THE ALGORITHM OF THE FORBIDDEN HEART

Chapitre 12

Carla POV

When I returned to my room last night, exhaustion hit me. I had shared the horror, I had let Dona in, and I had felt that incredible warmth of her body in the pool. But the next moment, guilt and the horror of my own weakness overwhelmed me.

In the restroom, I made myself vomit. It was the reflex, the need to purge the intimacy, the food, everything that could bind me. I felt better afterward, but weak. That's why I was pale when I came back.

This morning, when I woke up, I knew I had to leave. I put on my running clothes and went into the hallway. I opened the guest room door. Donatella was sleeping peacefully. She was there, stable, her face without that tension I caused. I found her beautiful, strong, a presence I could not contaminate. I closed the door.

I fed Pixel and Paris—the only bond I could maintain—and went for a run.

I left her a note, which was progress. But my escape was calculated. Fortunately, I have a door with both electric and mechanical locks.

I set the lock to close around 11 a.m., because I knew she would be gone by then. I didn't want to confront her with my departure, nor see her again. I received a notification on my phone saying the door had closed at 10 a.m. She was gone. I had bought myself some time.

I ran into a forest alone, away from prying eyes, far from this magnificent and superficial city. All my thoughts were jostling.

I started screaming so loud in that forest that my guts nearly came out. I screamed the rage, the fear, the secret. I let myself fall to my knees, my body trembling.

"What I feel for Donatella is not normal," I thought, the phrase looping. "A woman, my professor." But yet, as soon as I close my eyes, I see her being there for me and kissing me. My body burned inside just thinking about her.

Except, I can't. I can't let her in. I can't ask her to bear my mistakes.

Without realizing it, Carla was blaming herself for her assaults and r*pes. I was denigrating myself. The fault was mine.

The anger returned. The anger against myself. I got up and hit a tree with all my strength, again and again. So hard that blood spurted. The pain shot through me, but it was a chosen pain, a pain that purified the shame.

A passerby came along and saw my bleeding hands. He called the ambulance directly. Here I was at the hospital, alone.

The scene takes place on Sunday afternoon, in an examination room in the emergency department.

I am sitting on the bed, my hands bandaged. Dr. Alan Scott, an emergency physician, enters, holding my file and lab results.

Dr. Alan Scott: Ms. Petrova... Your tests are complete. I will be direct with you, as your condition requires serious care.

Carla: (Weak voice) Just tell me about my hands.

Dr. Alan Scott: Your hands, of course. You have very deep lacerations on your knuckles and the back of your hands. We have cleaned and sutured the most significant wounds. Fortunately, you don't have any bone fractures, but you clearly hit something hard with considerable force. This is self-harm, Ms. It's obvious.

Carla: (Avoids eye contact) It was an accident.

Dr. Alan Scott: No. We also have your blood and urine test results. And there, we have a much more worrying picture.

Carla: What?

Dr. Alan Scott: To start, you are in a state of severe dehydration—you haven't drunk enough for at least 48 hours. Your glucose level is low, and your electrolyte markers are disturbed. Furthermore, we detected mild acidosis, markers of chronic malnutrition, and a high concentration of digestive enzymes in your saliva and esophagus.