I'm a fucking mess. I don't understand a damn thing. It's like someone dropped a bomb inside my skull and my thoughts scattered like soggy confetti at a party gone to hell. What the hell is happening here?
Is what I'm living even real?
I don't know. I'm not sure of anything anymore.
Is this a dream? Am I dead? Is this the real Hell? Did Du la Font throw me into Hell and I didn't even notice? What kind of game is this? What fucking game is this, goddamn it?!
And then I think: What if nothing exists? What if this is just some cheap Matrix knockoff? A shitty simulation made by a god with a hangover?
I swear, I feel like walking out of this hotel and letting the sun fry me. Maybe that'll wake me up. Maybe that's what I need—to burn myself alive and snap out of this madness. Like in Abre los ojos, that film by Amenábar. The guy jumps off a skyscraper to return to reality.
And what the fuck is reality, huh? When did mine break? When did the fiction start? Was it when Du la Font showed up?
No. Before that. When Agnes came into my life.
Wait—no. It was when I met Irene.
No, no, no. Maybe it was that morning I tried to kill myself, and Agnes "saved" me.
Saved me? What if she didn't save me? What if I actually jumped that morning? What if I jumped out the window that morning like a diver, headfirst into the concrete pool waiting below?
Yeah. That could be it.
I died.
And if I'm dead, then what the hell is this?
Goddamn it. I can't be sure of anything. Not a single thing.
What if it all started when I killed that first bum? Yeah, I remember it like it was yesterday. I went into the San Cristóbal one random night and felt like a god squeezing the life out of that filthy human.
Wait. What if that didn't happen either?
What if I left the real world even earlier? What if it all started the day I ran away from home at fifteen—from that madhouse of a place where only whores and pimps lived, and where my dad was allowed to stay like some kind of pet, just because he was a charming loser?
What if I never really existed?
Fuck everything. Fuck the whole damn universe.
I pace back and forth, talking to myself, muttering broken fragments. A carousel of shattered words that, to Liora, sound like pure madness.
"Sir, sir… What's wrong, sir? Please don't scare me," she says.
I stop dead in my tracks and stare at her.
"Who the fuck are you? You know Du la Font too?"
My eyes must be bloodshot with delirium. My face, the face of a full-blown lunatic. Liora's terrified. She doesn't know what to say. Doesn't know what to do.
"Are you Agnes? I fucking knew it. You've taken another form, haven't you? You're mocking me! You psycho bitch! You and Du la Font are playing with me. Well—enough!"
"Sir... sir, please…"
I grab her by the shoulders and shake her. Like a raving prophet trying to exorcise a girl possessed by the devil. Liora screams. She shrieks in pain. I realize I've almost torn her arms off.
I let go. But I don't stop. Without touching her—just with my mind—I hurl her against the wall. She hits hard. Slams into a painting: The Old Guitarist by Picasso. A replica, probably. Or maybe not. Maybe it's the fucking original.
I approach her. She's on the ground. She begs:
"Sir, I'm not Agnes. Please don't hurt me. You're out of control."
I lift her up with one hand, by the neck. I squeeze. And of course, she can't speak anymore.
"Who are you, you little brat? Who the fuck are you?! You think you can play me? You think you can trick me, you filthy little cockroach?!"
Liora stares at me. Her eyes look like they're about to pop out of their sockets.
I get inside her head. I dig. I scratch. I rummage through every corner. And all I find is what I've seen before: pain, abuse, suffering.
God. What the fuck am I doing? I've gone completely fucking insane. I'm completely unhinged.
I release her.
"I'm sorry, little mouse. I'm so sorry."
I try to hug her. She pushes me away, frantic.
"Don't touch me! Let go! Don't touch me!"
I try to cup her cheeks. She screams. And then I get it. I've acted just like the monster who hurt her when she was human.
I feel disgusting. Liora screams. Screams with everything she's got.
I take three steps back, eyes locked on hers.
