1 C1: Hello, bizzare my old friend
Michelangelo sculpted the artwork known as La Pieta, which was originally intended to be placed on top of a cardinal's tomb. The sculpture depicts Mary holding the body of Jesus Christ and is displayed in the Sistine Chapel. The name "La Pieta" translates to "The Pity" in English. The artwork has been interpreted in diverse ways by different people.
This place is serene; the morning sun is shining brightly, and the green leaves move and sway as if the air and the trees are a couple dancing to it. It is a day on which you can stroll without worrying about anything. Through the casement window, the four opaque pairs of rectangle panels pierced by the sun's rays create the eminent little glow of a rainbow. It shone down on the dishes that were submerged in the water in the kitchen sink, and as the water dripped on the sink, it made tiny colors that my orbs could absorb.
Inside the house, a bath is cooling up as the crystals of water drip on the white-tiled floor from the overfilled sink as the water dilutes the crimson trail of shining red ruby-shaped footsteps on the ground as it fills the emptiness on the floor. White powder blushes in red as it meets the red colors of fluid as the heat of the room makes me trickle in sweat.
And the Madonna in the scene is in her most fragile state.
Unconscious? She lay motionless, and only those who have been watching art would have recognized the pose she was in—a perfect imitation of Michelangelo's La Pietà, her body positioned with precision atop a pool of rubies that started crystalizing underneath her. In an effort to get myself out of this stubborn chair, I shuffled a bit. I don't know if I should be repelled by it or amazed, yet disgust is somehow curdling within my veins as I turn away and it gushes out. My eyes sluggishly land on the table for two. A mound of clay used for crafting pots was covered to prevent it from drying out.
Two envelopes with oldish wax seal inspired and writings. One opened, and one isn't.
The meticulous suturing of her bare neck and crown with medical thread hinted at surgical precision, and the flowing garment draped over her body echoed the attire worn by Jesus in Michelangelo's masterpiece, yet her lifeless posture resembled nothing more than a discarded doll left forgotten in a dark corner.
As the excess water from the clay dripped onto the floor, the fabric of her garment dried and stiffened, further heightening the sense of surrealism in the scene. Fear and unease gripped me as I contemplated the meticulous planning and execution that had gone into this heinous act.
Will I end up also being like that?
The mere thought of the clay hardening on my decaying body made me recoil in disgust and shudder with dread. It was even more unsettling, as the woman before me had just shared in my laughter, only to be turned into a motionless sculpture by the sculptor's skilled hands. The sight of her frozen expression and immobile form added to the eerie atmosphere, causing a wave of unease to wash over me. As I dragged my heavy body away from her body, the weight of the situation seemed to bear down on me with every movement. My heart raced with fear, and memories of the gruesome ruby bath filled my mind, causing my fingers to shake as I desperately pulled myself away from the scene.
Tiny vine-like tendrils emerged from cracks between tiles, slowly ascending the yellow walls with dreadful stealth and speed. Delicate blooms in shades of Eve's twilight unfurled petal by petal, an ominous floral infestation spreading beneath my very eyes and decaying swiftly as they grew vastly fast and filled the walls.
The sloshing sound of rubies coated my hands and the floor that I placed my eyes on. It was then that I felt the cold, hard blade of a kitchen knife press against my trembling hand and glint maliciously in the dim light. As the reality of my situation set in, my mind immediately raced to the consequences of touching evidence at the crime scene as if my senses. The thought of leaving my fingerprints behind only added to my sense of panic and desperation as I struggled to crawl away, hoping to escape the nightmare that had unfolded before me.
"Alessio, is that what these schools taught you?" I clutched onto my hair as it echoed like a scream.
My mind was racing with thoughts of being caught like a criminal, and vivid visions of my younger sister flooded my mind. I could see her, my sister, standing there with her pink hair and disappointment etched on her face as she bailed me out of jail. My mother's voice echoed in my mind, reminding me of the burden I had become and how much time and money she had wasted on me.
My body moved automatically, but my mind was still shaken by the weight of my thoughts.
The guilt I felt was overwhelming, and I couldn't shake the feeling that the consequences of my actions would be dire. Despite this, I knew that if I returned to this state, they could post a bail bond for me. I didn't care what they said or thought because the expensive homes, artwork, and enterprises that belonged to my grandparents in Italy were all mine as the sole male heir. They wouldn't even receive that fortune without me; even if they killed me, I didn't care if they beat me to death. But as I thought about my death wish, I knew it went against my plan for retribution against those who had treated me badly. The future seemed uncertain, and the worry of being a prime suspect weighed heavily on my mind. The consequences of my actions were starting to feel like an inescapable fate that would haunt me for the rest of my life.
I won't die.
With every step, shards of glass pierced my bare feet, sending waves of agony through my body. I could feel my strength slipping away as I leaned against the wall, pulling myself up with sheer willpower.
Instinct to live.
My hand trembled as I fished out the two handkerchiefs from my pockets, grateful for what I was bringing. Instead of using one to dry my hands, I tied one around each of my bleeding feet, hoping the pressure would stop flowing. As dizziness threatened to overwhelm me, I bit my lip and regulated my breathing, determined to keep moving forward even if my eyes saw my foot slowly being eaten by it. I watched in horror as it seeped through the makeshift bandages, but I quickly stemmed the flow, refusing to give up. The muscles in my torn-apart feet throbbed with each step, but I pushed through the pain, using the coarse divider to support myself as I made my way toward freedom. The sound of approaching sirens grew louder, giving me hope that I might make it out alive.
My heart pounded in my chest as more questions rushed in.
Did I just fall asleep?
Am I dead?
Who was the killer, and what were they doing in there? The unknown filled me with fear and uncertainty, but I knew that I had to keep moving forward if I wanted any chance of survival.
The kitchen wasn't that far from the entrance; I could make it through. I just need to keep my steps quiet. I can clearly recognize that it affects my thinking that it went nuts and that I think I might burst into a heart attack any minute from now. Bright sunlight passes through the small holes in the screen door, and that for me is a sign of hope and pushing myself to get out of this hell. Just as I reached out for the door handle, a searing pain erupted in the back of my head. My eyes saw more doors than a singular one. The flowers rush towards my face as the veins of them hold tightly on my skin, agonizingly tightly closing my path of breath.
So this is how I'll die.
