The ground began to tilt beneath me, as if someone were bending it with their hands. The world became distorted: the edges were blurred, the lights were off and on without rhythm, and my thoughts were disordered like pages torn from a book. I tried to open my eyes completely, but they barely responded. I only saw spots, shapes being born and dying... until a familiar image began to materialize.
First came the walls, appearing as a viscous mass that fell from the ceiling and molded itself. Then the ground, rendering line by line like an old game loading its textures. And finally, the kitchen. My kitchen. The one from before. The one that no longer existed except in my memory.
"E—" hey? I groaned, unable to understand what was going on.
My father and mother were sitting at the table, perfectly still, as if frozen in an old photograph. On the table was a crumpled paper and a pen that my father tapped insistently, marking a rhythm that I knew all too well: that of despair.
"We didn't get there," he said, without looking up. Another month that we risk sleeping on the street.
"Don't say that," my mother whispered. We can do something to pay for everything.
My father put the pen down on the table and rested his head on his hand. It was exactly the same gesture I made in class when I wanted to disappear from the world. Now he understood where he had gotten it from.
"I'll try... work overtime," he said, his voice breaking mid-sentence.
He knew what "overtime" meant. It was the same lie I was repeating now. The same crooked path. The same trap.
"You don't have to, honey," my mother placed her hand on his arm, trembling unintentionally. We will ask the bank for a loan. We will pay it in installments.
"In installments?" My father slammed his head up in anger. We can barely pay the rent, we eat just enough, and you tell me that getting into more debt is an option?
That question oozed hypocrisy. He didn't want a loan from the bank, but he did call the men who ended up destroying us. In his head, a mafia sounded more trustworthy than a bank. What an irony.
"If we don't want to lose the house, there's no other way," my mother said, forcing a tone that sought calm where there was none.
My father snorted, exhausted. He grabbed his mobile phone roughly and began to type something. He didn't say another word. He got up and walked out of the kitchen, slamming the door so loud that even in this world of artificial memory it echoed.
My mother stood still. An instant later he covered his face with both hands... and her crying filled the room like an overflowing bucket.
I wanted to get closer. Talk. Touch your shoulder. Something. But my legs didn't exist in that place. I didn't exist in that place. He was just a doomed spectator.
And then, just as it had begun, everything began to fall apart. The walls dripped black ink, the table warped, my parents dissolved into shadows. In a matter of seconds, everything fell into a void so deep that it seemed to absorb my breath.
When the world returned, it did so with violence.
The alley reappeared like a blow to the stomach: the cold soaking my bones, the moisture clinging to my skin, the smell of dried blood and shit filling my nose again. The weight of the dead body was still close. And reality, cruder than any dream, called me back mercilessly.
I got up as best I could, trembling as if my bones were going to break, but with a fixed idea holding me to my feet: when I returned home everything would be in order for another week. That thought was the only plank I could hold on to. The body was still there, lying like a broken doll, sunk in a dark puddle that expanded beneath it. I preferred not to look at it. I preferred to pretend that it didn't exist, that it hadn't happened, that it had nothing to do with me. A new tear ran down my cheek without me being able to help it.
Then I heard it. Steps. Many steps. Excited, confused voices, running with a haste that only brings misfortune. I didn't know if they were coming towards the alley, but to stay here was suicide. If I were found now, with a fresh corpse on the ground, the full weight of the law would fall on me, and rightly so.
I stuck to the wall and hid in a corner where shadows were the only thing that offered shelter. To my left, a door ajar; the same one for which the Big Boss had disappeared without a trace, for sure. It was my only option.
"Is there anyone there?" A voice asked, trembling but trying to sound firm.
"What's that there?" asked another, a little closer.
The two of them drew closer, step by step, as if they feared that something might pounce on them from any corner. Her fear was palpable... and very justified.
I got into the building with a quick movement and closed the door with my shoulder so as not to make a sound. There was only one corridor. Long, narrow, straight until an exit that led to the main street. I started moving forward, trying to stabilize my breathing.
"It's a body!" one shouted, with a tone that echoed even through the door.
"He's dead!" There's too much blood! The other blurted out, already on the verge of panic.
The voices faded as I walked away, swallowed up by the hallway and the distance. But just before I lost them completely, I heard the phrase that could turn my life into a greater hell than it already was:
"Call the police!"
