Мелисса П. - The Scent of Your Breath

“Yes, my darling, you will. And you’ll do it because it’s the only way of uniting yourself with him once more. You’re his demon now, and demons can only take their own favorites with them,” she said.

“You mean, you couldn’t?”

“If I did, I would go on being a damned soul, while he would be a free one. If you do it, drag him with you, because he must obey only you.”

“I don’t want him. I’ll disappear forever and watch him love: that will be the damnation I deserve,” I replied. She came over to me and breathed in my face. Her breath froze my muscles.

“You stupid, spoiled little girl. You’ve asked for it. The other ghosts and I will hurt you so badly you’ll beg us to die a terrible death. We’ll finish you off.”

When I was little I drew a closed semicircle on a sheet of paper. I drew a little ball on each end of the semicircle and then wrote love on one side and hate on the other.

Cold floor. Doors barred and shutters lowered. Lights out. My naked body lying here. Wind on the hills. Rain. Sun. Then rain again. One week. Two weeks. Three weeks. Three days. No remorse, no kindness, no emotion. The absence of the ghosts. The sense of having attained perfection and omnipotence. Omnipotence. Omnipotence.

Then the darkness comes and grips me by the arm.

What did you do today? When someone phoned you at six in the morning and told you they’d found your daughter lying on the floor, close to death, what did you think? Did you scream, did you curse, did you feel overwhelmed with resignation? Did you think you had a mad daughter? Or did you think you had a daughter who was passionately in love? Or perhaps both?

When you took the first flight for Rome and then traveled more than a hundred kilometers to find me, and when you reached the red house on the hill and didn’t find anyone, just my hair scattered on the carpet, what did you call your pain?

What was the consistency of your love when you looked at me through the glass in the door, while my wrists, slashed and now healed, were outstretched and hanging, held up by two strips of white fabric?

What fear did you feel when you saw my eyes? When you noticed that one of them was going blind, full of clotted blood?

Would you have allowed yourself to be stroked by my hands with their shattered nails?

And that part of me I gave you, where did it end up?

If it’s still inside you, free it, let it fly. Perhaps one day it will come back to me and we will have a great orgy of love.

For many reasons, all different and unpronounceable, I thank the following: my dog, Burrito, who arrived late but not too late. Simone Caltabellota, who, on the other hand, arrived early. Nikki Sudden, Nic Kelman, and Rocco Fortunato. Martina Donati and Melisso, plus Nilo, the unborn child (who will have been born by now!). Julieta and Bengt, Ignacio and Mario Brega.

I’d also like to thank the coprotagonist of this story even if, in my view, I’ve already devoted too much time to him (both in life and in the book).

Last, I thank all the people who hate me, because it’s thanks to them that I love myself all the more.