Sin of the Saints (Between Delusion and Sobriety Duet #2)

Chapter 29

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Bellcolor

Is this reality or a delusion?

I breathe deep, taking in the fresh air coming off the majestic mountains before me, letting the coolness envelop me at the start of an unusually-warm autumn day. Still refusing to part ways with the summer, I’m wearing denim shorts and a white tank top. My nipples are hard and stand out against the thin sports bra. My skin is covered in goosebumps and red spots, highlighting the many scars on my body sentenced to remain cold and numb forever. If only I could be like them.

I run my fingers over them, and in my mind each evokes a shifting memory; they almost always involve alcohol, uncontrollably crying, a loose razor blade on the bathroom floor, one sharp motion, darkness and silence. That tranquil silence is the scariest part.

I can’t maintain my grip on sanity when the voices in my head awaken, and I die all over again each time they fall silent. I chuckle at the thought of the details we choose to emblazon in our consciousness. I never remember what led me to the abyss, but the fall itself is something I can strongly recall.

As the skies are painted red and the victory of light over darkness is revealed before me, I tighten my grip around my thighs, which I scarred, to burn that reminder onto myself.

Because I have to.

“Belle.” A delicate male voice behind me pulls me from my thoughts. I turn and notice this place’s guardian angel, with his golden hair and white uniform.

“Dr. Abano is waiting for your morning session. He sent me to find you.” He smiles and looks to the horizon, at the sunrise that will soon determine the blood war between night and day. “You know why Dr. Abano insists you be present for your appointment at sunrise.”

“I know,” I answer bitterly. He won’t let me watch it alone. He claims it undermines everything we’ve worked on the previous day. We must analyze my thoughts and feelings , he always insists.

“I hate to think that downtrodden look of yours is because of me.” He puts his hands into the pockets of his white pants.

I force myself to smile. “It’s fine, Ellis. I’m fine.”

I get to my feet and head to the main building, where the patient rooms and staff offices are. Ellis says nothing, but I feel his scrutinizing gaze. That’s the thing about this place – they all watch you, like you’re under a microscope. I’ve been in and out of here a couple of times, and I’ve heard the administrator call me a ‘complex case’ in front of other staff members. I’ve gradually felt that I’m becoming a subject of his private research. At first I resisted, but these days I’m not sure anymore that there’s a cure for whatever’s taken hold of his sanity and refuses to release me.

I walk down the empty corridors, everyone’s still asleep and the place is dead quiet, but these are my favorite hours here, before the chaos awakens. I knock on the door that has “Dr. Bartimaeus Abano” emblazoned on it, and I open it. The interior of the office is always spotless. Every pen and folder is where it should be, just like the first day they brought me here, years ago.

“Good morning, Belle,” Dr. Abano says, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.

I sit silently, shifting uncomfortably. Dr. Abano’s gaze seems to see right through me, so I’m always tense around him.

“I figured that if you weren’t coming to our meeting on time, you were probably watching the sunrise. How was it?” There’s no accusation in his calm tone, and I sigh in relief. He leans back and runs his pen across his lips.

“Beautiful, as always,” I answer carefully.

He says nothing as he looks me over, and I dare to raise my eyes and meet his unique stare. One eye is blue, the other green. I regret it, because as soon as our eyes meet he seems to hold my gaze, and I have trouble breathing.

“And what do we conclude from that?” he asks, still playing with the pen across his lips. My eyes are hypnotized by the supposedly innocent motion, but in my mind everything seems different.

I groan, realizing that I have to answer. “I suppose you expect me to say that I should be grateful to the Creator for having lived another day, but He wasn’t there. He’s never there.”

He writes something in his notebook for what seems like an eternity, and I focus on his furrowed brow as he concentrates. “You keep insisting He’s never there,” he says without raising his gaze from the notebook. “Yet you’re so fascinated by it.”

“I don’t know why,” I try to evade. He keeps writing. Silence hovers in the air for so long that I start getting chills, and I’m the first to crack. “Okay, ugh…” I take a deep breath. “Because I consider it the essence of creation. Not for the reason you want me to think, not because I’ve been given another day of life, but because it’s the start of everything. Everything from yesterday is erased. Today’s victory over the night births hope.” I close my eyes tight and fall silent. God, I’m just babbling nonsense. “I’m not sure I’m explaining myself properly.”

“It’s alright, take your time,” he says as he writes, lifting his eyes to ensure he has my attention. “We don’t always find the right words to express our thoughts and feelings. Sometimes what isn’t said most authentically expresses what resides deep within us.”

“Like reading minds?” I ask, and he tries to stifle a laugh.

“No, Belle, not like reading minds. More like learning to listen rather than just hear. Like musical creation. The notes create the tune, and sometimes the quiet between the notes is what gives it the power it seeks to create.”

I ponder his words. Is there truth to them? How is it even possible to listen to silence? “Whatever, it doesn’t matter. Because He’s never there.”

“Then he’s not present in Judaism or Christianity.” He pauses to make a note in his journal. His eyebrows meet as he energetically scribbles more words. “Shall we continue our journey to another religion?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I think that’s enough for me. I don’t think I’m reading the texts you gave me correctly.”