I went out into the street and looked both ways with a wild heart. There were too many people, too many eyes, too many chances for someone to draw the wrong conclusions. The simple fact of being there, breathing among strangers, already made me feel exposed. I adjusted the clothes as best I could, pulling the fabric to cover the bruises and cuts that were poking out where they shouldn't. I forced myself to stand up, to walk with a firm step, as if my body were not burning inside.
Every movement hurt. Every breath reminded me that this time the wounds were worse, much worse. It was no longer the easy blows to hide with a long sleeve or a quick excuse. No... This time, even if he wanted to, he couldn't fool anyone.
And least of all my mother.
She had always accepted my explanations without insisting too much, perhaps because she did not want to see the obvious. But with these new wounds... There was no way he couldn't ask what the hell he was doing when she wasn't home.
So I began to mentally review my repertoire of cheap lies, the same as always, the ones that were already coming out automatically:
"I have fallen."
"It's from training."
"I cut myself with a sharp edge."
Improvised patches for wounds that should never have existed.
But this time, even as I repeated those excuses to myself, I knew they weren't going to be enough.
I sat on a nearby bench, cornering myself in the corner, sticking my shoulder to the back as if I wanted to merge with it. I needed distance, space, any physical barrier that separated me from the world. I stared at a dead spot on the floor. People passed in front of me like an endless stream, blurred faces that mingled with the insistent echo of the gunshot, repeating itself in my head over and over again like a broken record.
The air began to run low. My chest was rising and falling too fast. A strange, piercing cold spread from my fingers to the back of my neck. I hyperventilated, but I couldn't stop.
"Hey," said a close female voice. My breath was cut off. I didn't lift my head, but my eyes snapped open. My throat closed; Answering was impossible.
"Leo?" He insisted. That voice... fuck, that voice.
"A-Aina?" I whispered, trembling.
The sound of cars, the conversations in the background, the jingling of the doorbells as they open... everything was mixed in a distant, almost unreal noise.
"What are you doing in the street at this hour?" He asked in that tone of his, half scolding, half genuine concern.
Normally I would have responded instantly, with one of my dry, cutting sentences, trying to hide everything. But this time I couldn't. My head didn't give me that much. I did enough not to faint.
I dared to look at her. And as soon as our eyes met, I saw his expression change: first surprise, then something much deeper, more uneasy.
"Leo," he whispered, "what happened to you?"
"Nothing you need to worry about," I blurted out.
For every word, for every sentence we exchanged, there was an awkward silence between us, one so dense that it seemed to occupy the space of the entire bench. But it didn't matter anymore. The discomfort had long since exceeded my limit; I didn't care about everything.
Aina let out a resigned snort, one that didn't fit the polished, perfect image she always projected.
"Always so defensive," he remarked, almost as if he tired of repeating it.
"Leave me alone," I murmured, not having the strength to raise my voice. I don't want to talk to anyone.
She remained silent, but did not move. He did not leave. And that, in a way, threw me off more than if I had simply turned around and disappeared like everyone else in my life.
"Already... I see it," he finally answered, in a different, softer tone. Not compassionate, but... careful. Like someone who approaches a wounded animal that could bite if touched too much.
He looked away at my hands, then at my stiff, tense posture, and frowned, not out of displeasure, but out of an understanding that seemed to come halfway to him.
"You're not well," he said, and it wasn't a question. It was a statement.
I swallowed hard. The words stuck in my throat, but still something came out.
"What do you know if you are well or not?" I blurted out, more tired than angry. I'm just here... hanging out like a normal teenager. Go away.
I pulled up my shirt, stretching it against my body to cover myself, as if a simple thermal could hide everything I was wearing. He wanted to disappear. That the street swallowed me. Let her go. But he didn't. He was still there, firm, as if it was her turn to hold something she didn't even understand.
Aina inhaled slowly, as if containing a comment she would have said on any other day. And when she spoke, it was in a tone that I had never heard from her.
"You won't be any better off here," he said, not looking at me condescendingly, but as if he knew that staying is not an option. Come with me to a place.
I didn't move. I didn't nod. I didn't say yes either. Alone... I stopped resisting. I let out the air, lowered my head, and stood up. It was my silent way of accepting, because I didn't have the strength for more words.
