Chapter 22

God wonders what's hiding in your weak and empty eyes. God wonders what's hiding in your weak and drunken heart.

My arm was outstretched, pointing at her like an accusing index finger.

In a burst of fury I had come to take out my gun. I didn't even know when I had said to myself that I was going to take it out, all I knew was that she had pissed me off. apart from his dress and demeanor.

How dare this girl come and dress like that and talk to me like that?

Didn't she care a little about her life just to settle down and follow the movement?

-Vladimir

My brother broke the silence. Deep down I resented him for intervening on his behalf. What was he looking for? Why was he so protective of her?

Certainly it was in his habit to always defend the others but there I had the impression that there was something else. Something behind the mask of the gentleman.

- No, go shoot, prove in front of everyone that you're a man and shoot, she intervenes.

I was hoping for a flaw, a crack, anything.

Just something that would tell me I was superior or at least scared him.

But neither in his voice nor in his attitude did I discern the shadow of hesitation.

Either she was really as little attached to her life as she was trying to show, or she had managed to really believe in this imaginary shell that she had formed over the years.

I wanted, from the depths of my soul - if I had one - for her to break in front of me, to be afraid, to have a quavering voice.

Anything as long as she's weakened.

I wanted her to be weak.

I wanted her to suffer.

This desire had haunted me since his first provocation towards me.

And I had no doubt that it was the kind of desire that, in the stories of my childhood, caused madness.

I knew it was a fish and yet I loved the hell.

- YOU SHOULD BE QUIET, YOU KNOW VERY WELL THAT I WILL HAVE NO REMORSE TO END YOU HERE NOW!

I screamed in rage.

I used to be in control of myself and, even when I was provoked, I sent a bullet in the head of the rebel without an ounce of nervousness.

Over the years I had learned to channel my rage, the calm was even more distressing.

But with her it was different. Certainly I was, from childhood, of a dark and angry nature but never had anyone reflected my fiery personality so strongly.

- Well go ahead please, shoot.

She aligned her arms.

It was certainly a last sign of rebellion, to die like a martyr, arms outstretched.

I would have cut my hand that even his last breath would have been a wind of revolt.

She was one of those who had a dangerous sparkle in her eyes, a spark that made her a revolutionary. And I wondered who had ignited the flame of revolt that crackled deep in her adrenaline-infused irises.

Then, his gaze clouded over. A transparent curtain with an opaque shade covered his eyes.

The veil of a memory.

I had seen looks of this type. The look of those who recalled a past memory, a mixture of nostalgia and regret.

And at that precise moment, I wanted to know what was hiding in his livid gaze, almost forgetting my revenge.

- Shoot, she said under her breath.

It was almost a complaint, she was almost asking me to take her life away from her.

I could have shot, I wanted to, but in a sadistic outburst I refused to grant him the end of the suffering that I had read in his eyes.

I was going to destroy her, little by little, scale by scale and then I would kill her.

She couldn't die, not now, not before she suffered.

My finger pulled the trigger.

I almost saw the bullet graze her hair and explode a white pottery vase right behind her.

She hadn't closed her eyes, even when the bullet sent a few strands of her brown hair flying, she didn't close her eyes.

And, inside, I cursed the courage she had shown in the face of death.

Holy shit.

I closed my eyes in frustration before tucking the gun into my belt and heading out of the dining room.

I'm going to destroy her, I tell myself like an unbreakable promise.