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I thought he was once a monster. Immortal like his Greek mythological gods. But he bleeds and dies like any other mortal man. The struggle between what is good in him and what is bad is a scale that could never be weighed in his favor. Yet, I find myself concentrating more and more on the hero that saved me rather than the villain who broke me.
Forty-Two
Scarlet
Seven Months Later
For the past four weeks, I have been staying in Cudillero, a small fishing village on the north coast of Spain. I found the quiet, less crowded town more suitable for me after almost six months in Madrid. The local culture here is as impressive as the food. You can't walk out onto the streets without the aromas of freshly cooked paella, fabada, or something equally delicious filling your nostrils and warming your soul.
The locals are not invasive. Being used to many ex-pats settling into their village and tourists visiting the area, they have become accustomed to strangers.
Within a few weeks of being in Spain, I stripped the horrible brown color from my hair. Unable to stare at the imposter any longer, I just wanted to feel like myself again. Look in the mirror and not see the stranger I had become. Keeping on the down-low when you're a red-headed American living in Spain, though, is not easy. I keep to myself mainly. On occasion, I join in with the tourists exploring my surroundings, but I tend to stay at my apartment, filling my days with writing. Boredom is not an option. It makes my mind wander too much over the painful memories of the past. I can transport myself into another time with writing, another place filled with new characters and new adventures. I don't need to replay my former life and all the people who were once in it.
No longer being able to practice journalism, I knew I still wanted to write. It's my passion. The more I tried to ignore the urge to write, the more it called to me. It all started with me journaling my days, then turned into making up stories that I wished I were a part of. The more I wrote, the deeper I became involved in it. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, as I would become lost in another world.
Days like today, though, the ones where the story I am writing gets its happy ending, I fall into a pit of depression. I mope around having to face the reality that although I am alive, I did not get the fairy-tale ending like my story. I am alone in my world. Forever destined to fly under the radar, never to become more than what I am. In giving me my life back, Luca also took so much from me. He took away my freedom. The life I live now has to be lived forever cautious, forever suspicious of all those around me. I can't make friends. Not only out of fear they will be killed if I am discovered but because I would have to lie about who I am and what brought me to this side of the world. I will constantly have to move around, never having the luxury of a forever home. I cannot tell the truth about myself to anyone, which makes me feel more alone than when I lost my family. I am a stranger to myself.
I think about Luca often. Too often. A heavy ache fills my chest at even the thought of him.
I dare not Google his name, though. I could not bear seeing the date of death that I would indeed find next to his name.
There was so much left unsaid. So much we never got to explore between us. I never got to thank him for freeing me. I never got to say a proper goodbye. Maybe that is why I can't get him out of my head. Our story will forever remain unfinished. I will never get the closure I need. You would think I should be happy and rejoice that I will never have to see him again. Yet, I feel sad and so heavy with burden and guilt that it eats away at me.
My future is so uncertain. Dreams are but a distant memory. Nightmares plagued my sleep. I don't feel safe in my new life, and I am yet to let go of my old one. I don't even have a photograph of my family. All my possessions fit neatly into a tiny pink suitcase. I keep it packed, ready to go at a moment's notice if I need to. This is not living. I only exist.
Forty-Three
Luca
I tried. Goddammit, I tried so fucking hard to forget about Scarlet, but she is in my head, in my heart. She is in every single piece of me. This is why I have always shut myself off from ever feeling love. It fucking hurts! It hurts like hell.
Six months! Six painful, torturous months of running face recognition software through security footage of places all over the world, and nothing. Not one single trace of Scarlet or whoever the hell she is now.
I gave my word to Elijah that I would not ask about her. That I would never ask for her name or the place he took her to. I intend to keep my word, but that doesn’t mean I will give up looking for her. It’s become an obsession. I just want one look. I just want to see her face one last time and know she is okay, and then I can put this behind me.
Perhaps that is my punishment for my disloyalty to Nicolai. The torture of not knowing where and how she is. Whether she has found a lover, to see if she is happy or not, or maybe worst of all, is only being able to see her beautiful face in my dreams and not in reality.
I thought my life was miserable before I met Scarlet. Now, I am unbearable to be around. I see her face in every stranger. As vast as the ocean that divides us, I am still caught up in her illusion. She is like a fever that I cannot break. I feel trapped in the eye of the storm, tormented and obscured. I may as well be chasing stars, for it is impossible to let her go. Everything falls back to Scarlet.
Nicolai has noticed my distraction, asking on several occasions if something was going on with me. I fear this secret. This betrayal is slowly killing me. I can barely look at my brother without feeling the gut-wrenching guilt of my treachery. I owe Nicolai my life. He has saved my ass on more occasions than I care to think about, which only adds to the culpability. The only thing that keeps me going right now is the thought of Scarlet alive and safe.
I spent some time in Italy with my cousin Alessio. I thought the distance would help. I thought not going home to an empty apartment that haunts me with her memory would help. But it did nothing to ease the pain of losing her.
As I step into Nicolai’s office, an unease washes over me. Behind his desk, he sits waiting for me with a sullen stare. I have not seen him in a week as he has been away on business. When he called me to his house today, I assumed it was to discuss business matters from his trip, but now as I stare into his eyes standing before him, something tells me I am very wrong.
“So, as you know, I was in Spain this last week.” Nicolao breaks the silence. “While I was there, something, or rather someone, caught my attention.” Nicolai slides a photograph across the desk to me. My heart gears into full speed, throbbing and pumping hard in my chest.
I look at the picture. Fuck! He found her.
“A striking resemblance, is it not?”
Swallowing the thick lump in my throat, I look up from the picture to my brother. His eyes are not dark like I’d expect. They are sympathetic, regretful, and pained. My betrayal cuts deep.
“What the fuck did you do to her?” Panic, rage, bile all rise to a dangerous level. Fierce fire coats my every word as I slam my hands down onto Nicolai’s desk.
“Calm the fuck down. I didn’t touch her.” His hands fly up into the air, surrendering.
His words do nothing to calm the raging storm taking over my body. I stride over to him as the angry beast inside me takes hold. He doesn’t fight me as I squeeze my hand hard around his neck, pinning him to the wall. Why the fuck is he not defending himself? I may be stronger than him, but he is not even trying.
