13
KRUM
Surely I'm really weird. First I tell her I don't want her on my lips, then I call her moya. Mine.
Make up your mind!
I’m still bursting with anger, because of Manuel's intrusion. Does he believe I can't decode what is going through his fucking head? I know he wants to finish what he's started. He has always said that. If he only ventures to touch her, I’ll kill him. She walks by my side, keeps her head low, I'm glad in an unimaginable way and just because she gave up in that silly conversation. I can't understand why I am so pleased to see her so obedient. I would like her to yield in ways that go beyond a simple conversation. I wish she would submit in my presence and beg me to… Damnit!
My body begins to rebel, demanding what it shouldn't. The images created in my mind cause a total chaos, where everything has always been simple. And I find a new form of desire: the intrigue of deepening a conversation, the desire to quarrel in order to make peace. Argue and make peace. Peace, in the only way I know.
We walk along the corridors of the villa to the wing where the gym is. There’s a room with everything needed to repair the injuries I have inflicted on her. They are just bruises, actually, nothing more, but I have no idea how a delicate woman like her can feel with those bruises.
My foolish mind seems pleased to know she is branded, but my heart finds revolting what I did.
Heart?
“Here we are.” I open a door and make room for her to pass. She doesn't look at me. “Are you mad at me?” I ask behind her. My eyes fall on the roundness of her ass. My fantasy is to crack her butt in two. The vision is interrupted when she turns around.
“You said I shouldn't look at your eyes, that I must always walk by your side, that I must obey and that I am a nuisance. I'm trying not to be a nuisance.”
Something is burning deep inside.
“Are you playing the victim?” I head to the locker, past the cot and open a cabinet.
“I'm doing what you ask me to.”
It's true. I should be happy. I pick up any bottle and read fast what kind of cream it is. I have to be sure I get the right one if I want her to heal quickly.
What do you care about?
I find a cream suitable for bruises, it's the same one Manuel should use every time I take it out on his fucking face.
When I look at her, she has her head down, fingering the edge of the semi-transparent blue shirt. It's a simple t-shirt, but it suits her perfectly. She doesn't move her head, keeps it down, I don't like that she keeps it down, shit.
You ordered it.
I reach her and put my hand on her side, she moves horrified, as if I had burned her.
But I feel I am the wounded one.
“Come on.” I point out the medical cot and tap my hand on it.
She rests her palms on it, jumps up and sits down. I look for her eyes, but I don't find them, they’re looking down at the floor. I miss her bright eyes. I want to see them alive, wounded, angry, burning. I want them.
I can't control my hands and with my fingers I nab her chin demanding for her to look at me. My fingertips are blessed by a silky contact and I finally have those golden spheres back on me.
She is not protesting.
A miracle.
I want to lash out at her, I really need it, but I don't want her to move her face again, because I need her eyes more than her submission. I don’t care about it at the moment. Maybe I should establish a rule that obliges her to look at me on command.
I'll think about it.
I turn her sleeves up, I do it with unusual delicacy. I feel her jolt at every light touch, so I decide to avoid touching her limiting to pull up her shirt.
“Do you have bruises only on your arms?” I ask as I open the bottle.
“Unfortunately for you, yes.”
I grin. I should scold her for her inability to control her tongue, but I like when she teases me.
She's disobeying, because she is looking at me that way, the same way that makes me feel alive, damn!
“Are you sure you have no other signs? Because if you have more serious bruises than these you must…”
“I have no bruises more serious than these,” she interrupts me. “Not on my skin, anyway.”
“Not on the skin,” I repeat. “Are you talking about the footprint I have left on your heart?”
She provokes, therefore, I do too.
“You will never get to my heart.” She doesn't say the sentence, she spits it out.
I ignore her, because the poison that comes out of her mouth prevents me from being equally cruel. She thinks I'm revolting - maybe she is right - but in most cases she is the one acting cruelly. Her words hurt me more than a grip at my throat. I'd like to receive ten more slaps, like those she already gave me, not to hear her repeating I am disgusting.
I feel totally off balance.
“You were doing well, why did you go back to viper mode?”
“I was wrong. I shouldn't have followed you for a second. Consider it the first and the last time.”
Throughout the journey from the garden to the infirmary, I realized that she is far more fun when she is totally herself, rather than the woman I ask her to be.
“Be careful how you talk to me,” I was about to pronounce her name, “princess.”
