cheating and would always betray me. And I refused to see the truth because of my own fear.
Now here I sit, trapped alone in the wide desert of terror and I see the truth so clearly it's like graffiti across our sumptuous hand-painted wallpaper. An irrefutable knowing in my heart.
“Mark I don't mind at all. I want to be with you even if - “
“Are you okay, Riley?” Mark says. His hand reaching to steady me looms up huge in my eyesight. I'm suddenly so woozy. Not again. I thought I'd slept the fever off.
“It must be all the booze in the dessert. That is some wicked pudding la Signora makes,” I slur. My mouth doesn't want to form the words, like it's frozen after a dentist's injection.
“Yes, she's quite the magician in the kitchen. Riley, baby, look at me. Don't go to sleep, stay with me.”
“I'm fine, only my head is-”
“Bastard fucking asshole.” Are the last words I hear as Mark's shaking me, before the world turns black again.
It takes forever to work out where I am. I wake up laid out on a massive sofa in an opulent room that you see in museums. Then I recall. I live here. I live in this palazzo with my lover. And Mark is nowhere to be seen. I remember drinking from the decanter on the buffet before he joined me for dinner and feeling more and more disoriented as we ate.
Something is wrong with me, a brain tumor, a stroke.
Where's Mark?
He should be here with me.
He's obviously gone to get me a doctor. Although he ought to have dressed me in something more modest to receive him.
The wine.
That heady exotic nectar is far too pungent to be normal red wine.
Space slows as my head stops ping-ponging between ideas and it starts to coagulate into one complete scheme.
My lover drugged me, has been drugging me. Yeah, fuck, it all makes perfect sense now. Why I pass out each night and sleep so late every morning.
Mark acting all bereft and fragile because his son's a killer when all the time it's him. Josh isn't the murderer, Mark is. And he hasn't gone for a doctor, he's gone to make his preparations for killing me.
Fuck, why did I admit to knowing? I should never have let on or told him I didn't care. He's never going to let me survive knowing I found him out. I got too close and now I've got to go.
Shit. Shit. Shit. My body is shaking so hard I have to sit back down in the heavy wooden chair. My mind dashing this way and that in a whirl, crashing into my skull like a lunatic on the run. In spite of that some things make perfect sense inside the churning.
I'm his Vestal Virgin. Hasn't he said that before? And he bought me the stunning exquisite lace bridal night gown I'm still wearing for my sacrifice.
Ohmigod. Oh my God. The pounding through my body is agony as adrenalin pours into my system. Run. Get on your fucking legs and run.
My quivering knees collapse beneath me again and slump me into the chair. The second attempt I manage to stagger to the door in a daze of numbness and pounding blood vessels.
I'm already hurtling down the hallway to the stairs. No, halfway up I turn and dash back down. He's up there. Arranging something, fixing things. I do not want to run into him now.
I have to get out of here. Never mind clothes, I've got no passport. Of course he took that so I couldn't escape. Just get out.
The front door, as big as the size of a normal person's whole house is bolted and immovable. Anyway I can hardly run through the alleys dressed in a see-through negligee.
One option. I dash downstairs with my heart ripping a hole through my chest. What a total complete idiot I am to imagine I was wanted, that Mark was actually falling in love with me.
Why do I believe them? I'm a victim. Maybe I've always been a victim even in my regular life, a sucker for people to use. So eager to be loved, I'll put up with anything. Well no more.
That's all over now. If I get out of this.
The lush silk carpeting gives way to stone as I tear down the stairs to the portigo , heading for the boat,
Now here I sit, trapped alone in the wide desert of terror and I see the truth so clearly it's like graffiti across our sumptuous hand-painted wallpaper. An irrefutable knowing in my heart.
“Mark I don't mind at all. I want to be with you even if - “
“Are you okay, Riley?” Mark says. His hand reaching to steady me looms up huge in my eyesight. I'm suddenly so woozy. Not again. I thought I'd slept the fever off.
“It must be all the booze in the dessert. That is some wicked pudding la Signora makes,” I slur. My mouth doesn't want to form the words, like it's frozen after a dentist's injection.
“Yes, she's quite the magician in the kitchen. Riley, baby, look at me. Don't go to sleep, stay with me.”
“I'm fine, only my head is-”
“Bastard fucking asshole.” Are the last words I hear as Mark's shaking me, before the world turns black again.
It takes forever to work out where I am. I wake up laid out on a massive sofa in an opulent room that you see in museums. Then I recall. I live here. I live in this palazzo with my lover. And Mark is nowhere to be seen. I remember drinking from the decanter on the buffet before he joined me for dinner and feeling more and more disoriented as we ate.
Something is wrong with me, a brain tumor, a stroke.
Where's Mark?
He should be here with me.
He's obviously gone to get me a doctor. Although he ought to have dressed me in something more modest to receive him.
The wine.
That heady exotic nectar is far too pungent to be normal red wine.
Space slows as my head stops ping-ponging between ideas and it starts to coagulate into one complete scheme.
My lover drugged me, has been drugging me. Yeah, fuck, it all makes perfect sense now. Why I pass out each night and sleep so late every morning.
Mark acting all bereft and fragile because his son's a killer when all the time it's him. Josh isn't the murderer, Mark is. And he hasn't gone for a doctor, he's gone to make his preparations for killing me.
Fuck, why did I admit to knowing? I should never have let on or told him I didn't care. He's never going to let me survive knowing I found him out. I got too close and now I've got to go.
Shit. Shit. Shit. My body is shaking so hard I have to sit back down in the heavy wooden chair. My mind dashing this way and that in a whirl, crashing into my skull like a lunatic on the run. In spite of that some things make perfect sense inside the churning.
I'm his Vestal Virgin. Hasn't he said that before? And he bought me the stunning exquisite lace bridal night gown I'm still wearing for my sacrifice.
Ohmigod. Oh my God. The pounding through my body is agony as adrenalin pours into my system. Run. Get on your fucking legs and run.
My quivering knees collapse beneath me again and slump me into the chair. The second attempt I manage to stagger to the door in a daze of numbness and pounding blood vessels.
I'm already hurtling down the hallway to the stairs. No, halfway up I turn and dash back down. He's up there. Arranging something, fixing things. I do not want to run into him now.
I have to get out of here. Never mind clothes, I've got no passport. Of course he took that so I couldn't escape. Just get out.
The front door, as big as the size of a normal person's whole house is bolted and immovable. Anyway I can hardly run through the alleys dressed in a see-through negligee.
One option. I dash downstairs with my heart ripping a hole through my chest. What a total complete idiot I am to imagine I was wanted, that Mark was actually falling in love with me.
Why do I believe them? I'm a victim. Maybe I've always been a victim even in my regular life, a sucker for people to use. So eager to be loved, I'll put up with anything. Well no more.
That's all over now. If I get out of this.
The lush silk carpeting gives way to stone as I tear down the stairs to the portigo , heading for the boat,
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