Today, Like This - Every photo in the window has a price

The sunset feeds skin already gilded by the sun. Warm reflections between her cheeks, her lips, and in the cascade of black hair curving over bare shoulders. A sailboat can be glimpsed against the blue of a summer sea, and the outline of an island swallowed by the horizon. Naxos 2024, says the caption. 220 comments.

You’re gorgeous ❤️ ❤️

Tell me where and I’m on my way 🛫

Nos vemos, señorita.

Four salaries, six if you’re a factory worker, many months of odd jobs. That’s the value of the red bicycle leaning against the rock at the top of the mountain, photographed behind a pair of knees pressed together.

What legs, baby!

So you wanted the bike?

Beautiful at any altitude ོ⋆☀︎ᨒོ

The eyes are a deep, melancholy blue, big as lighthouses watching over the world, and the photo is no product of deceitful filters, it’s as real as the sky.

The pool in the loneliness of two in the afternoon, dead leaves at the foot of a beech wood, yoga, mats lined up on the parquet, a windshield flooded with rain, and always the same caption: right now, like this.

Marshall is a three-year-old Labrador, fluffy as a cloud. One shot in four is his. At the park, downtown with the newspaper in his mouth, in the car with his head out the window and his ears folded back by the wind.

Right now, like this.

Faithful love!

I’d walk you both, morning and evening ;).

Beautiful Marshall! 🐶🐶

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The sad blue eyes are crying. The tears soak the blindfold twisted across her mouth, pressing down on her tongue. It’s the smell of fear that ruins the poetry. Right now, like this, tied to the radiator, crucified, knees to her chest, hair a mess.

The thief stops scrolling on the phone and gets up.

She is small, he is imposing. He is frightening, nose crushed under the nylon stocking, lips distorted. He kneels beside her and she shuts her eyes and sinks her neck between her shoulders. She is afraid. She wasn’t when she walked into the house with Marshall, laughing, in fact, at a funny video, and a gunshot had buried itself in the dog’s neck the moment he moved to attack the intruder. His last yelp had died with him. A pool of blood has soaked into the fur and is clotting beside the rug that reads: WELCOME IF YOU BRING WEALTH.

Right now, like this.

The cavernous voice is terrifying. It comes from a thick neck and enormous lungs but seems to vibrate straight out of a well.

“Why do you write ‘right now, like this’ under the picture of the pastries at Dolcevita when you’re not there, you’re outside your own front door? I had invested my whole morning in that!”

She can’t speak.

It feels as if the gag is sliding down her throat to strangle her, so the thief rests the muzzle of his Ruger in the middle of her forehead and lays down the unilateral terms: I’m armed, you’re tied up.

He stands, parts the curtain, and sees only countryside blended with the morning mist. The road is far away and the glint of a lone car guarantees there will be no trouble for a thief caught in the act. The gag comes away along with a lock of her hair. Coughing overlaps the first words the thief speaks.

“I’m sorry about your big dog. Really, I’m not a son of a bitch, but he was about to go for my throat and I shoot fast. The world’s a shitty place, you’re forced to specialize in something.” He raises the revolver, still stinking of gunpowder. “This is my master’s degree.”

She’s too busy breathing, so the intruder goes on.

“In a little while I’ll be gone, no tedious complications. I’d suggest burying the dog just as he is and keeping it quiet, mourning with dignity, alone. Say he went down suddenly after you got back from a trip downtown, or make up a story you like, that you took a shovel and dug a hole, and that he’ll be with you forever, in your lovely garden.”

In her eyes you can read resignation and fear. She knows that reporting him would do little good, that no one will protect her, and that her enormous empty house is too isolated for anyone to hear her call for help. She has understood that the man behind the stocking knows everything about her, schedules, habits, passions, friendships. She has no time to finish the thought before the confirmation arrives.

“If I smell cops, if I find out I’m being hunted and that maybe you’re under protection, I’ll pick someone at random from your contacts and leave them dead, just like your Marshall, bought as a puppy and groomed once a month, twice in winter, when the roads are full of mud. You wrote that yourself, if I remember right.”

“I’m not rich. Why me?”

The thief swallows, but you can tell he’d like to spit. His face is hideous through the dense flesh-colored mesh.