“I don't like you calling me princess. I'm not as spoiled as you think!”
Of course she is. She gets everything she wants. Does she want to drive me crazy? She succeeds in it. Does she want me to stop touching her? Ok, I will. She wants a fucking coffee? She'll have her fucking coffee.
I spread a bit of cream on my palms and I pull on one of her wrists. I begin to spread the ointment/cream along her arms, making sure not to press too much on the black spots that I have caused.
You.
“Ow!” she jolts.
“Did I hurt you?” My voice sounds alien. It doesn't belong to me. Usually, I'm not a guy who cares. “Tell me if I hurt you.” I'm careful. I'm horrified by myself.
“It burns a little, but only when you press.”
I won't press anymore.
I go on rubbing the cream delicately on the marks she has. My marks.
“Is it better?”
“I don't think you care.”
I take the other arm and repeat the gestures, only that this time I don't care about hurting her and press.
“You could be more polite to me. I'm taking care of you. I... I'm trying.” I don't know why I say that, especially I don't understand why I am using such a delicate tone.
“You can try as many times as you want! I understand what you're doing.” She's strong, too strong, she looks at me without a blink. Everyone has always been afraid of me, always, damn it. She isn't. She is able to get inside my head and wander happily among my thoughts, making fun of me. “Your kindness won't reduce my hatred for you.”
What?
I let her arm fall on her thigh and stare at her with disenchantment.
“Are you insinuating I'm taking care of you because I don't want you to hate me?”
“You feel guilty.”
“It's not true!”
“You're trying to repair the situation.”
“This is true.”
“You're not even able to apologize to me, you hide behind these stupid things,” she takes the tube and throws it up in the air, behind me. She slips away from the cot and begins to eat me with her eyes, taking up the space physically. I'm enchanted. “You order me not to look at you, then try to bring my eyes back to you. What should I do? How do you want me? How should I behave? When we first met you said you wanted it all. Now I tell you bluntly: I won't give you a thing. I'm here for another reason, certainly not to relieve your guilt.”
I clutch my fists, for - if she keeps looking at me that way, her eyes glistening, her lips trembling and her red cheeks - I’ll take her and hurl her on the cot, not to slap her, but to fill her with bites.
“Do you want to let off steam again? I've allowed you to slap me, three times, now I'm letting you talk, even though I could shut you up if I wanted to. You should begin to show a minimum of gratitude, princess.”
She crosses her arms and moves toward me. I don't step back as she usually does, I wait for her.
“Gratitude? You should be ashamed of yourself. The question is that you can say and do whatever you want, but you will never be able to relieve the hatred I feel, my contempt for you will be there forever. So it's useless for you to try to cure my wounds, for you are the wound that will never heal.”
I feel like sinking into the ground. This woman is able to hold me in her hand, crush me and play with my feelings as she likes. What should I do? What should I do with her? And, above all, why should I do something? I shouldn't care at all. I should be happy to know that I am in her so deeply, as a bacterium that devours her daily, but I feel like a toxic molecule trying to escape from the room of hate lying in her heart.
I step toward her and she steps back. I don't like it, I don't like it at all. I don't want her to run away from me. I wish I could touch her, I wish I could have permission to... to do what?
What would you like to do Krum?
You can't do anything, she hates you.
I could tell her that I'm sorry, that I apologize, confess to her that I've never spent a day in my life without thinking about her, though it hasn't always been nice.
I close my eyes and try to regain the coldness I am made of, I export the good intentions because she doesn't deserve to hear what I feel, not after the contempt that she threw at me. When I'm about to tell her, we - maybe - should start over again, the phone rings in my pocket.
I'm forced to answer as it's Leonardo calling.
“Yes?”
She stops looking at me and pulls down her shirt sleeves, covering up.
“Krum, I'm sorry I can't get there in time to meet Miss Livori. Can you do me a favour?”
“Sure.”
“I've already told the servants to prepare a dinner for a group of people. Tonight there will be several representatives of local politics and I thought it might be a good occasion to meet the girl. She would be quieter if she was in a neutral environment, with known faces around her.”
“Yes, I think so too. What should I do?”
“Invite her to dinner for me and tell her I’d like to spend the evening with her. In short, I want her to accompany me. Ah, be sure she gets nice dress, it's an elegant dinner.”
“Do I have to be there, too?”
