The Angel's Game (The Cemetery of Forgotten 2)

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m leaving, that’s what I’m doing. I’m going and I’m leaving you in peace. Or in war, because with you one never knows.”

“May I ask where you’re going?”

“What do you care? Is that a rhetorical or an ironic question? It’s obvious that you don’t give a damn about anything, but as I’m such an idiot I can’t tell the difference.”

“Isabella, wait a moment—”

“Don’t worry about the dress, I’m taking it off right now. And you can return the nibs, because I haven’t used them and I don’t like them. They’re corny and childish.”

I moved closer and put a hand on her shoulder. She jumped away, as if a snake had brushed against her.

“Don’t touch me.”

I withdrew to the doorway in silence. Isabella’s hands and lips were shaking.

“Isabella, forgive me. Please. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

She looked at me tearfully.

“You’ve done nothing but that. Ever since I got here. You’ve done nothing but insult me and treat me as if I were a poor idiot who didn’t understand a thing.”

“I’m sorry,” I repeated. “Leave your things. Don’t go.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m asking you, please, not to go.”

“If I need pity and charity, I can find it elsewhere.”

“It’s not pity or charity, unless that’s what you feel for me. I’m asking you to stay because I’m the idiot here and I don’t want to be alone. I can’t be alone.”

“Great. Always thinking of others. Buy yourself a dog.”

She let the bag fall on the bed and faced me, drying her tears as the pent-up anger slowly dissipated.

“Well then, since we’re playing at telling the truth, let me tell you that you’re always going to be alone. You’ll be alone because you don’t know how to love or how to share. You’re like this house. It makes my hair stand on end. I’m not surprised your lady in white left you or that everyone else has too. You don’t love and you don’t allow yourself to be loved.”

I stared at her, crushed, as if I’d just been given a beating and didn’t know where the blows had come from. I searched for words but could only stammer.

“Is it true you don’t like the pen set?” I managed at last.

Isabella rolled her eyes, exhausted.

“Don’t look at me like a beaten dog. I might be stupid, but not that stupid.”

I didn’t reply but remained leaning against the doorframe. Isabella observed me with an expression somewhere between suspicion and pity.

“I didn’t mean to say what I said about your friend, the one in the photographs. I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

“Don’t apologize. It’s the truth.”

I left the room, eyes downcast, and escaped to the study, where I gazed at the dark city buried in mist. After a while I heard her hesitant footsteps on the staircase.

“Are you up there?” she called out.

“Yes.”