CHAPTER ONE
It's been two years already. But the way I see it, it could happen again every night.
The fragments of it remain floating in my head and it's staying in there forever. It's like a flower that never withers. A rain that never falls. A night that never ends.
It's been two years already but every second of that moment feels like an hour. I can still remember everything; His skin, his hair, his slenderness, his voice as deep as the ocean, and even his body full of stitches and bruises. That was the best night of my life and there's no reason for it to be forgotten.
Sitting next to the driver's seat, I unzip my sling bag and take out a crumpled piece of paper. It's the letter I wrote a couple of years ago, a day after I met him for the first time– and the last time.
I stare at the paper wondering, 'Is he still alive?' 'Is he now okay?' I can't help myself but stare at the letter like it's my greatest enemy. I regret the fact that we had been together for half an hour yet we haven't told our names to each other. But what's more regrettable is we spent the night together yet I failed to have a glimpse of his face. Now I'm like a fool falling in love with a person not knowing what he looks like. How could I find him? Will I ever find him?
My name's Callie Scout, 18, the one and only product of the Scouts family. It's sad to think that I don't have any siblings and my parents couldn't make one anymore. But what's sadder is that I live a limited life. I mean, yeah, we all do live a limited life, but mine's way shorter than the others. I'm living and dying. Both at the same time. I have CHD and it's enough reason for me to believe that I'm dead right before I know I am going to be.
Yet, I don't regret living. I'm actually thankful because I finally met a guy and had a small talk with him before I'm gone. I thought it was unlikely to happen– until it happened.
Being diagnosed with Congenital Heart Disease is something that keeps my parents worry about me all this time. They act as if they own the disease or whatsoever. It's not my fault if I don't really care that much about my own illness. I already survived a number of surgeries, undergone a lot of therapies, and even taken bottles of medicines ever since I was young until now. But then, in my eighteen years of doing this stuff as part of my circle of life, there's only one thing I'm certain about. I have CHD and I am dying. No one knows exactly when. It could be tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next next day. Maybe after a week. Maybe after a month. Maybe after a year. It's undeniably unpredictable and there's nothing I can do about it.
But despite the ceaseless pouring of my soon-to-end sands of time, there's still one thing I'm hoping to happen right before the upper part of my hourglass becomes totally empty. To see him again. But as of the moment, I could hardly even tell if that's somehow possible to happen. I don't know his name. I don't know his address. I don't remember his face. I don't know if he's still alive or not. All I know is he's dying too, and we're on a death race.
I am paying attention to the letter when the shutting of the car door scares the heck out of me. It's like an electric shock that makes me jump out of my seat a bit. "You almost killed your daughter!" I yell to Papà.
"Benvenuti nella nostra nuova casa." He babbles, gaily welcoming us to our new home while unbolting the police car's front door. I hate the fact that he speaks Italian more often than me and Mamma, when in fact, he's a New Yorker. He only went to Italy to pursue his dream of becoming a policeman and meets Mamma was actually not part of that dream. It's funny because the first time he saw Mamma, he was in charge of the traffic and he caught her driving down the road with no license. So he talked to her, told her she's screwed, brought her to the precinct, and that's when their love story started.
"Stop speaking Italian, Arturito. We're no longer in Italy. This is now France." Mamma orders, unloading the items of baggage out of the boot.
The white man in blue navy uniform brushes his golden beard before he stacks the boxes and lifts them up. He sniffs. "I smell brewed coffee." He begins walking down the pathways paved with cobblestones just beneath the Plane trees on queue. As he reaches the closed door of the so-much-storey building, he throws me an annoying question like what he always do. "Don't you like your new house, il Mio Amore?"
"A house and an apartment are not the same, aren't they?" I breathe heavily.
Mamma sighs. "Come on, Callie. We don't have any choice. Buying a house is not as easy as buying groceries in the grocery store."
"Even buying groceries is not easy!" Papà hollers while standing outside the door.
I don't get the idea of traveling thirteen hours and twenty-six minutes straight using a police car just to migrate from Italy to France and start a new life. Yes, these two countries shared the same similarities and they turn out to be somewhat alike, but they also differ at the same time. Not that I hate France, or I love Italy or vice versa, but, can't we just stay in a single place? I could tell that the migration thing is just a waste of money.
Papà rings the doorbell and it doesn't take too long before the door creaks wide open. Four blokes in white tops and blue jeans come out. They walk across the pathways to help us get our stuff inside.
The springtime here has no different than that of Italy. Tulips blossoming, the breeze feels kinda chilling, birds flying all over the place, and many more. Half of me says that things here feel a little more exciting than those in my first hometown. Somehow, on a different side, the other half of me agrees, but with a sort of an explanation. Maybe because books and coffees turn out to be the best combo for French people-or should I say, the best combo for everyone here, which is never a thing to Italians. Especially to those who love to sniff the aroma of freshly brewed coffee beans while turning the pages of the book. No wonder why it looks very sentimental to them. Though I'm not so certain about it.
We squeeze ourselves in the elevator which made me realize choosing the stairs is supposedly a better option. But thanks to the vast heavens we reach the third floor before I completely collapse from suffocation. I really hate elevators as much as I hate paper bag therapy.
I discharge myself and save my soul from the horror of the four corners of the elevating cage. I really want to yell 'Hallelujah' but the open doors of the neighboring apartments tell me it wasn't a good idea.
We walk from the most important to the least important order; The payer of everything which was Papà led the way; Followed by my 'Do what I say or else you sleep outside' kind of Mamma; Followed by the four hot blokes who look really struggling in lifting all the boxes but are still okay despite the sweats that cover their shirts. Of course, the sick 'feeling princess' should be at the last since I have the least contribution to this whole migrating thing.
When we reach room 015, Papà scoops the key out of his pocket and clings the door open. I stand still outside and wait for the muscle men to unload the boxes before I could finally sneak my way in.
Following every tick of the clock attached to the blank canary-colored walls is all fun and games, not until someone from the neighboring apartment hoots at me.
Thick curls of hazelnut hair mess upon her head while some fibers of it scatter over her face. Her eyes glow so big-like those of the owls resting on the tree trunks at night. She stands almost as tall as me, about five foot four, and has skin as dark and as smooth as a chocolate– the thing I have inside my black leather sling bag which I only remember a few seconds upon seeing her.
There comes a short awkward silence, followed by a more awkward eye-to-eye contact before she finally splits her door wider. "Hey! I love your bag and that pink furry boots. Oh gosh! They are so lovely!" She praises casually, as if we know each other ever since, and that we share more than a year of friendship.
Aghast, my heart gradually feels heavy. I don't know if it is because of the side effect coming off my medication that has just started to kick in, or is it because I am about to meet a new friend which is something I have never done before.