And when she sees me backing away, she yells:
"No one's ever going to hurt me again! I won't allow it! Don't touch me! Don't you ever touch me again! I love you, sir! How can you not trust me?! How can you do this to me?!"
She stops for a second. Then throws the last stone:
"Go to hell, sir."
"I'm sorry," I say, like an idiot. "I'm sorry, Liora."
But she keeps screaming. And screaming. And screaming. Then I turn and look at Nikandros. He's still there. Unmoved. Like a statue. I stare at him. I don't look away. And I wait. I wait for Liora to run out of screams. And then the screams stop. I hear her gasping for air—exhausted, shaking.
I say to Nikandros:
"Is there any chance this isn't real?"
"I'm afraid not, Mr. Fabrizio."
"What's my role in this play?"
"That's something you'll have to figure out yourself, Mr. Fabrizio."
"And yours?"
"I'm still working on it."
"Du la Font told you you'd know once you met me."
"Yes. That's what he said. But I still don't know. I'm also trying to make sense of my story, Mr. Fabrizio. Though of course, without resorting to violence. Violence doesn't help you think clearly."
"What if this is all a game created by Du la Font?"
"I don't think it is. But it could be someone else's game."
"What do you mean?"
"Someone above Du la Font."
"Who?"
"I suppose that's the great mystery we're supposed to solve."
Then I hear Liora's voice behind me:
"Sir... Sir..."
I turn. I look at her. We just stand there, staring at each other. The rage is gone. Only regret remains. I speak directly into her head: "You don't have to feel guilty about anything. You didn't do anything wrong. This is all my fault."
Liora tries to smile. She can't. She thinks, and I hear her thought: "Please come closer, sir." I walk toward her. She's sitting on the floor. I kneel, and she throws her arms around me.
"I exist, sir. I'm not Agnes, or Du la Font, or any of those beings that torment you," she says. "I'm Liora. Little Liora. And I swear to you—listen closely—I will never betray you, sir."
"I know, girl. I know. And I'm sorry. I truly am."
She hugs me. But I don't hug her back. I don't want to do anything that might make her uncomfortable. I don't want to scare her.
I feel like a disgusting pig who deserves the guillotine.
And of course, I let her know that. Without moving my lips, I say it straight to her mind: "I'm a pig, Liora. I hate myself."
And she responds:
"I forgive you, sir."
It's devastating. Like being stabbed in the heart with a thin blade, slowly. You don't hurt someone you love. That's wrong. That's so fucking wrong. I can be a heartless piece of shit about everything else. But not this.
"It won't happen again," I tell her. "I swear."
And the moment I say it, I feel even worse. I try to find some justification for what I did. But no. There isn't one. And to make things worse—I hate myself even more for looking for a justification. Because that—that is exactly what worthless pieces of shit do.
Liora kisses me on the cheek. Then says:
"Come on. Lie down for a bit, sir. Come rest your head on my lap."
I do as she says. I lie down and let her run her fingers through my hair.
"Talk to me, sir," she says. "Don't get all tangled up in your head again. Maybe the two of us can figure this out—whatever this is. I know now it's not just that we're trapped here. I understand there's something bigger going on. But don't carry it all by yourself, sir. Please. Count on me. I can help too. I'm not the same Liora who walked into your life five years ago. I'm not a silly little girl anymore. Yes—I'm still your little Liora. But only as a term of affection. And look—I know I could call you Zico. But I don't. I call you 'sir'—and I do it out of affection. I know I don't have to call you 'sir'. But I like it. Because it's something that's ours. I call you 'sir'. You call me 'little mouse'. I like that. It's something that belongs only to us. It's our code. Our way of naming what no one else understands. It confirms how unique we are. How unique this love is. But don't get it twisted. It's time you stop treating me like a child. I'm your partner, sir. Treat me like I deserve. Treat me like a grown-up. And now come on. Help me understand this story a little better. Come on. I'm going to help you solve all these riddles. We're going to get out of here. And after that… After that, we're going to go drink a couple of young, healthy humans. The kind that's a real treat for the fangs, sir."