Page 195 of The Wicked
My spine straightened. “It doesn’t matter where they’re from or who they are,” I said. “We need to find the original painting. And get the gold. Whoever they are, we are one piece of information richer, and that’s all that matters right now.”
When I got nods of approval, I released a breath.
“Come on, guys; we have lots of planning to do.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Elio
I might have overdosed again.
In all honesty, I could not be certain, but from the moment my heavy eyelids opened, I knew I had been benumbed for a long time, a day or maybe two. It was all murky. The last thing I remembered was telling Zahra I needed to rest and that I’d call her.
I groaned—thinking felt like the most difficult task my brain had ever had to do, and it took great effort to turn my head towards the side of the bed to check the time. It was 10:57P.M.; I turned away, my eyes settling on the plain white ceiling above me.
The quietness around me was disturbing, and the room was dimly lit, the windows closed; the air conditioner worked at an average level, not too cold, not too hot. The covers were drawn up to my mid-stomach, and the curtains were closed.
Angelo has been here.
I could discern that from the lit lamps around the room. I never turned them on before I filled myself with pills and passed out. I also didn’t close the curtains and windows or use the duvet.
I sat up and rubbed my eyes, ignoring how lightheaded I felt, how tight my muscles were, and how tired I was for no reason.
I had a transcendent urge to fall back against the bed and never get up until I exigently had to. But doing that was equivalent to signing myself up for a depressive episode that I would be very willing to let overcome me.
I didn’t have the time to be reposed. There was work to do—a painting to find.
I stretched my neck from left to right while removing the thick covers and dragging myself out of bed.
My stomach ached with pangs of hunger, supplying me the substantiation that I had been out for hours on end, forcing rest when I should be out there doing something worthwhile.
I headed straight for the bathroom, catching my reflection in the mirror. The instant burn of irritation I felt in my chest was not erasable. My eyes were sunken, white, and lifeless, my skin pale, hair a mess—
I held both sides of the sink, my grip hard as I tried to fight off the unnecessary self-disappointment weighing on my shoulders like ancient rocks.
I shook my head and proceeded to brush my teeth and then shower.
Taking my time, I scrubbed my skin with the primary aim of washing myselfoffmyself. But like the many times I’d tried, it was impossible; my gaze kept shifting to the bathtub, and it took every bit of my willpower to stop myself from approaching it and using it for all the wrong purposes.
I shook my head yet again and made haste: finished showering, moisturized my skin, and put on a fresh loose black T-shirt and black slacks, even though I really wanted to wear sweatpants, which were more comfortable. But I was home and it was nighttime, and the T-shirt was already a stretch out of what I knew to be my comfort zone.
I quickly brushed my hair and exited the bathroom like I was being chased out. Many items in there were triggering, and I was physically, emotionally, and mentally incapable of dealing with the aftermath of my weakness.
All I needed now was a book, a cigar, food—if I had enough zeal to even stomach anything—and some peace and quiet outside… maybe at the rooftop, which I could no longer go to without thinking of the one woman who had plastered herself in my mind before I lost all sense of consciousness the last time I was awake.
Right now, I couldn’t afford to have my train of thought directed back to her. It would most definitely bring back the mind-numbing conflict I had been battling with myself since I caught every bit of the lies she had woven into truths.
She confused me—yet, she didn’t.
Zahra was playing a game, one that I couldn’t decipher or break down on my own. Her dishonesty was disappointing. I had shared my baggage, opened up to her so she could feel free to do the same without having to walk a path where she’d openly betray me, and I’d have no choice but to kill her for it.
But apparently, like me, she treated trust like a possession too hard to let go of.
I wasn’t sure if she had anything to do with Casmiro’s situation. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions and make a mistake based on the way I felt—she made me doubt it; for the first time in my life, I doubted myself, just because Zahra had looked at me some kind of way, just because she had shut me up by letting me have her in a way that had made me ache for more since our time in that car.
Never in a million years did I think a woman would be why I temporarily lost my senses or broke a rule I had put in place with the intent to follow it.
Caring for Zahra Faizan was not on my agenda, and as much as I would love to deny it till I believed the lie, the thought of her would never let me.
