Carlile, here.
I'd like to thank all of the readers who reviewed. Your thoughts are appreciated greatly. Can I be greedy and ask for at least five more?
Anyway, this is chapter three of Whirlwing. BTW, I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn! or anything related to it. All I own is this computer and my cat. Thank you!
0o.o0o.o0
I L C A P I T O L O T R E : L A P U N I Z I O N E D E L S O L E
(C H A P T E R T H R E E : B E A T I N G T H E S U N)
Dear diary,
I find it strange that yesterday morning I was trying my hardest to avoid Angelo, and now I can't stop staring at him. He's an enigma, unconscious on top of my bed with his chest wrapped in bandages I replaced last night and having no identity but my name for him. Where did he come from? Why is he here? Who shot him? Who is he? These pressing questions gnaw at my reasonable side, and it is because of this insatiable curiosity that I sit on the floor before my open door, facing him, watching him as if all the answers will suddenly burst forth from him.
I barely slept a wink last night while these inquiries polluted my mind. For once, the basket of rolls on the kitchen counter is just as full as the day before. The stagnant darkness that has clouded this home and the series of violent storms repeatedly assaulting Celebrazione don't bother me in the least.
Tutta l'energia ed il tempo è stato consacrato al mio nuovo paziente. (All of my energy and time has been devoted to my new patient.)
Sincerely,
Luana Diluca
I immediately flip to the next page of my diary, on which I write down a health and treatment checklist and notes section, creating the list from memory of the clipboards hanging from each of the cots downstairs. Then I carefully go through it. Victor, beside me, lowers his head and raises his rump in a pounce position as he watches my pen scribble to and fro. When he lurches at it, my jolted wrist makes the tip of the pen fly left, carving an inerasable ink slash across the paper. After frowning at my kitten as he pads away, I tear the paper out of the binding, ball it up, and lob it at the young feline. He scats out of the room in surprise with a meow. I rewrite the checklist and notes with a smirk.
When half an hour passes, I close my journal and set it on the floor and pin my writing utensil behind my ear, separating a thin strand of curly hair in front of it. I approach Angelo's bedside. The pale strips of cloth around his abdomen are much more pristine than the first set, which now sits in my trash can as a mass of blood-caked fabric.
With every rise and fall of his chest, the echoing of the infinite questions in my head grow louder, more demanding. And now, I can't help but ask.
"Chi la sono?" I whisper hopelessly, like he can hear me, like he can quench me (Who are you?). Gazing at his peaceful face, I pair my index and middle fingers together and drop them on his bare shoulder.
All the sudden I hear a sleepy, labored groan. I remove my fingers from his skin, and as soon as I do so he stirs very slightly and groans again—this causes me to leap back half a foot. On reflex, I grab at the pen behind my ear and quickly slide it out, holding the point tremulously over Angelo. As he animates more and more I remember why I was trying to avoid him before.
Then, like a fledgling emerging from an eggshell, his eyelids eventually peel away to a squint, revealing the gray-green irises beneath. My patient stares stilly at the ceiling for a few seconds, and when thunder explodes from above, those pale eyes of his shoot open.
I'm taken aback and shield myself with my arms and the tip of my pen when he sits up as straight and quick as an arrow.
"Che l'inferno?!" he booms (What the hell?!). Then, as if a ton of bricks has just slammed into him, he falls back down onto the bed with a thud pinned by his own weakness; he clutches at his stomach in the same manner as when he limped in front of my house three days ago. His eyes slam shut and his teeth grit in pain.
I lower my arms and inky spear. Regardless of the risk, he is in pain. I am a nurse first and a potential victim second.
Before I can even react an excited Victor darts into the room. The young cat jumps onto the bed, gently places his two front paws on Angelo's waist, and licks the back of my patient's fist repeatedly. After about the tenth lick, the gunshot victim opens one eye and I can swear he is smiling.
"G-gattino…" he grunts (K-kitty). My cat slurps his tongue back into his mouth and peers at the silver-haired young man with his cheery marigold eyes. Then he licks the patient's nose. Angelo chuckles, like he has completely forgotten about the pain, and releases his crossed arms from his stomach area to pick up Victor. "Lei è così dolce," he praises (You're so sweet), and as he utters this my cat begins to purr. It's an un-manly thing to say to a kitten, but it's said in a manly way.
Okay, so he likes cats and he speaks Italian. We're on the same page there.
"Lei stanno bene?" I ask in my best fretful nurse voice (Are you alright?).
When I approach the bedside cautiously, Angelo takes his gray-green eyes off of Victor's deep yellow ones and looks at me, at first rather impatiently but his expression quickly turns to something like shock.
"Penso di sì," he replies in an awe-struck voice (I think so). He peers at my kitten again and then back at me. "Questo è il suo gatto?" (Is this your cat?)
I blink a few times before nodding at him. "Sì, si chiama Victor," I answer (Yes, his name is Victor). My pet wriggles his way out of Angelo's grip and drops into his lap to bury his little furry head in the patient's chiseled abdomen.
"Sembra amarla," I laugh (He seems to like you). The air emanating from him doesn't seem threatening to me for a few seconds as I shuffle forward a little more and put my palms on the edge of the mattress. But then I snap back to and my mind screams, "Lei inganna!" (You fool!)
He looks down at Victor but ends up seeing the bandages encircling his upper body. "Che è successo a me?" he inquires (What happened to me?) His expression tightens again, like the sight of the binding pale cloth brings the pain back to him.
