When they stuck the knife into your neck, I was there.
It was a beautiful day, the Phlegraean light had been rinsed in the clear salt water, and not even a shadow could survive in the bright air.
It’s something I’ve noticed, the worst things that have happened to me have often had beautiful landscapes as backdrops. Perhaps the joyous panorama is doing its best to highlight the lovely spread legs of bloody wounds. Which isn’t such a bad thing. You know, I’ve always loved contrasts.
There. Now they’re going to kill him, now they’re going to kill him.
They’re going to kill my father, my brother, my beloved one. Now they’re going to rid the earth of what remains of my face, my only smile; I’ll shuffle off this coil lost in a delirium of hours seized by the tapeworms that consume wakefulness and slumber.
The man who had his arms around your shoulders sunk in the knife and gave it half a pirouette twirl.
A slow drop oozed down your neck.
The other man laughed:
“Look out, you’re going to get his nice shirt all bloody.”
“What does that matter? He can always buy himself another. With our money he can buy it.”
You weren’t talking, you had red fear in the corners of your eyes.
“Three days,” they told you before leaving.
The knife had left the faintest embroidery on you, they knew how to do their work: you might have just nicked yourself shaving.
I know every detail of your neck and I was relieved, you weren’t dead and your skin would repair the embroidery.
You went off onto the terrace. I followed you. You were ashamed of your tears and the rancid stench of your own terror.
“Get away from me. Wait for me in the house.”
I waited.
You came back after an hour, lowered the blinds, shut the curtains, and turned off all the lights.
The voice arrived from a precise place I couldn’t see:
“Now you get over there and do what you’re supposed to do, my little man.”
“At your orders, sir.”