“Dear Barbara, or Barby, or Barby Doll, as your simp friends call you. You flaunted a Rolex that costs as much as a year of my father’s wages, a factory worker. You showed it off in a thousand photos, in an evening gown, in pajamas, in a swimsuit, and look how good I am, I found it in two minutes in the bedside drawer. And you know what, Barby Doll?”

Barbara lets the back of her head fall against the radiator. “What am I supposed to know?”

“That my father is dead. Silicosis, after a lifetime cutting stone, and that day you were in Porto Cervo with a blue aperitif and a little umbrella. ‘Today, like this,’ you wrote.”

The tears run down to her chin, her nose is running, her voice is broken. “I’m sorry about your father, but I wasn’t in Porto Cervo.”

“Oh no? Where, then?”

“Alghero.”

“What an unforgivable gaffe, Barby Doll, but I’ll make up for it. When I fence your Rolex I’ll go there, and to the other place too.”

Barbara looks at Marshall. She loved him like a son. She’s proud of him, spoiled and pampered, but fallen defending her. She can’t take her eyes off that motionless heap of fur.

The thief slips the revolver into his back pocket.

“I’ll help you bury him, come on. Out back, though.”

She won’t even be able to take a picture of him. The wound in his neck is too obvious, the blood too stale. Today, like this, she would have written.

“I’ll dig the hole. I mean, I feel like taking my leave like a gentleman. It’s not advisable for you to handle a shovel and me a gun. I’m fast, I told you.”

There’s only one thing worse than a non-negotiable proposal, and that’s a non-negotiable proposal moderated by a nine-millimeter.

“Fine. If you untie me, I’ll show you. The ground is soft behind the house.”

“Ah, but there’s a consequence. I’m taking your diamond ring. I wasn’t good at finding it, and in there, forgive me, I turned everything upside down, but I’ve been dreaming of it ever since you photographed it with your hand on the moss. Where were you, Cervinia?”

Barbara shakes her head.

“Saint Moritz.”

“Ah, out-of-the-way places.” He bends to untie her. He doesn’t bother with the knots, pulling a hunting knife from his pocket and cutting the rope in one sharp stroke. Barbara feels the weight of that enormous body and the smell of clothes worn too long. “When I fence the ring I’ll make a weekend of it.”

“It’s my father’s money.”

“The rich one.”

“The dead one. Just like yours.”

“And what did your father do?”

“He was in politics.”

“Then I’m sorry for him, but I won’t be visiting his grave...”

“Somebody has to be a politician.”

“Sure, some people steal and some steal but they call it being honorable.”

There’s something slippery about this man, something to be handled with care, and things, as everyone knows, can always get worse.

Her phone announces a new message. The thief picks it up and scrolls.

“Who might this be?”

“I don’t know, I get so many.”

Barbara hangs from the radiator’s charging pipe, one arm still tied. She rubs the sleeve of the free one under her nose, but sees that behind the stocking the deformed face has turned severe.

“Who would you kill, Barby Doll?”

Barbara is confused. Her throat burns with acid rising from her stomach, tinnitus hammers at her, her head spins. She doesn’t know what to answer and stays silent. It isn’t a compassionate voice she hears, it’s the one from the bottom of the well, loaded with an overflowing rage.

“Would you kill everyone who protests, and everyone who busts your balls because they can’t make money?”

It’s a chat, begun the night before and cut off because of the late hour. Her friend had been annoyed by protests and demonstrations, because she’d lost time in a traffic jam and a dinner had fallen through: people with fuck-all to do, she’d written.

“It’s just a friend venting...”

“Yeah, but you agree with her!”

“Untie me, please.”

His finger races across the screen and the thief is horrified. He paces the room, lengthens his stride and steps over Marshall’s body, comes closer, twists his mouth into a grimace, turns, repeats, and comes back. The comments he mutters aloud are clipped, not always intelligible. He stands there with the phone pinched between his fingertips. The last comment cuts like a razor.

“I’ll have to clean the screen properly, afterward...”

Barbara feels the chill rising and stiffening her stomach. Afterward? Afterward what?

Finger scrolling, a glance at the screen, a sideways glance at her. Barbara feels her bladder about to give way and wriggles her hips against the floor. The rope tears her wrist, her fingers twitch, his gaze accuses.

“It says something horrible here.”

Barbara whimpers. “We were supposed to bury Marshall...”

“But it’s truly horrible!”

“I didn’t write it!”

It’s a tackle. The thief drops on top of her and yanks her collar. The back of her head slams against the aluminum elements and she feels his hot breath through the pantyhose. Impossible to focus on a screen shaken five centimeters from her face.

