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Cold creeps in, and I hug my arms to my chest. I’m wearing a uniform from the shop that’s slightly too big. Either I’ve shrunk, or it isn’t mine. I don’t quite know where it came from, but it was handed to me when they made me strip to bag my clothes. Gianni shrugs off his coat and wraps it around my shoulders. He’s next to me, his arm arriving under mine as he slowly guides me toward the exit. I want to push him away. Somewhere inside my head lies the knowledge that I hate him, or is it the other way around? I’m not sure, and quite frankly, I couldn’t care less as I’ve never felt so tired. My legs are like iron rods as I try to move them. Why are they so heavy? Why does my body feel so weak? If it weren’t for Gianni, I don’t think I’d be able to stand.
I’m aware of Gianni next to me, steering me to his car. He seems to know I don’t want to talk. He opens the passenger door. I slide into the car and sink into the seat.
We drive in silence. My eyes feel drugged as the streets go by in a blur. I breathe in and out, the simplicity of this astounding me. Why can I manage this so easily when Lewis couldn’t? It is an instinct from birth. Even in the womb, babies know how to breathe. How is it possible a person can stop it so easily?
A warmth radiates from Gianni that feels unreal. My body feels icy as my head vibrates against the glass. My breath gathers on the window, the little vapors clinging to the surface as my view mists, reminding me I’m alive and Lewis is not.
I don’t notice where we stop, and quiet replaces the hum of the engine. Gianni climbs out of the car, but I wait, my body unable to take decisive action. The click of the door is smooth, the night air fresh compared to the dry air from the car heater. Gianni’s hand is on me, pulling me from my seat as my body groans, giving in to the command.
There’s a house, whose, I’m not sure, but within seconds, we’re inside. The darkness hides the interior, but Gianni seems familiar with its layout. He takes his coat from my shoulders and places it on a hanger. He ushers me up some stairs. The walls are smooth, and fragments of picture frames flash past the edges of my vision.
I’m guided to a bathroom containing a white porcelain toilet, sink, and bath, all framed with white tiles. It is all very clinical and purposeful. Gianni stands, his dark pants appearing stark against the paleness of the room. Am I supposed to say something? He reaches for my hands, pulling them in front of us both, and I see that dried, red blood has resurfaced my skin. It has crawled across the crevices, cracks, and creases in my hands.
Gianni drops my hands and moves to fill the bath, the noise of the faucet reverberates in my ears with an obscene clanking, and the glug of the water hitting the side of the bath is thunderous in the silence that surrounds us.
Gianni is in front of me again, having left the bath to its own devices. He is waiting for me to do something, but I’m dumbfounded about what exactly he expects. After several seconds, his hands trail up toward the hem of my T-shirt, and my hand instinctively grabs him. His eyes narrow as I finally look at him.
“We need to get you cleaned up.” He waits, eyes heavy, hands warm. “I’m not leaving you in here on your own.” My chest deflates, my shoulders dropping as I bow my head.
I don’t have the energy to protest. All the fight in me was left at the coffee shop. It is lying on the floor next to Lewis.
He removes my T-shirt, hands slipping beneath the light material as he pulls it over my head, my arms moving gracefully to the side like a bird in flight as they are released. He works with precision, pulling my pants from my waist without hesitation in removing them when I stand, desensitized to his touch. I’ve had so many people invade my personal space in the last few hours to collect parts of my body or examine them under their lenses that I don’t feel invaded.
When my clothes are gone, he moves me to the bath, holding my hand as he helps me lower myself into the hot water. The steam has filled the room, and the heat wraps itself around my body, yet I feel nothing as I sit with my back hunched over, my shoulders having given up. Gianni kneels beside the bath, his sleeves rolled up, and presses a heavy sponge against my skin, squeezing the water over my body. I should flinch. Is he trying to cleanse away what I’ve seen? Is the water supposed to wash it all away, leaving me revitalized and healed? The water seeps through my hair, his fingers stroking soap into my scalp as my eyes begin to close. The water stirs around my body. Gianni’s hands float over my skin. The bathroom disappears. Gianni is now gone as I let the water reach me. The heat penetrates my skin as something begins to stir.
He fishes my hands from beneath the suds and rubs the sponge over my skin. The red washes into the water, and my clean flesh is revealed. He washes my hair, his fingers flexing against my scalp, trying to rub away the things that might be tangled in its strands. My hair is limp and hangs around my neck after he rinses it. How have I ended up here?
Gianni moves away from the bath. Although he’s still in the room, I can sense him because the water awoke something within me. He reappears with a large white towel. He stands beside the bath, arms outstretched. I pull myself from the water, and a rush of it leaves my skin as it runs away, afraid it will be made to leave the tub. He wraps the towel around me as soon as I’m clear of the water, my hands taking over the job of holding it as he helps me from the bath.
I pull the cotton around myself, securing it over my chest. The cold air replaces the warmth of the water, and my hair feels like ice. I stare at him, my mind awake, my body revolting against this situation, which has felt surreal until now. Without warning, I step back, holding my hands out in front of me, ready to push him away.
“Chloe,” Gianni begins, but I’m here now. I am present.
I’ve woken from the sandstorm and realize what’s going on. The magnitude of it all hits me, the grains of sand embedded in my eyes, the grittiness invading my mouth and nostrils.
“Get your fucking hands off me.” The sand has reached my throat, the coarseness of my voice cracking with each word.
“Chloe.” Gianni’s hands are in front of him, holding his empty palms up, demonstrating he’s unarmed.
“What am I doing here? Why have you brought me here?” A surge of panic races through my veins. I push myself back against the bath, but there’s nowhere to go. Gianni moves a step closer, sensing that, like a horse, I’m ready to bolt.
“Chloe, you have to listen to me.”
“No, no. I don’t need to do anything.” I throw my eyes around the room, glancing frantically for an escape. His hand reaches out, but I slap it away. His other hand grabs my wrist as I dart for the door, trying to push past his large frame. “Get off me.” Anger surges through me.
“Chloe, I’m trying to help you.”
“Why? Why would you try to help me when you can’t stand the sight of me? I disgust you, remember?” I’m rigid as he holds my arm, his eyes examining me as he lets go of his breath.
“You know that isn’t true.” His accent is thick, his lips furnishing words that addle my brain, getting tossed around with the remnants of sand. “People say things in the heat of the moment, things they don’t mean, things that come from somewhere else entirely.”
His grip loosens, and I pull my hand away, rubbing my wrist as if what he implied stung my skin. Before I know what’s happening, I’m pushing him, pummeling my fists against his chest as a strangled cry flies from my mouth.
“How dare you.” I continue assaulting him. My hands have taken on a life of their own as they beat against his body. I’m using all my strength, everything that seemed to diminish in the minute Lewis had stopped breathing. It is all here, tunneling out from inside me, pushing at Gianni as if this is his fault.
“Hey, Chloe.” Gianni turns his voice down a notch.
“What are you playing at? What’s your game? I don’t understand why you would treat me like nothing, then ride to my rescue like some prince-fucking-charming. Is this some kind of joke to you? Am I merely an amusement?”
