The dance does not stop
"I’m thirsty means I’m alive. Who cares if the first or last. The heart wants to beat again, again. Oh, red sand and desert. I feel it in my eyes, in the bottom of my eyes, rising from the sea passing through the heart.”
("Fata Morgana", Litfiba)
"The heart wants to beat, it still wants to beat", so Liftiba sing. It's all rock, pure rock, beautiful and full of adrenaline, and there’s the desert. Come on. I am in the desert, nothing happens here and I will end up not even dying any more. Messalina, the naughty nurse, actually said that this morning, shaking me. She moved me round and round as if I were a sack of potatoes. It is true that I feel nothing, physically speaking, but she might as well care a little more for my beautiful body.
"Did you understand? It turns out that this one won’t die, and we’ll have to wipe her ass for years", she complained to the other one, the good one, who must have a face like a nun’s, dark socks, a beautiful natural breasts and eyes turned down like a beaten dog.
Sister Chamomile didn’t answer. In addition to the now overt pangs of love, she dislikes Messalina and doesn’t understand her. She just sighed.
"We’ll have to wipe her ass forever", the virago repeated with scorn. I believe that she has fake nails, she’s always showing her tits and slips into the beds of every emergency room doctor.
Ah, ah, she must be some kind of brothel madam. She can’t stand having to wipe my ass. I must not be pleasant for her, I understand, but it’s not like she realizes that it’s the worst of the worst for me. Then Messalina used another shitty word. She called me "baby killer". I'm sure she borrowed that from some newspaper. So at least someone has written and talked about me, so I suppose I have become famous, and maybe I really ended up on the internet. What I'd give to know what is happening at school, whether Eleonora is really dead or got well, even whether Mrs. Boschi still talks or finally shut up. Whether, total incompetent that she is, she gave up teaching. However I should also talk to reporters. How is it possible that if one is less than eighteen years old they keep calling her "baby"? To them, even if we have been smoking everything for centuries, have had our monthly since eleven, and we happily fuck even better than adults, we are still and forever babies, as if we had three years and wore the diaper. Ridiculous!
I, alone, am the unique and unrepeatable Silvia Giardini and I am an adult , not a baby killer. I have been the protagonist of a season of rebellion and youth violence to the nth degree. I killed and I could do it again, provided someone is so nice as to give me another lovely little gun with the serial number abraded. It was the inspector to tell me that the serial number had been deleted, so I suppose they can’t go back to the fool who allowed me to make a slaughter. The other tracks I got rid of myself. Let’s see what adults with a capital A do now, facing a well-informed baby killer. The good Sherlock Holmes talks to me in his short visits to clear his conscience. Since he’s no good at investigations, he comes here and waits for me to resurrect and tell him the name of the rightful owner of the weapons. Asshole. Apart from the fact that I will for sure become a case like those who are in a coma for twenty years and then, when they wake up, are turned into test subjects for scientists – at which point they’ll build golden bridges for me, I'll be in the papers again and I will be able to tell my drama as a survivor, and be pampered and worshiped – do you really think I would betray a friend? That I would help him and not Massimo? This inspector really is a stewed sausage. What has been done with those weapons before us, I don’t know and I don’t care. Why they were loaded and ready to fire, I don’t know and I don’t care. Why I made a slaughter, I don’t know and I don’t care. The only thing I know is that I am a Goddess with a bang, one that knows how to kill, really does, even if I lost my best and only friend. The only person I cared about.
Before Debby, I didn’t give a damn about people. As a child you know a lot of girls, spend time with them, play with them, try to be like them, they try to imitate you, everyone looks for something they don’t know they have within. We walk together for a little while, dreaming safety, but it’s not like we become like sisters, it’s not like you are in their heads like I was in Deborah’s. I loved her, I would do anything for her. I even tried to prevent her from pulling her hair off her head, and I could control her. We do this, we say this, she would listen to me because she liked me and she was insecure. I became a leader, a leader thanks to her. It’s true, I killed her and I'm sorry for that. But she asked for it. She wanted to rebel, change, become a coward like Alessia. I had to kill her.
The ring-a-ring-o’roses. Last night I dreamed of it again. The girls with white dresses, the large skirt, the organza. Could it be a first communion dress? I don’t know. Everything was muffled as never in my life. There was music in the distance, like a carillon, one of those you hear in the crib, with spinning butterflies, and you look at the colours and think about how beautiful your life will be. It will be a sparkling of colours, you will always have a mother with soft tits holding you and cuddling you, and sounds to feel yourself at home, smiles bending over you, warm and tender. Someone who takes care of you and protects you from the world, changes your diaper, feeds you and hums. Here, those butterflies and those carillons are a ton of bullshit, but in the crib you don’t know and you believe them. You believe that the world will bow at your passage. Silvia, you're beautiful, Silvia you’re unique, Silvia you’re cool. Then you grow up and the music changes. And they reproach you, and you dress by yourself, and you are no longer the centre of the world. Your anger is born. Every time they pull your leg and say no. Every time they leave you alone or with the babysitter. And you no longer exist. Here comes the first communion and everything changes. You grow; the middle school, the home works running after you, hours and hours watching books and television alone. Friends, all bitches, who trust one another with secrets from which you are always excluded. Teachers who repeat that you have to study, punishments. And you go to high school and there begins another round and you're always fighting, full of anger. Against the world. Anger, yes, I feel it. Because you have grown and nobody cares about you as a grownup. They expect from you things you don’t want to do. Studying Greek for example. Why should I give a damn? At least I could study Hollywood. And be good, go to bed at eleven, read selected and elected books, don’t smoke, neither cigarettes nor joints, don’t look at boys, don’t let them get their hands on me. Everything, just everything in front of you and you can’t touch anything. Torture.
In the ring-a-ring-o’roses of the dream I was fine up to a certain point, then suddenly we were called up by the school bell. A teacher came who looked a lot like my mother, she clapped her hands to call us to order and said, "In the classroom children, the break is over". We lined up for two, hand in hand, and they led us along a long, white corridor. The classroom doors were all closed. The corridor seemed endless, it stretched, stretched, stretched. The girl who was holding my hand, at some point said, "Silvia, I'm tired. Please, stop, I think we’re being kidnapped."
Only then I turned to face her. My God, it was Debby, as an adult, the way I remember her now, and her face was completely covered with blood. I got scared, and I screamed. Around me, all of the children had grown up, my classmates, and they were all stained with blood. Even my hands were dropping red river after red river. The teacher now no longer looked like my mom, it was Eleonora. Her red hair, covering her skeletal body, came down to the ground. She looked like Lady Godiva, and she was missing her eyes.
"You two, yes you two", she said, pointing at me and Deborah, "you’ll suffer a terrible punishment for what you did to me. You will die with me, you will die with me", and she pulled out a gun from her pocket and started shooting like crazy.
I hid behind Deborah. But I was not scared. I watched her, the Eleonora gone crazy, the one I killed – maybe, if I hit her right – and I thought that, in her place, I would have done the same. I'd have come back to avenge myself, to take revenge even on death. And I di
dn’t feel sorry for her. No, I felt nothing for her. Strange, not even the hatred I felt when I decided to kill her. I don’t care any longer about Eleonora, I don’t give a damn about the fifth E and the Marco Polo high, Mrs. Boschi, Luca, Alessia, Deborah. They no longer exist for me, because now I have learned one thing. Now I know, the ring-a-ring-o’roses never ends. And I won’t die. I will no longer die because I am the best. The only, the inimitable Silvia Giardini.