.

The hum filled the silence.

Next to the microwave, the oven door gleamed, spotless enough to reflect.

I saw myself in the black enamel, older, sharper, nothing like the girl who bled into the bricks and didn't even scream.

I felt tired.

Not from work. Grad school wasn't hard, not like this.

It was the remembering that drained me.

The microwave beeped.

I took the glasses out.

The low glow from the kitchen and my bedroom cast enough light to blur the edges of the living room furniture.

Shapes drifted in and out of shadow, soft and pale against the dark.

I placed one glass on the table in front of the sofa.

'I know you're awake. Drink some milk. It'll help.'

Livia Castellari sat up slowly, her blanket sliding to her lap. She took the glass with both hands and drank.

'Thank you,' she said quietly.

I downed mine in a few gulps.

When she finished, I reached for her empty glass, but she jerked upright.

'I can wash it,' she offered quickly.

'Give it here. I don't trust other people to clean my things.'

She handed it over without meeting my eyes.

She stayed on the sofa, knees drawn up.

The light caught her face. Tight mouth. Uneven breathing.

I remembered what that felt like.

Back then, I wouldn't have made it without Dorian.

Livia raised her voice. 'Elettra, your phone's ringing.'

I wiped my hands on a towel and walked back to the bedroom.

Only two people ever called me this late.

My adviser, or him.

I checked the screen.

My stomach dropped.

I locked the door behind me before answering.

I didn't speak.

My breathing wasn't loud, but it wasn't even.

He noticed.

'Spark. Are you coming home for New Year's?'

I closed my eyes. Counted to four.

'It's three fifty in the morning. Don't fucking call me at this hour again. That's one. Two, don't call me Spark. It makes my skin crawl. I hate it.'

He laughed. It slithered through the speaker, crawled up my back.

My hand tightened around the phone.

'You've got a lot of breath for someone who should be asleep. Cursing, too. We don't do that in this family.'

'I'm not part of your fucking family.'

His voice hardened. 'If the old man were still alive and heard that, you'd be tasting leather by now.'

My shoulder tensed. I could still feel it, those exact spots lighting up, sharp and hot, like they had years ago.

I didn't let it shake me.

'If he were still breathing, he wouldn't come for me first. Half the shit you've pulled would've got you shot in the face.'

'Not if I shot him first.'

I had no comeback for that.

'I'll send someone to collect you for New Year's. You're coming home.'

I gripped the edge of the desk. My skin felt tight. I kept my tone flat.

'My advisor just got back. I've got gaps in my thesis I can't sort without him. I'm not leaving.'

He laughed softly. He didn't believe a word of it.

'I'll find someone more qualified for you here. Better than your advisor.'

My throat clenched.

'I said I'm not going. Don't pretend you want me home for the holiday. You're planning something fucking vile.'

'Oh? And what exactly am I planning?'

He was angry. I heard it under the calm.

I backed off.

'I don't want to come. It'll take time out of my studies. I haven't been sleeping. I feel sick.'

He paused.

'Fine. Sleep, then.'

I ended the call and killed the power on my phone before his voice could crawl back through the speaker.

My thumb shook slightly as I pressed the button.

I should've switched it off hours ago.

I climbed back into bed and pulled the duvet up to my chin.

The cotton was clean and soft, the edges cool from the air.

I pressed my face into it, closed my eyes, and waited for sleep to come.

It didn't.

My temples throbbed. The muscles around my jaw ached. I tasted acid behind my teeth.

I could still hear his voice, low and flat, like it had slipped inside the room with me.

I considered the sleeping pills.

The box was in the drawer, ten steps away.

I didn't move.

I didn't want to depend on them, not the way she had.

Not the way it had ruined her.