“Then who the fuck is Barby Doll?”

“No, no, calm down please. It was to humor a...”

The phone’s flight ends against the wall above the couch, and now there’s a nine-millimeter hole there, just as hard to focus on.

The night before she was in bed, Marshall asleep on the rug, the TV muttering a rosary of bad news. When her friend had raised the subject, when the chat had opened with a laconic “Hi Barby, are you awake?”, she had accepted the conversation and read with heavy eyes. She had thought it would be awful to put those ideas into practice but that, all things considered, her friend was right.

She has the feeling that this man can read minds.

The iron of the revolver knocks against her forehead and Barby Doll is pessimistic.

There are those days when everything goes wrong.

Today, like this.

I’m not sleepy: No Rest for the Wicked. No Mercy for the Lost - A short story (English Edition)

 

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Screens - Where Beauty Never Dies

 

If only I could find a flaw in her. Something to give me courage, something to bring her closer to planet earth, to being human...

The perfection of her face embarrasses me. The smooth skin, the broad forehead, the large, widely-set eyes, grey like the sky at daybreak.

The curve of her chin beneath her heart-shaped lips, slightly parted over rows of white teeth, harmonizes with her firm breasts, and her costume jewelry pendant points the way to paradise. Her dark hair cascades in wide waves over her shoulders. I'm sure it smells of shampoo.

If only I could find a flaw in her.

Now playful, now fatal, cheerful, pensive.

A pair of large tortoiseshell glasses projects her into the world of intellectuals. A couple of unbuttoned buttons and suddenly a mighty sea of foam and wind materializes behind her, at the end of the white beach of a distant island. The lights conspire with her. She would look good under the warm beams of halogen lights just as well as in the livid sadness of a police station's fluorescent lighting.

I place my phone on the small table, next to the beer glass I've drunk in three gulps to overcome my fear. The screen dims the colors and then goes dark.

Six or seven steps separate us: the run-up for a penalty kick. When I take the first step, awkward, heavy, final as a gravestone, my thoughts are the same as those of someone about to kick that ball that will move more money than a million factory workers on the assembly line.

Anxiety, fear of failure, of losing that chance that won't come again.

She's tall, with a sweep of legs that mortifies the bar stool. Her pleated skirt, ending a few inches above her knees, is in a discreet blue that matches well with her slightly lighter blouse. Summer is in the air, and now I'm close enough to smell her sweet scent.

"Hi. I'm Francesco, and you... You must be Lisa."

Her lips curl for an instant, and yes, I think I've found the flaw, the one that gives me courage. Next to her elbow resting on the counter, I see a red aperitif, garnished with an orange slice stuck on the sugar-rimmed glass. The bartender, with his suspicious tan and sleeves rolled up over strong arms, grasps the importance of the moment and moves away under the pretext of reaching for the hanging towel.

"And how do you know my name? Have we met somewhere before?"

The question is legitimate, and the price to pay is the weakness in my knees that I hope doesn't translate into the face of someone who urgently needs to run to the bathroom. The approach was pathetic, but I recover quickly.

"Ah, no. We've never met. You're... you're among my Instagram contacts and Facebook too, you see, and I recognized you." I point to my smartphone, with a third of its base awkwardly jutting out from the low table next to the couch. The muscular bartender rubs the inside of a glass with his fingers wrapped in the cloth and dispenses a conspiratorial smile. Lisa steps back to size me up better. She squints her eyes, points her finger, and hints at a crooked smile. I can tell from her mischievous look that she's placed me in the right box of social media contacts.

"Francesco Nine Three?"

I'm about to burst with pride. I beat my chest like Tarzan. "That's me. Ninety-three is my birth year."

"And tell me: is Francesco your name, or were you inspired by some saint?"

"No, what saint? Francesco Maria..."

She laughs. "Maria like the Virgin?"

I'm losing steam like an engine at the end of its life. The bartender has taken his ninety kilos of muscle to the back, and beyond the glass, the photos of a fading afternoon scroll by. Jackets open over loosened ties, slipping shoulder straps, heavy handbags, and freshly renewed lipstick. Selfies with colored glasses are mandatory, and not all cameras show mercy after a long day behind the desk.

"Like my grandmother..."

"Who was called Maria?"