“There’s no correct or incorrect when it comes to faith. There are countless interpretations and exegeses, and I must admit it was very interesting to read your interpretation.”

“If you say so…”

“It’s alright, I don’t mean to pressure you. You don’t have to follow this path, it’s just important to me that you know it’s there if you want it. We’ll find your path together.”

I chuckle bitterly, “I thought my father was paying you so I could find his faith.”

“That’s because he believes his faith will instill in you a desire to cherish your life. He’s just hoping you find it where he did.”

“The fact that he found it here doesn’t mean his way is necessarily mine, but he refuses to recognize that.” Frustration again overwhelms me.

My father told me that although he came from an observant Catholic family, he’d distanced himself from religion when he moved to the United States. Upon returning to his homeland for business, he met my mother. A short time later she was hospitalized here. Together they found their way back to God. He found his faith through love, and that’s what he wishes for me.

Of course the happiness was just momentary, as my mother and I share the same curse. Her illness emerged after my birth and ultimately consumed her, and my mother ended her own life. My end is predetermined, and always has been. You’d think he’d have lost his faith after his tragic loss, but he chose to embrace it more closely.

“It might or it might not,” Dr. Abano says. “You’ll never know unless you try, I mean really try.” Is he claiming I’m not trying? For God’s sake, I read all the scripture he gave me. I could just as easily have been reading Stephen King books. Those are far less shocking to me. Fear runs down my spine as I recall the troubling scenes many people choose to read on a daily basis.

“It’s not that simple,” I finally answer, and he writes something down in his notebook.

“I want us to spend some time on that.”

“Again?” I raise an eyebrow. We’ve talked about it too much as is. I feel like we’ve been treading water for years.

“Again.” He raises the pen back up to his soft lips. I lower my gaze so as not to stare at them. “Why did you think you had no alternative but death?”

“B-because…” The words gather up into a lump in my throat, and I fall silent.

“Yes?”

I force myself to take a deep breath before breaking through the wall holding me back. “Because my father says life is a blessed gift, but how can that be when I feel cursed?”

“After reading the scriptures, you still think God has it out for you? That He wants you to suffer?”

“Yes! And reading them only reinforced that!” I shout, sharply raising my gaze to him. “Isn’t that what the administrator preaches at every Sunday mass? We’re all fucking sinners!” He’s unmoved by my reaction and adds another note to his notebook. “I hope I’m providing you with good research material,” I blurt out bitingly.

“As I do you?” he smiles, raising his eyes to me, and I quickly turn my head away. Damn it, I hate that I want to hate him. But I don’t, not at all.

“It’s not the same thing. It’s not real.” I cross my arms and frown, hoping it’ll disguise the fiery blush in my cheeks.

“But your pain is real, Belle.” My lower lip starts quivering and I bite it hard to keep from bursting into tears in front of him, like I do every fucking meeting.

“It’s alright not to always be in control,” he slowly says, and the lump in my throat just keeps growing, threatening to break the dam. “I know it’s what your father continues to insist on, control, but it’s not true. If you don’t let go occasionally, you might explode, with devastating consequences. Just like the reason you’re here.”

His words bring me right back to the memory of that night. It was ugly, to say the least. The weeping, the punches I threw at my own head to silence the voices – his voice, the voice telling me I was only worthy because of him, that if I didn’t give in to him I’d be nothing. Nothing at all. That’s all I’ve ever felt. So why not return to the void? It’s the only thing I could do to make it all stop. To give in to the paralyzing silence.

“Belle?” Dr. Abano stirs me from my thoughts. I look up at him and feel the tears flowing down my cheeks. I’m not even strong enough to stop them.

“My father won’t like that,” I say with some difficulty. “The administrator will have a tough time accepting it too.” My voice trembles and I wipe my nose at the end of every word.

He laughs, like my tears don’t affect him. He’s used to it, of course. All the broken hearts in this place cry in front of him. “Let me worry about the administrator. The things we’re discussing are between us, I give you my word. Your father wasn’t happy that I let you explore other religions either. We’re Italian, after all.” He winks at me, and I force myself to fake a laugh but it sounds pathetic.

“Yeah,” I wipe my nose before it gets too ugly and awkward, and manage to get a decent breath into my lungs. His laughter has a tendency to ground me. “He even dragged me to the Holy Land before coming back here. He was totally convinced I’d find my faith there, but wow was he wrong.”

“He isn’t wrong, you know. That land has magic in it. Faith is everywhere there: the air, the water, the wind blowing between the mountains. You just need to learn to open your eyes and heart.”

“I tried, but it didn’t work. He hates me.”

“You won’t be able to accept the love of others, especially His, until you let go of your hatred towards yourself. He does not withhold His love from any of His children.” I take a deep breath and tighten my grip on my knees. He repeats these words dozens of times, but something within me blocks them out and refuses to accept them. “Think about it, Belle.” I nod. “In that case, you’re dismissed for the day. I think breakfast has already been served.”

I hurriedly wipe away my tears and he hands me the tissue box on his desk. I chuckle at the frequency with which he must order them. That company’s making a fortune at our expense, it seems. I shove my chair back and leave his office, continuing to ponder that. It’s really strange, the details that choose to be burned into our consciousness.