Aina started walking and I followed her, not knowing why, not being sure if she wanted company or simply could not sit still again. The road was short, or it felt short, perhaps because my mind was still tied to the shot, to the body, to the alley.
When we turned the corner and I saw the sign of the premises, something inside me tensed.
That bar.
That same bar.
The place where I had had hot chocolate not so long ago... when the world still seemed a little less dark.
The warm lights illuminated the entrance, just as they did that afternoon. And for a moment, just a second, I felt a pang in my chest: as if I were stepping on a memory that no longer belonged to me.
Aina pushed the door open naturally, I walked in behind her, with my head down, looking at nothing but the floor.
Luckily, the place was empty. Not a client, not a shadow. I was grateful for that silence like someone who finds a corner where he can hide from the world, even if only for a few minutes.
"Come, follow me," Aina said, glancing quickly over her shoulder, as if she feared she would run at any moment.
"Don't worry," I thought. "Not even if I wanted to, I couldn't do it."
We go straight ahead, crossing the premises from side to side until we reach the door with the typical "Only authorized personnel" sign hanging crooked. Just as we were about to cross, the woman who had served me the last time came out of one of the rooms that overlooked the bar.
"Aina, will you bring me what I asked for?" he asked, not yet seeing us.
Did you know his name? Did he make him run errands? Was he some kind of helper... or...?
Aina left a bag—which she hadn't even noticed she was carrying—on the bar.
"Oh, right," she said.
The woman opened the bag, checked the contents, and when she looked up she found me there, half hidden under my clothes, and frowned.
"And who is that?" He asked with a perfectly sharp distrust.
"He's—" Aina began.
I gave a little tug to the sleeve. Not loud, just enough for him to understand that he didn't want to hear my name out loud.
"Don't tell him who I am... Please..." I whispered, barely moving my lips, without showing my face.
Aina stood still for a second, processing it, and then improvised without hesitation:
"He's a friend of mine."
The woman narrowed her eyes.
"And why is he covered up like that?" Is something wrong with you?
Aina replied with more confidence than I would have managed to gather in a month:
"She's very cold and doesn't even know how to cover herself to warm up. I have invited him home, I hope you don't mind.
The woman hesitated. He analyzed me from top to bottom as if he could see through the fabric. Finally, he sighed.
"Okay... but no weird things.
I felt a strange heat rise suddenly all over my body. From the feet to the face. My cheeks were burning. I didn't even know why. Perhaps because of the phrase. Maybe because no one had ever lied like that to cover me.
"By the way," she added, "I left your dinner on your desk."
"Thank you, Mom," Aina replied.
"Mom..."
Of course. I see.
Aina opened the door and a draught of cold air hit me in the face. I went in behind her. The first door did not open onto a floor, as he expected, but into a narrow alley lit by a single spotlight nailed to the wall, a yellowish light that made it seem as if everything was out of place. Before I could ask questions, Aina was already climbing some metal stairs almost to the door. I followed them, still doubting why the hell I was with her.
Above, another door. She opened it naturally, as if there was nothing strange about all that clandestine journey. When I crossed it, I found... a house. A normal house. Too normal for the exterior we had just gone through. The contrast left me still for a moment, blinking like an idiot.
"Welcome to my humble abode," he said with a broad gesture, advancing towards the living room, visible from the hall. But he barely took two steps when he turned to me, pointing to my clothes. You can leave your jacket there... well, no, better give them to me... or maybe it would be better to wash them...
"I'll leave them on," I blurted out, cutting her short. His verbiage evaporated immediately, as if a tap had been turned off.
She nodded, somewhat awkwardly, and walked down a narrow hallway. I followed her, not knowing if doing so was a good idea. Every step I took made me wonder the same thing: why was I there? Why had I agreed to come to the house of the girl who, the first day I saw her, I swore I wouldn't stand? Why did she, of all people, seem to care about my state when I had been neither sympathetic nor polite to her?
She opened a door at the end of the hallway.
"It's my room," he said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to invite a half-bruised guy he barely knew.
The room was small, warm, full of things: posters, stacked books, a tiny window. She went in first and I stood in the doorway for a second, as if an invisible barrier was trying to stop me.
Why are you worried about how I am, I wanted to ask her.
Why am I worried that you are worried, I asked myself.
I didn't say anything. I went in, closing the door behind me.