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Before Dawn

by Patrizia Poli 2 months ago in divorce
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A suicide

You’re looking out of the window, tears wet your throat and mix with the sweat on your chest, you writhe with stomach pain, you shudder. Nothing is as you believed, she hated you and you did not know. It was real hatred, otherwise she would not have said those horrible things, she would not have called you a failure. Wait, what did she say exactly? Ah, yes, “You’re a borne failure, you’re a loser by nature, Thomas, and “he” is worth a thousand times more than you in bed.”

You implored her while she was taking the picture of her aunt off the wall — the disgusting painting you’ve always had to keep to please her — “come on, do not take away Chicco”, you shouted, while she dressed him in a hurry and his lower lip trembled.

“The child is frightened, Anna, for goodness sake.”

But she could not see her son anymore. Then you were the first to fell silent, to pull her heavy suitcase up. “Ok, love, now mother takes you to granny for a few days, so you can play with the dog. What does the dog sound like?What, Chicco, tell me! Make boo to Dad, like a puppy.”

But she turned as if to hide the child with her body, as if to protect him from you, from you, that love him like you’ve never loved anything else in this damn life. You swore that your child would never have suffered, that you would always be at his side, he would have a father and a mother, yes, he, at least.

“You have no aspirations, you have no ideals”, she told you. Yes you have, shit, you have one. Chicco is your aspiration, your ideal. She doesn’t know what kind of love you’re capable of, you’ve never had a family of your own, you only imagined your parents, night after night, in an institute, sobbing, while the big ones raped you or you were trying to escape the punches, waiting to come of age to go out, to learn a trade, to find a girl, to have a family on your own.

Anna and Chicco no longer need you, they have abandoned you like those motherfuckers, yes, just like your parents, you are left alone in this ugly city, with your ugly work shop, and there is no return, there is no future, every gesture is useless.

You leave the window, you go upstairs to the bathroom. There is still Chicco’s jumpsuit across the edge of the tub. You grab it, you rub it on your face, it is soft, you feel the pee smell. You hold it on your nose with your left hand while, with your right one, you take a razor blade. You cut your left wrist, and then you cut also the right one.

You look at the blood that comes out and drop on the bed, thinking how long does it take. Your wrists hurt, but only a little.

And you are afraid.

Oh, yes, until recently, when you went up there to cut your veins, you just wanted to put an end to your pain, but now you are scared. It’s a strong feeling that makes you think not so much of her and Chicco anymore.

You close your eyes, you thrust your head into the pillow, but then you open your eyes again, yes, you let them open wide. The sky is clearing on the buildings, where the hills begin. You hear the noise of the newspapers van.

June. A group of trees and a wall with too many windows, the creak of a swing. You are lying belly up in the meadow, smoking a prohibited cigarette. They have cut the grass and you know that it will stinge on the uniform, you’ ll take a scolding from father Matthew, but you do not care, because the grass is cool and you like its tickle.

You look at the sky, at the white trail left by the aircrafts, a bumblebee buzzes on your head. You think the heat has a noise, and it is the sound of the bumblebee.

Asshole. You’re dying and you’re thinking of you as a boy, of classmates — but were they not all pedophiles? — you’re thinking about the workshop colleagues, especially Mariotto who always brings you the mortadella and the wine that his father makes in the country. You also think of your parents: before they gave you in, they had offered you your life.

You are cold, your forehead is covered with ice sweat. There is a glass on the bedside table, you see the water, you want it on your cardboard tongue.

Are you thirsty, huh? You had to think of it before, you know that when one bleeds to death it is so.

Thirst … Thirst …

Holy Christ …

You think of the water that drips down the gutters and washes the machines. You raise your arm, you try at least. It remains there, caked to the sheet, like a stone, already half dead.

Do you know, asshole, do you know that now you can’t pick up the phone anymore?


About the author

Patrizia Poli

Patrizia Poli was born in Livorno in 1961. Writer of fiction and blogger, she published five novels.

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