Naked

Night has fallen for a few hours when I feel a shadow along my back, go on up to the nape, crawling in the hair, find the neck. Despite the darkness, I can distinguish that liquid spot full of threat. This is it: is back, insatiable.

The acrid smell of wine and sweat sticks to the dark wooden floor.

- Remember that you are mine. No one can have you-

His words are incandescent lava on my skin, all my attempts of protection burn. He’s greedy, out of his mind.    Falls on me immobilizing me.

With a spontaneous movement I try to fight his blind lust, I try to repel the dark load of his voracity, but he continues to block my wrists and to tie me in an iron grip.

He drags me by my arm towards the corridor, crossing the red door, going into the kitchen and squashing me on the wall soaked of humidity. He rips my soul and my clothes, bites me everywhere. I break down after a punch on my left cheekbone, I vomit the rust of the blood on my violet lips. I repeat to myself that it is impossible to find a spark on the hell of this violence. I’m forced to give up, also this time. I let myself get carried away, without swimming or drowning.

Physical pain is the only contact with reality that I give to myself. I slip away from what is happening. I try to rough out myself like in a black-and-white photograph, I visually represent myself hoping to grab me better. I am in the balance, grabbed in the middle of a wooden plank. I am naked. I look at my body, identify the secret bruises, the hidden wounds, the words unspoken.

I imagine myself muffled by a beam of light, by a dark indistinct chain that I cannot open.

The first time that my life stumbled down his life we were in a little book shop, in the center of Rome, narrow such as the paper maze through which you can explore the path of the still alive words.

It was May, the sun’s rays filtered in orange the sunset that shyly sink on the city. That afternoon I have decided to give myself a random treat: a black cherry and pistachio ice cream, a flower dress on sale in the corner store and a walk through the shelves full of books. I saw him immediately: his big shoulders, the sun of his hair and the soil of his eyes. A planet to colonize. His hands ran down the rough pages of some books chosen random.

His hands, right. The same in that moment apparently so kind and gentle, would become in short time cruel and inexorable, a weapon always available. The sweetness of a touch transformed in the fury of a slap. We were seeing each other for six months, we were just got in the car after an evening at a friend’s house: the smell of the spaghetti with tomato sauce, the bubbles of the prosecco in the glasses, the flowing talks with the laughers. Common fragments, ordinary parts of life. But he thought I was guilty, sentenced without the possibility of return. -I saw you. Shut up, don’t say a word. You’re wearing that for him. Whore.- his accusations didn’t wanted to be confirmed, didn’t investigate the reality, were strengthened inside themselves, feed by a misrepresented imagination, deformed, monstrous.

That slap was a frozen flash, the first flash of the storm that would have flooded my life.

I look at me: shards of flesh and humiliation. In the silence I fill with tears the cracks of my heart, I curse the hope in a change renewed day to day. I rethink about the promises, about the empty words. I chase a love polluted, contaminated, fatally sick.

It is the dawn. The breath of the wind pass through the half-closed window giving me some drops of strength.

Will I survive?

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