I'm obvious, predictable. I remember the flush at the end of a piss, but despite this, the embodiment of beauty before me doesn't discard me. Maybe I amuse her, fill those five minutes before the really cool guy comes to pick her up. Maybe she has a soft spot for losers and I move her like the sunset after a hellish day.

"Are you paying?" The answer is implied. The bartender with the perfect pectorals plays the part of cashier, stylishly dons a pair of thin-framed glasses, and confidently punches the keys of the cash register. "That's twenty-three."

While I pay, Lisa rubs against me. Her warm breath carries a barely whispered thank you. The weakness in my knees shifts to a swarm of fierce butterflies tickling my belly.

Behind the shuffle wearing down the sidewalk, an Aston Martin DB11 cuts through the wall of the building like a diamond. It's swamp water green, or maybe lake blue contaminated with algae. Depends on how you look at it.

Sitting at the wheel is Lisa, waiting for me.

The first time doesn't last long, but I'm good at climbing stairs and diving back into the warm broth of the most welcoming pool in the world.

This time I have time to dedicate to details: to the turgidity of nipples that incise the chest, to the silk skin that raises the hair on my arms like an electric shock, to the coming and going of the belly, which rises and falls, and rises and falls like a ship with full sails that has gained the open sea.

The two-thousand-euro bottle of Louis Roederer is ready to pop its cork to accompany the canapés with large-grain caviar. The bedroom window embraces the sparkle on the sea's surface that anticipates the setting sun.

It's a dream, one of those to leaf through like a photo album.

Lisa doesn't hold back and breathes. Breathes and seems to want to accumulate all the world's energy to explode like a nuclear bomb. The certain thing is that I will blow up along with her.

The house is a modern building, low, with essential architecture. It appeared at the end of a white dirt road that crosses a pine forest surrendered to the whims of the wind and welcomed me with a studio of polished floors, high tech, and abstract paintings on the walls. The roof with exposed beams, only slightly inclined, is interrupted by the stone fireplace in the center of the space, preceded by a large sofa and a glass table ready for celebration. The door on the wall at the back opens onto a sumptuous bathroom and the bedroom. I already knew I would spend an unforgettable moment there.

When my heart begins to slow down, I notice the screen mounted on the wall. It's a twenty-six-inch LCD, mounted on an adjustable support. It shows from above a child of maybe two years. He sleeps in his crib with one arm pinched under his face and his long blonde hair spread like a fan on the blue pillow. While Lisa still seeks the natural rhythm of her breathing, the little one shows the serenity of the innocent. I don't have time to ask when she anticipates me.

"His name is Martino. He'll turn two in September. I had him with Valerio, my first husband..."

I wonder who the second husband is, and once again she reads my mind. "The second doesn't exist. Oh God, he'll come, also because the little angel needs a father, but for now nothing. Let's say I'm searching for the ideal candidate..."

The child is stunning.

Toxic, destructive thoughts chase each other. Lisa must have had a husband as beautiful as a god. I expect a merciless comparison, between muscles, intelligence, personality, and less apparent virtues. Come to think of it, I'm also quite broke, and my wallet is still bleeding after paying for the aperitif, and instead, apparently, Lisa has a standard of living that doesn't belong to me. I can still feel the vibrations of the Aston Martin propagating in my backside. I give voice to my mouth without thinking too much.

"Could it be me?"

The look is one of those that sucks all your blood and stores it in ice at the bottom of the freezer. I feel like the fish in the aquarium, like the insect caught by the heartless child and left to consume with fatigue at the bottom of the jar. "What?"

"The ideal candidate..."

Lisa pulls her knees up. They brush against my bare legs, and I feel the crank starting to turn again. I receive the kiss and turn to see the child on TV. Like his mother, he has changed position. Now he sleeps on his back, with his mouth seeming to devour the pillow.

"You could be, why not! The first interview, I'd say, went well and the second..."

I can still speak before being suffocated by a kiss. It ends after an eternity while her hand shifts into gear. "Interview? It doesn't seem like we talked..."

She sighs. "It was the practical test. After eating, we'll start with the interrogations. Does the program work for you?"

I like the program and I like how she kisses. My animalistic side likes it as it starts to stamp like a horse in the storm.

Lisa's phone vibrates on the marble surface of the small table, and all contacts short-circuit. I stop what I've started and dismount from the horse. She, struck by sudden modesty, pulls the sheet to her chin and answers.

It's a video call.

