Diavola

by Jennifer Marie Thorne

Vacation required vacancy. The abandonment of all scraps of everyday life.

“You’re right. It’s cool.” Anna took him in without emotion. “I’ll never make that mistake again.”

She felt her—it—like the hood on a sweatshirt, hovering behind her all the time. Even out and about. It was better to be in public than alone at home with it.

Her jewel-toned furniture and duvet cover and rugs all looked soured by a few shades, like a filter had been applied to make everything look like it was from the seventies.

To be alive is to be battered about. To endure and adapt and keep stumbling onward despite it all.

All those details recorded in paintings, but you only saw the portraits, you vain, needy, narcissistic child. You are incapable of seeing anyone else as anything but an extension of yourself. Well, here I am, Caterina. Get a good look.”