Suite Six


My father educated me as you do with dogs; precise rules, obedience and some psychology. And I, as a dog, have been devoted to him for my entire life and I will be for the rest of it.

I know what is right and what it isn’t and I know it better than other people and I’ve always known it. This is why I can affirm without any doubt at all that every time I took a false step, I was aware of the consequent slip. I could support millions of reasons to justify myself, to lighten the guilt but I perfectly know that none of these reasons could put on the back burner the full possession of all my faculties.

Maybe that’s why sometimes I need to fog my mind, to confuse myself, to let myself go. To forget myself…

I reached the address just after the dawn.

The asphalt was golden black and around me there was a comforting silence, enveloping.

I stayed uncertain at the door for a couple of seconds, then I got up my courage and put the key into the lock; a spring, just one spring and the door opened.

I found myself into a big garden from which three hedged by paths would branch off; in that moment I felt like Perseus lost in his own maze, looking for Ariadne’s thread; I found it in my bag, rolled into a ball at the bottom of a pocket: here it is, Unit C, last floor.

Shit, no lift!

Trauma after trauma; mazes, luggage, no facilitations at all, everything is heavy, both physically and morally and for every single step everything weights even more: why am I here? Why wouldn’t I? Why am I still questioning all this?

Six floors, six endless floors and here I am: a red door, one of those that you see in those North European interior design catalogues, with a plate on it; “Suite Six”. I go in. The flat is beautiful; with a male taste, it’s evident, essential but with style. In front of me a big window from which comes in a light that brutally illuminates everything; a cosy sofa, an industrial lamp, a print by De Chirico on the wall, a dud, bright yellow alarm clock, a typewriter, three old cameras and some scattered shots, deliberately in a casual order.

I leave the luggage by the sofa, I take what I need from it and I think that I might make a coffee if I find where it is

I still have some time, I roll a joint and I sit down.

I try to reorder my thoughts; the last ten minutes have been a flood of emotions especially because I am such an impressionable and sensitive person, even more when I feel like this; hanging in the balance.

And when I feel like hanging in the balance I have to focus on objects to balance again; some people would say I’m careful to details but I know it’s not like that as details only help me to get distracted from my thoughts.

From the window I can see the inside of the flat in the opposite building, the kitchen to be precise; a girl is sitting at the table, she is drinking from a flowery mug, still sleepy. She’s beautiful; curly, black hair and two innocent big green eyes. She smiles and she’s even more beautiful. She is smiling to her father I think; well, I’m sure about it as in the meantime he came in the room and he is drinking is coffee, too. You can tell they are happy, you an tell from their gestures, you can tell they love each others of that unconditional love that only a father and a daughter know, they have that primordial complicity which melts feminine and masculine and that during your life you’ll unlikely find it again in another man or woman.

Shit! As immersed as I was in all these thoughts I didn’t hear the door opening.

“Greta!?! But…What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

“Dad…I’m happy to see you, too!”

“Yes…Sure! Do you want a coffee? Ah, I see you already helped yourself!”

He turns his back. He messes about with the coffee machine; he’s not nervous, he’s annoyed.

No hugs, no tears, no smiles.

Nothing at all.

I entered in his burrow, I unearthed him like you do with a rabbit and now he can’t wait I leave him alone.

I hear him saying phrases like: how are you, I know your mum got married again, did you finish school, do you have a boyfriend, do you work?
And I’m not able to say anything.

I just think: I am Theseus, dad. And you are my Minotaur.

“Greta! Darling, I remembered you were smarter! C’mon tell me! How is it going? Do you have a job?”

As if that would have been the most important thing.

“Yes, dad. I work.. I’m working on myself.”

He gives me a sarcastic gaze.

Well: I would have liked to tell him millions of things, I promise.

I would have wanted to ask him so many questions, to cry all the tears I didn’t cry in my life, to blame him just to be able to forget him afterwards, I would have wanted to get lost in that hug I waited for too long and to re-emerge with a smile.

But the only thing I said was: “Kill your Father. Kill your Master” and I shot.

One shot only. Straight to the heart.

My father educated me as you do with dogs; precise rules, obedience and some psychology.

And now, I only obey to myself. 

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