The screen frames an alpha male face: important jaw, salt-and-pepper beard neglected with wisdom, black and severe eyes like those of a commander. Lisa apologizes with a bit of embarrassment.

"It's Valerio, my ex-husband."

I wonder how long it takes him to mess up his hair so well and why the clavicle framed at the bottom of the display reminds me of the wrought iron of gates. His voice worthy of dubbing movie stars meets expectations.

"Did I disturb? Do you have guests?"

The answer is lapidary. "No, actually yes. To what do I owe your appearance?"

"Tomorrow will be windy. Strong. With Gigi and Sabri we had decided to go sailing. If it works out right, even Micky and Beppe are with us. You?"

I hope Lisa consults me but all in all it's better she doesn't. As a sailor I'm worth nothing and I think I would fall overboard at the first tack. To tell the truth, I'm scared of any liquid that stirs much more than gargling with salt or aspirin rolling in half a glass of water. I would have said no in front of the Greek god to disintegrate immediately after behind that macho smile.

"Good for you. And what do I do with Martino?"

This time the alpha male's voice doesn't mask the emotion. "How's the little one doing. Is he managing?"

"He runs like a train, plays, eats and shits but I'd say it's still too early to leave him alone with something to heat in the microwave and porn to watch on the web..."

Indeed, the child is special. He yawns and rubs his eyes, still sleepy in the middle of that serious face. I wouldn't be surprised if he were thinking about a business meeting. Lisa, instead, talks to the screen with the same transport she would have before a person in flesh and blood. Valerio doesn't give up:

"Don't leave him alone. Call the babysitter and put her to work changing diapers..."

When finally Lisa turns in search of my consent, I've abandoned the mattress and crossed the large room barefoot. I look outside covering my privates with my hand and while a halo of condensation forms around my nose pressed against the glass. There's no way to go out onto the blue-slippered terrace that overlooks the waves. The crystal, which occupies the entire wall, is mortised into the walls and floor like a dam in granite. The sea is becoming contaminated with some drops of black and the sky begins to get heavy. Lisa puts her ex-husband on hold. With the sheet around her, she wiggles to the computer in standby on the desk and calls the babysitter.

She answers after a series of chirps that remind of a love-struck pigeon.

She's as dry as a winter branch and invaded by extraterrestrial-sized blue eyes. Her hair appears dark due to the wetness but is blonde and stuck to her face. I don't see the towel around her neck but it's certain she just got out of the shower. The piercing on her nose gleams in the webcam frame as if catching the rhythmic light of a flasher. I discover after a moment that her name is Claudia.

Lisa sits on the edge of the chair, blocks the sheet on her chest with her hand and asks the babysitter if she has time and means to take charge of little Martino when she, ex-husband Valerio and the series of sporty friends ready for anything will delight themselves among the salty breakers in the scorching sun. Meanwhile, the child has engaged in a fight with the sheets and seems to be climbing the wall in the Dolomites of Cadore.

The negotiation doesn't last long. "Of course, Lisa, I'll keep him with me as long as necessary," she says, and Lisa repays her with that smile I've learned to know.

I decide to get dressed.

The window to the terrace is hostile, sealed like a coffin and my nudity embarrasses me. Valerio, the ex-husband, is still framed on the cell phone screen. He fiddles with his beard, makes faces and pushes his lips with his tongue until the tip peeks out. I pass, avoiding ending up in the frame and go beyond. There are things after sex that need to be done right away, like smoking and changing the fish's water. I remember having left my cigarettes in the Aston Martin.

The conversation between the two has become thick.

They talk about the weather, the sea, the thirteen-meter catamaran that rocks placidly in the waters of the small port, their respective love adventures. Claudia mentions a guy who reminds her of the god of the sea, Lisa laughs but delays in telling her about me. Little Martino, on video, has fought with the sheets to the point that they wrap him like a shroud.

The bathroom doesn't disappoint, just a bit, so to speak, solemn. Above the double sink, the mirror is carved inside a deep niche. No cabinet or rug. The shower box with the wooden base is completely transparent, the large whirlpool tub dominates the center of the floor in severe gray marble with bone-white striations. The same coating is used for the walls.

While Lisa and Claudia laugh in their video conference, I empty my bladder, open the shower water and dive into a wall of steam.

That pampers me, regenerates me.

Dissolves tensions and purifies the skin. I'm inside a parallel universe, I feel like I'm traveling on a flying saucer.

