Torture to Her Soul
Page 59
"After everything you've done, you regret none of it?" she asks. "How can that be?"
"Because you can't go back and change things once they're done. You can't rewrite history. Dwelling on it, wondering what could've been different, wondering how things might be in a perfect world, is a waste of time. Because this world isn't perfect, life isn't perfect, and it never will be. I'm only one man, and I only have one life, and I'm not going to waste it regretting my decisions and wishing I could change things that can never be changed. Wishing gets you nowhere, sweetheart. Believe me—I know. I wish and I wish and I wish and it doesn't make a goddamn difference. I lost my life in a single moment that a hundred years of regret wouldn't ever give me back. So no, Karissa, I don't regret anything."
There's something in her eyes, something I don't expect to see: sadness. I don't know if she believes a word that just came from my lips, but it's clear what I said got to her. Her mouth opens, and she hesitates, before whispering, "Did you ever even grieve?"
"Of course I grieved. I've spent two decades grieving."
"No," she says, shaking her head. "You spent two decades plotting revenge. That's not the same thing. Anger's just a small part of grief. You can't just get angry and be done with it. You have to really feel it, Naz, or you'll never accept it."
I can feel my arm hair bristling. She's clawing at me, getting under my skin.
"You say you don't feel regret about anything, and maybe that's true. But if it is? I feel sorry for you."
Those words are a punch in the gut. My expression hardens, my muscles taut. "I don't need your pity."
"It's not pity," she says. "It's understanding. You don't like to hurt, so instead you inflict the pain on others. I get that now. But grief isn't something you can finish; it isn't something with a beginning and an end. Grief is something you absorb, something you accept. But in order to learn to live with it, you still have to live."
"I am living."
"You're avoiding," she says. "You're deflecting."
The more she talks, the more pissed off I get. If I wanted to be psychoanalyzed, I'd pay a fucking shrink.
She drops the subject, once again turning to look out the window.
One hour down, seven more to endure.
It takes the entire rest of the flight for me to push back my anger, for me to calm down enough to unclench my fists. She sleeps. I just stare at her, mulling over her words.
As soon as the wheels are on the ground and we come to a stop, I'm out of my seat. Karissa doesn't hesitate. She follows me off the plane, clutching hold of her brand new passport.
I had to call in a bunch of favors to get it for her.
We head through customs, flashing our passports, and are waved right through.
But Karissa hesitates.
Her feet root into the ground, blocking the line. She stares at the worker in silence, eyebrow raised, her passport still extended.
The man looks like he wants to strangle her.
She's an infuriatingly stubborn woman, I know it, but she's my stubborn woman, and my hands are the only ones that will ever wrap around her throat.
"Timbrare il passaporto," I say sharply, capturing the worker's attention. Stamp her passport. He scowls, digging in his drawer, and pulls out the small ink stamper. He pounds it against the first page in her passport before sliding it back to her.
"Thank you," Karissa whispers, smiling with satisfaction as she starts to walk away. I nod my appreciation, and he returns the gesture before moving on to the others behind us.
He just waves everyone else through.
There's a car waiting in front of the airport, a driver holding a sign with Vitale printed on it. We're staying at a hotel deep in the middle of Rome, just a few floors tall with a handful of rooms, small but luxurious, the kind of place where you get privacy but all the amenities you'd ever want.
Home away from home.
As soon as we step inside the hotel, I'm greeted with warm smiles and kind Italian words. I catch most of what they say even though I'm distracted, my attention continually drifting to Karissa.
She seems awestruck.
Eyes wide, curious and cautious, as they drink in our surroundings. We're led up to our suite on the top floor, and I'm trying to shove back my hostility so not to put off their hospitality, but I'm aggravated and exhausted and I'd much rather be left alone right now.
As politely as I can, I tell the workers to go the fuck away, shutting and locking the door behind them.
The suite is fairly big, given the modesty of the place: an open sitting room with couches and chairs, a fireplace and a television opposite a small kitchen, a large marble bathroom, and a bedroom with a king sized bed and access to a private outdoor terrace.
Karissa explores while I head straight to the bedroom and unpack my things in the small walk-in closet, feeling a bit better once I've found some order, some sense of control in my surroundings. I'm putting my last suit on a hanger when Karissa comes in.
She pauses near the doorway, leaning against the wall as she gazes into the closet, looking at me. I cut my eyes at her, meeting her stare.
"I didn't mean to upset you," she says.
I scoff, smoothing the dark material before hanging up the suit. "Yes, you did."
"But—"
"You meant every word of it," I say, stepping out of the closet toward her. "Never take back something you meant. I'd rather you offend me intentionally if it's something you believe than lie to my face just to placate me. I might not like what you say, but you're one of the few I respect to say it. Don't ruin that by taking back your words. Own them. Respect me that much."
