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He Wants It All
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Krum Botev has never had anything in life apart from himself. He knows only what he has been taught. Hard, selfish, insensitive, but faithful to the Father, the one who raised and educated him according to the values of the secret society he is part of. No one has ever succeeded in knocking down his armor. No one can touch him outside or inside; no-one except her, who is part of that past Krum cannot forget. Ambra Livori, a beautiful and wealthy heiress, has always had everything. But nightmares don’t give her a break. They go on showing her the man who ruined her life when she was only sixteen. The memory of him, over time, has become a perverse feeling she cannot tolerate. Just when Ambra decides to learn how to control her emotions, she receives a strange call. Her origins will be questioned and the past will become a terrible present from which she won’t be able to escape. Fighting for herself will be the only solution. What links Ambra and Krum? But most of all, can two different souls be able to touch each other outside and inside? A secret organization, an uncontrollable passion, a man and a woman destined to clash
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You will learn – at your own expense – that, everyday, you will meet millions of masks but very few faces along your way.
Six thousands Bulgarian lev. It’s the exact amount of money Mr. X needed to buy my life and sell it to Mr. Y who gave me to the Father. As a product to be exported, at the age of twelve, I was packed up in a fur coat and landed at the port of Venice.
Should I be disturbed?
Not at all.
But those six thousand Bulgarian lev keep floating in the air of my thoughts, like a reminder that mirrors the little value of my life. Just a bit over three thousand euros to buy the property of a human being. If you could give value to life, what would it be?
I don’t know any form of value. The values I have been taught, were totally exasperated by the Father’s vision. The Father taught me everything. I have to thank the Father for my rebirth. If he bought me, it was just to create a wonderful creature. That is what he said at our first meeting.
I am ready to give my life for the Father. For the Father I have done so much. For the Father I did a year in prison, three hundred and sixty-five days, eightythousand-sevenhundred-sixty hours in jail and I could do much more, because I am faithful.
The only value I know.
To be honest, I have not yet completed the day three hundred and sixty-five. I still have the springs of the bunk beds over me. I gaze at them with the reassuring awareness that it is the last time I have to look at those rusty interlaces.
I consider my stay at San Vittore in Milan as a relaxing holiday. I don’t understand why people complain about being in jail. Out there everything is so… complicated. Here you have nothing to think about, nothing to take care of, no days of the week. It’s as if there was an eighth day after Sunday, called nothing, and every day was exactly nothing. No Monday or Saturday, just nothing.
And I like this nothing; it is not challenging; no people are there; it assures you total loneliness. Yes, I’m a loner, I love to be alone, I love not having people around. For me nothing always ends up being filled with thoughts.
My thoughts. Totally mine.
Thoughts are the only private thing we own, the only mirror of ourselves.
But in these years something has contaminated them, like a slow and lethal poison.
Sometimes I think of her, sometimes I see her again. She was young, helpless and trembling. She was so young. A taboo. Who knows how she is today! I wonder if my eyes torment her in her nightmares. Surely, I’m her worst nightmare.
The cot creaks. These beds are just enough to hold my body. If Tommaso tosses again, I’ll get up on his bed, and beat him up. I should have forced him to give me the bed above.
Now he is snoring. I want to suffocate him.
I put my hands on my face; I rediscovered the pleasure of having a long beard. I decide to get up for Tommaso’s well-being, but also for mine; I don’t want to risk my release. I just give a look at the face of my cell-mate sleeping peacefully, and the memory of the time I put his head down in the pot makes me smile. Since then he has not dared to ask any questions about my life. Over time, we have become cellmates. Not friends.
In my life there are only extra acquaintances.
As I have done for a year, I lay on the floor and start my push up session. Jail molds men, it is true, especially their body. Not having a fuck to do every damn day, I decided to give my body a grueling workout. Physical activity helps to turn off brain activity.
Ten, twenty, thirty, fifty…
At one hundred, I’ll stop.
But I cannot. I go over.
My eyes are taken by the white wall in front of me, so sterile and full of nothing, while drops of sweat tickle my forehead and eyelids, falling into my dark orbits.
I feel my muscles pumping, my arms suffering the weight of my structure. My body becomes heavy and my chest burns. I relax on the floor, I turn over and now I see the ceiling. White.
It’s as if I felt the need to fill the void of something, to give a meaning to the nothing of my days.
On these occasions I get pissed off because I think I have to fill my thoughts, I feel they are no longer intimate and personal, but open to that particular figure.
I met her once, after so many years, after what had happened. Oddly, for reasons I have never understood, I had felt the need to see how she had changed, what she had become. I wanted to look at her face and look for the signs I had left on her. I needed to know if I had remained in her to the point to be mirrored in her eyes.