“Of course Krum, as always. You must keep an eye on her.”
“All right.”
“See you tonight. Try to instruct her for me. I don't want any quarrels.”
“I'm doing my best, don't worry. She can be nice if she wants to.”
“See you tonight.”
“See you tonight.”
I finish the phone call and put my phone in my pocket. She's passed me, bent down to the floor and picked up the cream she had previously thrown away. She closes the tube and puts it on the cot. It makes me smile, because there I recognize her politeness which I totally lack.
She ignores me. She doesn't look at me and this begins to become annoying. Maybe I should abandon the idea of avoiding touching her with violence, maybe I should go on expecting a certain kind of behavior, but I prefer she is free to be who she is. I want her free to say what she wants, risking to hear her say I am nothing for her.
Are you sure?
No. I don't like her to say it and think it. I want to be something for her, even if I don't know what. I want to be everything for her except the demon she says I am.
I admire her profile hidden by a golden curl that slides along her cheek. My head has created an unwanted image: I’m approaching her and with my fingers I put it behind an ear and then I lick that ear and then…
Turn off mind
“Have we finished here?” Her voice tries to impose. She is small, but she knows her business.
“Now you can have your coffee.”
We leave the room and in an embarrassing silence I lead her to the kitchens, hoping there is an available maid to prepare her coffee.
But nobody is there. They're all busy for the dinner. The dinner… I should tell her she was invited by Leonardo.
I get a little nauseous, I don't know why, since I haven't eaten anything. I imagine the Father's face when he sees her. He will be enchanted. He last saw her when she was just a little girl, even though she was already beautiful. I still remember when I used to tail her every day after school, hoping to find her alone sooner or later, in order to kidnap her. She stood out like an angel among the mortals, was different from the rest of her peers; already sophisticated at her age, polite, but at the same time smart and malicious. Once I saw her rejected by a boy, she seemed to be crying. I struggled a lot against the idea of following that idiot and punching him. Then I had to take her away and my personal hell began. Every damn night she used to appear in my head, like an incurable illness of the mind.
And I hated her.
“Even your thoughts make noise,” she says, interrupting my memories.
“Oh really?” My arm touches hers and she moves away with the usual indignation. Am I so disgusting? “And what would I be thinking?”
“To be honest, I'm not sure you can have thoughts.”
“Instead, I do. I'm human too.” I wait for an evil reply but it doesn’t come.
I rummage among the cabinets of this huge tile kitchen. I hope to find a damn coffee maker to make her coffee. Luckily I find it near the sink and begin to fill it.
“Do you really intend to take care of me?” she says, badgering. “I'm flattered,” she teases me.
I give her my back because watching her sitting on the stool, her elbows on the counter, and the shirt that goes down uncovering a bit more of her breast, gives her an innocent and smart air that makes me become almost…
Proklyatie. Damnit.
I focus on the coffee, but her presence begins to destabilize me, even when my eyes don’t see her.
“Who is the father?” she asks.
“The boss.”
“Your boss,” she underlines. I put the pot on and turn on the flame of the stove. I'm forced to turn around.
She is drawing strange stuff on the marble countertop, with those small, well-treated fingers. I am enchanted by that pointer that seems to draw waves. It's not on the countertop, it's on my chest, at least that is what my mind creates.
Her lips are ajar, is she trying to seduce me? Maybe she does it involuntarily. Sure! No, no, she does it on purpose to put me in difficulty, to confuse me.
Kurva. Whore.
“Tonight there will be an important dinner at the Temple. The Father, whose name is Leonardo, has invited you. He would have the pleasure of spending the evening in your company and he wishes you to behave in a reasonable and kind manner.” I emphasize the word kind, because she is not kind with me and I hope she will be with Leonardo, otherwise he’ll get angry and I don’t want to think about what he might ask me to do.
“Do I have to?” she puffs. Now she is acting like a whimsical and spoiled little girl. She is, indeed.
“It's an invitation,” I specify, just not to make her feel obliged, even though she is actually.
“May I talk to him about the call?”
“You can ask him all the questions you want.”
She sighs and for a moment; we remain silent looking at each other.
What peace! The pot boils and I turn off the flame. I pour some coffee in two cups, but before serving the princess, I look for croissants in the cabinet. In the morning they always make them, and, in fact, I find many.
“I'm not hungry,” she says when I put them in front of her.