"Because you can't go back and change things once they're done. You can't rewrite history. Dwelling on it, wondering what could've been different, wondering how things might be in a perfect world, is a waste of time. Because this world isn't perfect, life isn't perfect, and it never will be. I'm only one man, and I only have one life, and I'm not going to waste it regretting my decisions and wishing I could change things that can never be changed. Wishing gets you nowhere, sweetheart. Believe me—I know. I wish and I wish and I wish and it doesn't make a goddamn difference. I lost my life in a single moment that a hundred years of regret wouldn't ever give me back. So no, Karissa, I don't regret anything."
There's something in her eyes, something I don't expect to see: sadness. I don't know if she believes a word that just came from my lips, but it's clear what I said got to her. Her mouth opens, and she hesitates, before whispering, "Did you ever even grieve?"
"Of course I grieved. I've spent two decades grieving."
"No," she says, shaking her head. "You spent two decades plotting revenge. That's not the same thing. Anger's just a small part of grief. You can't just get angry and be done with it. You have to really feel it, Naz, or you'll never accept it."
I can feel my arm hair bristling. She's clawing at me, getting under my skin.
"You say you don't feel regret about anything, and maybe that's true. But if it is? I feel sorry for you."
Those words are a punch in the gut. My expression hardens, my muscles taut. "I don't need your pity."
"It's not pity," she says. "It's understanding. You don't like to hurt, so instead you inflict the pain on others. I get that now. But grief isn't something you can finish; it isn't something with a beginning and an end. Grief is something you absorb, something you accept. But in order to learn to live with it, you still have to live."
"I am living."
"You're avoiding," she says. "You're deflecting."
The more she talks, the more pissed off I get. If I wanted to be psychoanalyzed, I'd pay a fucking shrink.
She drops the subject, once again turning to look out the window.
One hour down, seven more to endure.
It takes the entire rest of the flight for me to push back my anger, for me to calm down enough to unclench my fists. She sleeps. I just stare at her, mulling over her words.
As soon as the wheels are on the ground and we come to a stop, I'm out of my seat. Karissa doesn't hesitate. She follows me off the plane, clutching hold of her brand new passport.
I had to call in a bunch of favors to get it for her.
We head through customs, flashing our passports, and are waved right through.
But Karissa hesitates.
Her feet root into the ground, blocking the line. She stares at the worker in silence, eyebrow raised, her passport still extended.
The man looks like he wants to strangle her.
She's an infuriatingly stubborn woman, I know it, but she's my stubborn woman, and my hands are the only ones that will ever wrap around her throat.
"Timbrare il passaporto," I say sharply, capturing the worker's attention. Stamp her passport. He scowls, digging in his drawer, and pulls out the small ink stamper. He pounds it against the first page in her passport before sliding it back to her.
"Thank you," Karissa whispers, smiling with satisfaction as she starts to walk away. I nod my appreciation, and he returns the gesture before moving on to the others behind us.
He just waves everyone else through.
There's a car waiting in front of the airport, a driver holding a sign with Vitale printed on it. We're staying at a hotel deep in the middle of Rome, just a few floors tall with a handful of rooms, small but luxurious, the kind of place where you get privacy but all the amenities you'd ever want.
Home away from home.
As soon as we step inside the hotel, I'm greeted with warm smiles and kind Italian words. I catch most of what they say even though I'm distracted, my attention continually drifting to Karissa.
She seems awestruck.
Eyes wide, curious and cautious, as they drink in our surroundings. We're led up to our suite on the top floor, and I'm trying to shove back my hostility so not to put off their hospitality, but I'm aggravated and exhausted and I'd much rather be left alone right now.
As politely as I can, I tell the workers to go the fuck away, shutting and locking the door behind them.
The suite is fairly big, given the modesty of the place: an open sitting room with couches and chairs, a fireplace and a television opposite a small kitchen, a large marble bathroom, and a bedroom with a king sized bed and access to a private outdoor terrace.
Karissa explores while I head straight to the bedroom and unpack my things in the small walk-in closet, feeling a bit better once I've found some order, some sense of control in my surroundings. I'm putting my last suit on a hanger when Karissa comes in.
She pauses near the doorway, leaning against the wall as she gazes into the closet, looking at me. I cut my eyes at her, meeting her stare.
"I didn't mean to upset you," she says.
I scoff, smoothing the dark material before hanging up the suit. "Yes, you did."
"But—"
"You meant every word of it," I say, stepping out of the closet toward her. "Never take back something you meant. I'd rather you offend me intentionally if it's something you believe than lie to my face just to placate me. I might not like what you say, but you're one of the few I respect to say it. Don't ruin that by taking back your words. Own them. Respect me that much."
