DARK DEEDS

21

I HATE WHEN THE SPOTLIGHT is taken from me, but in this case, I want it to be. In fact, I need-no crave it to be, and the proof of that lies in the manner in which I pace around the spacious bedroom, as I count the seconds to twelve. The time when the news is set to air, or so I think.

I have not watched the news in a while. God, if it were announced that the world is set to end tomorrow, I would not even know, because I live in a box of dreams, and fantasies. All, of which have been crushed into bits and pieces. However, I cannot be crushed alone, and if the sharp razor blades I slid in the pointe shoes of Natalia did their vindictive role, I will not be crushed alone.

I smile at that and the reveries, so real and vivid in the cinema that is my mind, and the film that is my imagination. I picture how Natalia stood on her tiptoes, before the sharp, silver blade did more than just pierce into her toes. It made her scream, it made her shed bitter tears, it made her bleed, and bleed until she could bleed no more, but most of all, it crushed her dreams. I mean, of what use is a ballerina with crippled feet?

Another smile comes on, before the news comes on, too. I watch as headline, after headline trails across the screen, but to my complete and utter disappointment, none is about an injured ballerina, named Natalia, aged 20.

Slowly, but surely, I feel my smile reduce to a frown, and my shoulders slump back. I turn off the television, before I send the television remote flying across the room. It hits the wall with a thud, and then shatters to the floor.

I scream, and scream, and scream and look for more stuff to throw around, from pillows, to tables to whatever is in reach. At some point, a short, plump woman bursts into the room.

The maid, I assume, but even she cannot control me. I chuck the lamp at her, and in a voice that comes out calmer than expected, I command, "Get out."

She does, her face is but an impasto of fear, painted pale white. Somewhere in between the noise and silence, my maddening rage is reduced to tears, and in no time, I am on the floor, head in hand and tears on cheeks.

I never do anything right. I could not hide the rosary right, I could not do the dance right enough for me not to fall when the beads splattered to the ground, and now, I could not put the razors right enough for them to cripple Natalia.

Perhaps, there is no right way for me. All there is, is wrong. My relationship with Salvatore is wrong, and so is my being in his house, and my messing up of his room. God, he is going to kill me when he comes back but I suppose that is better than this pathetic excuse of a life.

"Carina," I hear a soft voice utter beside me, before I become aware of the presence next to me. Salvatore. I must not have heard him come in through all the sniffling and tears. I cannot look at him. Not after the mess I have caused him.

'But what about the mess he has caused you?' a voice in my head whispers, but I do not get to respond to it because the next thing I know, Salvatore has his arms around me.

"Carina," He repeats in a more firm but soft voice, "look at me."

I do, and I burst into more tears. How did I come to this? When did I turn into this? I was not like this back when I lived in Mexico. Mexico. I leave for Mexico for God-sake. I should be excited, ecstatic even but instead, I feel like a lost cause strung in a wind I cannot control. All I can do is watch as I go where the wind goes, because I have nowhere else to go.

I sob even more, as Salvatore squeezes me in his arms. It all feels so surreal, how he holds me with such care when once upon a time, he wanted me dead. It feels even more surreal when his next words touch the air, "Let me take care of you."

In response, I kiss him. It starts out slow, then it electrifies into more as we rip each others clothes off, one after the other. I moan as he trails bites and kisses down my neck, sparking something sinister within me. Something that wants to be fucked.

"Take it." I breathe, "Take it all."

That is it. That is all it takes for him to hoist me into his arms, before he carries me to the bed. He places me onto my back, before he settles between my legs. He then looks down at me, "Are you sure?"

Is that even a question? I have always wanted this. I just never thought it would happen this soon and in such circumstances, but I knew it would be with someone handsome but caring, strong but gentle, and rich but considerate. Someone like him. I nod in consent.

"I want to hear it." He tells me as he stares right into my eyes, touching the depths of my soul. This feels right. We feel right and with that thought in mind, I give out my consent once more, "Yes."

He seals us with a kiss as he unhooks my black bra, tossing it aside. He then lowers his head, taking my boobs in his hands, before he plants a kiss on them one after the other. I moan, arching my back, as he sucks on them, flicking my nipples with his tongue.

At this point, I am a breathless, moaning mess, spreading my legs further apart for him, with each kiss, and caress. A mixture of excitement, arousal and nerves come over me the moment his fingers hook into my panties, but just as he is about to slide them down, a loud, urgent knock sounds at the door.

He curses, irritated, but nonetheless, he gets off of me. Now, I am frustrated. Regardless, I cover myself with a robe, while he quickly puts his pants and dress shirt on. When Salvatore opens the door, I see that it is that same maid from earlier.

Her words come out loud and clear, "The police are here for Carina."

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