The deep sea blue shower gel smells of salt spray. It drips on my chest, on my legs and forms a bluish film that tickles my feet.

I allow myself a second round and sense through the coming and going of steam that Lisa is filling the whirlpool tub.

She has gathered her hair in a chignon, the bangs are divided unevenly: abundant on her left until covering the eye, reduced to a less consistent tuft of hair on the opposite side of the face. Immersed in the bubbling water that splashes on her face, she's serious enough to worry me.

"Everything okay, Lisa? Did you arrange with Claudia?"

She doesn't answer. She sinks under the bubbles. I fear I've offended her. I've worn the men's bathrobe that was hanging next to her microfiber one and maybe I've exceeded in confidence. She resurfaces after almost a minute.

She's breathless.

Water drips from her nostrils and the chignon has come undone in a series of uneven braids stuck to her shoulders and breasts. Without being asked, I remove the bathrobe and put it back in its place. Naked as a worm I'm not authoritative but I try anyway:

"Lisa, it was beautiful. Now... now I'll go back there, get dressed and then leave. So, good luck with the catamaran trip..."

She spits out the water she had swallowed. She has reddened eyes like after a long swim in the sea.

"But no! There's champagne and caviar canapés. You're not leaving without having drunk something first. Don't you think?"

"It would be a sin to say no to Louis Roederer..."

She lingers. With a cough she expels more water, from her nose and mouth. The smile is barely hinted at, should be interpreted between the lines of that beautiful face. "We'll drink it here. Go get it..."

And I return to the room. The skin warm from the steam clashes with the mild air of the environment. Still the sea slowly sinking into darkness, the unmade bed, the sheets abandoned on the ground on the way to the bathroom. Claudia's face, Lisa's friend babysitter, has remained impressed on the computer screen.

I'm struck by the fixity of her gaze, by her diaphanous skin, by the blue tracery of veins visible beneath the edematous bags under her eyes. The mild air in the room turns to ice.

I move closer.

Claudia appears dead but surprises me by vomiting a stream of water mixed with dark, soft matter.

Seaweed.

The second retch is even worse and splatters the video camera. The deep, guttural sound resembles an infernal moan.

I'm naked, my sex reduced to nothing, legs trembling. Fear.

Valerio, framed in Lisa's still-active phone, is dead. His hair is plastered to his skull, eyelids half-closed over fixed pupils, lips swollen and purplish. I move close enough to understand that the black background behind his head is a body bag, and I nearly faint when, with a single clean gesture, decisive as a guillotine blade, an anonymous hand pulls the zipper, closing the curtain on the scene.

The sixteen-inch screen hanging on the wall looks like an aquarium glass. There are bubbles, large and small, stuck to the surface, bubbles rising and a cloud of dirt floating formlessly in the center of the scene.

Water.

I want to scream but the cry gets caught between my tonsils and what I get is a convulsive cough and I feel cold. The darkness behind the window has conquered the sea and a sky poor in stars weighs like a manhole cover.

I want to go back to Lisa, warn her about what's happening but my feet are practically glued to the floor.

When I see the lifeless body of the child floating on the screen with arms spread wide, I fall to my knees as if I'd been shot.

Somehow, I return to the bathroom.

The whirlpool tub bubbles like a volcano and Lisa's hand has broken its nails in the attempt to get out. Now it's motionless, facing downward with the wrist bent over the edge.

My phone still works.

I no longer feel cold, or pain.

Naked, without the strength or ability to piece together the fragments of my soul, I connect to the social network and I see her there, wonderful. Now with intellectual glasses, now with beach sand mischievously stuck to her firm buttocks. Now dressed up for little Martino's christening. In the group photo everyone appears: Lisa, Valerio, the little one, Claudia, and all the other friends.

I understand only afterward that they drowned in the sea, dead, overwhelmed a year earlier by a sudden rogue wave. For social networks, however, and for my infinite naivety, Lisa continued to exist.

With time I found the spirit to get dressed but the screens haven't finished torturing me. The scenes perpetuate, the deaths repeat.

It's impossible to leave the house.

If I look out the window toward the sea, where days and nights alternate, if I approach the other windows scattered throughout the house, I see curious eyes converging on my desperation and enormous thumbs scrolling on the outside of the glass, scrolling, scrolling.

Scrolling.

I am dead but not deleted.

I continue to exist, sealed inside a social network like a little fish between the walls of its glass bowl.