Chapter 38

The traces that men leave are too often scars.

He sat down on the back seat and, although we are now in the car, he didn't let go of me, he kept me close to him.

I dared to glance in his direction and saw him thoughtfully staring out the window.

What could he be thinking?

What was this thing that occupied his thoughts and that bothered him to the point of keeping his eyebrows severely frowned during the whole trip?

I peeled away from him slightly just before he forced me closer, frowning even more in his closed face.

During the journey I used his chest as a cushion and when we arrived at the villa I thought I would never have the strength to stay awake until I got to my room.

When the car parked he got out straight letting me bump into the seat.

I got out of the car and walked up to the porch, my bare feet tortured by the fine gravel.

I entered the empty house and went straight up to my room.

I slammed the door and mechanically took off my dress before putting on my pajamas consisting of shorts and a stupid t-shirt.

I slipped into my bed and fell asleep immediately tired from the events of the evening.

The next day, I woke up around nine o'clock and went directly to take a shower. I quickly choose an outfit before leaving my room.

All night it had bothered me, I had to know what was between Vladimir and me. I was not the kind of girl to kiss the first comer, for me, a kiss was far from trivial.

I headed for his office where I was absolutely sure to find him.

In front of the big doors I suddenly had a sudden stress, a bad feeling.

Instinctively, deep inside me, I knew something was going to happen, that behind that door I was going to learn something that I would have preferred not to know.

Yet I was reckless and hated being fooled by lies.

Then, with a sudden gesture, I opened the large double door.

I remained stoic, paralyzed by the scene playing out right in front of me.

Alerted by the doors opening, Vladimir slowly looked up at me, making me sick when his gaze caught mine.

I felt sick to my stomach and I thought I was going to vomit right in front of him.

When he started to come forward I ran off thanking God for not wearing heels.

In my room I slammed the door before locking it and ran into the bathroom.

I stopped in front of the sink and, slapping the palms of my hands on either side of it, I stared intensely at my reflection in the mirror.

Suddenly, in the mirror, I caught the birth of a tear in the corner of my left eye.

Even when it trickled down my cheek I didn't realize that this pearl of water belonged to me and that it was my cheek that it scarred.

I was unaware of the reality, I was as if boosted by a feeling that was inexplicably too strong for my fat and small body.

The tears became more and more numerous and, my eyesight blurred by them, I groped for a razor, an ancestor testifying to an unhappy adolescence.

When I had found the object of my desires, I dismantled it to extract the only important part.

I fell to the ground before brandishing the blade and starting to slash my wrist, which was already fully covered in thin scars that had bleached over time.

One, two, three, ten, twenty strokes drawn by the same hand, my hand.

At that moment, I had never felt such disgust for myself.

I was filthy.

I was fat and ugly, fat and ugly.

I felt sick to the point of vomiting blood clots.

My wrist resting on my thigh, big and monstrous, I pushed the cold metal ever deeper into my bleeding flesh.

I was so filthy that barely a few hours after exchanging a kiss with me he was already jumping this blonde on his desk.

I imagined him bitterly regretting his act, brushing his teeth forcefully, trying to get the feel of my lips off his, my tongue around his.

As if the brush and the toothpaste had been useless, he must have resorted to another girl to forget the foul image of my mouth glued to his.

He had needed a woman to cover every part of my body with her lips so he could eliminate the awful feeling of my body brushing against his.

He must have regretted letting a girl like me touch a man like him.

How could I have believed for a single second that he could feel anything for me?

Did I forget how unsightly my body was and how horrifying my mind was?

I had huge thighs, arms lodged with fat, and a belly left over from an anti-gym routine.

How many diets had I tried?

All promised the miracle solution, the revolutionary method, an unprecedented mascot food.

Yet I had never been able to take it and the meager grams that I had been able to lose during these few days I had immediately taken them back in double or even triple as soon as I had abandoned the diet.

You disgust me Elisabeth, look at you. Who would want a girl like you? Who would dare to show themselves in public with a freak like you?

The cuts became more and more numerous, deeper and deeper, and, while the blood streamed down my mutilated wrist, I felt my immense sadness gradually fade away.

After about thirty strokes, I finally put the blade on the cabinet and tapped my wrist with a handkerchief.

When the first was tinted red, I used a second, then another until all the blood was clotted.

I cleaned my face of the mascara that had run because of my tears and then threw the tissues in the toilet before flushing, leaving no traces.

I then unfolded my sleeve to cover my chipped wrist before going downstairs to eat, plastering a forced smile on my face in the process.