“You must eat!” I reproach her.
I sit down and push the dish with the croissants between her elbows resting on the counter. She fixes me exhausted, sighs, but takes one. I'm glad she doesn’t protest. I don’t want her sick for not eating. She is so thin!
“Will it always be this way?” she asks, after chewing and ingesting a piece.
“What?” I reply with my mouth full. We are so different.
“Me and you. Will you prepare breakfast for me every morning?”
I wince because I can’t understand if she joking or is serious. Attacking is the best defense.
“There is no me and you. There is Me and then, there is you, doing everything I ask you. If I tell you that you have to eat, you eat, if I tell you to be silent, you shut up.”
“What if I tell you that you don’t have to touch me?”
Fuck off .
“The difference between me and you is that I can do what I want, you can’t.”
I finish the last bite of my croissant and drink coffee. She leaves a piece of croissant on the dish and I kill her with a harsh look.
“What do you want? I don’t want anymore!”
It makes me go crazy to see her leave food. It's just a damn bite, it's a waste. Once with that same bite I would have had lunch, if possible, damn her!
“Finish it,” I say calmly. She crosses her arms, ready to challenge me. She pouts, and my guts turn. If she stays like this for a long time, I’m going to bite her all over. “Haven’t you been taught that food mustn’t be wasted?” I say calmly. I don’t want to attack her, but if she insists with this stupid challenge, I’ll take that bite and jam it down her throat.
“Of course, but I don’t want it. It's just a bite.”
“That are you going to finish.”
“No.”
“You're giving me a headache.”
“I’ve already had it for a long time, who knows why!”
Okay, I don’t want to continue with this stupid conversation. With her, I have already established extraordinary records, among them talking to a woman. She is the only one with whom I have exchanged more than ten sentences in a minute.
“It bothers me to throw food away,” I say, standing up.
I'll eat that piece, I won’t throw it away. I walk around the counter and I stand behind her. I see her suddenly stiffening. She sticks her chest out as if she is ready to defend herself. That hurts me.
Why should it hurt me? Damnit!
I stand behind her, her hair emanate that familiar vanilla smell. I stretch out over the counter and she is stiff, a statue.
I'm close to her ear and I am tempted to get even closer, just to tickle her and let her know how fulminating my closeness is, because it's clear that I'm causing her a physical change. Oh, it’s so clear.
I stretch out my hand toward her dish and catch her left overs.
“I don’t want you to leave food anymore,” I whisper in her ear. I feel her breathing change: heavy, fearful, but a different fear that intrigues me. “This time I’ll eat it.”
“It's just a bite.”
“Do you know what hunger is?” I continue, a few inches from her ear.
“Of course I know what it is.”
“If you knew it, you would have finished your breakfast.”
I put the piece of croissant in my mouth and go away, smiling at her back.
“I have no dress for the party,” she says embarrassed. She's changing the subject.
She slides from the stool and turns. I'm glad to see that despite the strange effect I've just had on her, she needs to look into my eyes.
Because that’s what it is: a need.
I know.
I feel it.
You want it, Krum. That's different.
“No problem, I'll call Ivanka and ask her to bring you something.”
“Ivanka?”
“One of our women.”
“Your women?” she is surprised.
“She deals with the Father's business in Bulgaria, cares for public relations, and…” I just want to see her face if I say I fuck her. “And sometimes she takes care of me.”
I smile mischievously, she, instead, frowns and gets mad. I can’t believe it.
It's just an impression.
“That is?” she asks, with an acid tone and a raised eyebrow.
“That is that I fuck her,” I laugh. “For free.”
“You're disgusting.”
“Move your ass, we must go.”
“Where?”
“I’m bringing you to your room, I’m going to the gym.”
“Can I come with you?”
Why would she want to come with me if she says I'm revolting!
“I don’t want you under my feet. Stay in your room to rest until Ivanka arrives and then you get ready for dinner.” I see she doesn’t answer and, as soon as we leave the kitchen, I grab her wrist, making sure I don’t clutch it too hard. “Did you understand what I told you?”
“Yes,” she sighs.
“Yes, Krum.”
She extends her face to mine, her lips seem ready to say my name.
Say it.
“Yes,” she says, “fuck off.”
I don’t care anymore! Grinding my teeth, I crush her wrist hard, dragging her up the stairs and throwing her into her room without saying a word.
Damned bitch!