My brown eyes focus on the strips of white, too. "Lei era sparato, credo..." (You were shot, I believe…)
There is surprise in his voice as he shrieks, "Ero sparato?!" (I was shot?!) He grabs his chest with one hand and the most vulnerable, innocent, frightened expression of distress washes over his face, like a storm surge wiping away a ship. My cat stands on his two hind legs to place the front ones up against my patient.
I feel horrible now. I could have told him he just had heartburn or something; I can be a pretty convincing liar, even when telling the most ridiculous excuses. There was no need to cause him alarm, to cause him to fear for his life. But his awakening has weakened my psychological defenses.
With his free hand, Angelo forces his fingers into his eyes. He's upset and scared—I can tell. "Oh, Dio," he whimpers (Oh, God.)
I contemplate trying to comfort him while he stays frozen in a sulking position and slowly reach toward his hand, even, until he rapidly takes his thumb from his left eye. I immediately lower my hand.
"Chi la sono?" he asks (Who are you?). The glare in his eyes shakes.
I stare at him blankly for a moment, mesmerized by his eyes full of hurt, before I respond. "Mi chiamo Luana Diluca." (My name is Luana Diluca.)
My mind screams "Lei inganna!" (You fool!) once again. He was found with explosives and a wallet full of counterfeit cards and bills—he could kill me! Why did I have to tell him my real name?
"Luana…" he whispers hoarsely, "Duole…" (Luana…It hurts…)
My eyes narrow and a sympathetic scowl flattens my mouth when I reply, "Sono spiacente." (I'm sorry.) Victor jumps down from the bed and steps over my feet to get out of the room. I muster up all my courage and touch his hand gently. "Tutto ho fatto potrei. Lei dovrà riposarsi appena." (I did everything I could. You'll just have to rest.)
His eyes close and the hand on his head slithers up to his hairline where the fingers file through the silver strands and his wrist rests over the bridge of his nose. I can see his muscles relax, and his other fist loosens and drops to his side. Thunder shakes us to the bone but he remains still. His skin blanches.
"Ehi! Lei è giusto?" (Hey! Are you okay?) I shake him harshly and his now limp body moves violently.
"Sono bello," he murmurs almost inaudibly (I'm fine).
Shutters run up and down my body when I feel that his hand has grown clammy. "Venire su," I say more to myself than him (Come on.)
His breathing is light. The already faint pulse I could feel knocking at his wrist becomes practically unreadable.
"Svegliarsi!" I scream (Wake up!) I shake him again, harder.
"È così freddo…" he sighs quietly (It's so cold…) His tone is mellow and increasingly lifeless as he shivers frailly.
"No! Non è freddo! Venire su, la veglia su! Non partirmi!" (No! It's not cold! Come on, wake up! Don't leave me!) I'm frantic.
Bam!
The cigarettes!
I'm quick when I leave his side and dash madly at the pile of confiscated items close to the foot of the bed. I drop to the floor quickly and my hand is less than an inch away from the nearly empty carton of cigarettes when I stop myself. Smoking is a terrible thing to do to your body. Angelo's going through some serious tobacco withdrawal. Judging by the severity of his symptoms, he must have smoked a lot. Perhaps even chain-smoked. Suddenly going three days without a smoke is difficult to deal with—cold-turkey isn't an ideal way to quit, I've been told. But God, it can't be good for him at all! I am torn between making him feel better by giving him one of the cancer sticks and making an important decision about his health by not. He moans painfully; I make the choice. No cigarettes.
I stand and walk slowly back to him, placing my palm on top of his once again. "Appendere là dentro," I plead (Hang in there.)
He nods minutely. "Proverò," he whispers, "Luana." (I'll try, Luana.)
0o.o0o.o0
I come into my bedroom feeling a little better about myself. It's been a short while, an hour, give or take. The weather is cloudy but calm outside right now. Angelo is recovering pretty well from the withdrawal; he has a headache, among a few other things, but mostly his detox is going better than I thought it would.
Leaning over a curled-up Victor, I hand a glass of ice-water to my patient. "Qui," I smile kindly (Here).
He opens one eye and slowly lifts his trembling hand to receive it. "Ringraziarla," he whispers (Thank you.) I let go and he brings the glass to his lips, the unsteady fist holding it causing the ice to clink against the crystal. He swallows the clear liquid that pours into his mouth. When the glass is empty except for the ice, he graciously gives it back to me. "Ringraziarla," he says again (Thank you).
"C'è lei nient'altro ha bisogno di?" I ask caringly (Is there anything else you need?)
He grins a little. "No, lei ha fatto abbastanza." (No, you've done enough).
Grinning back from a combination of pride that I could help and the contagiousness of his smile, I set the glass on my night-stand. Then I lower myself cautiously onto the foot of the bed, extra careful not to disturb the mattress. "Così…questo mi ha irritato. Chi la sono?" I inquire, my voice a little too cheery for the subject at hand. (So…this has been bugging me. Who are you?). For the third time, my conscience chastises me, "Lei inganna!" (You fool!)
His demeanor of grace shatters in a second when he glares at me with a countenance like Victor has his tongue. "Uh…" (Uh…) One of his eyebrows cocks above the other. "Dio, sono stupido. Io… Non so," he responds shakily (God, I'm stupid. I…I don't know.)
My jaw drops. "Che?!" (What?!)
"Non posso ricordare realmente! Spazio vuoto totale!" he chuckles (I really can't remember! Total blank!)
I shake my head in disbelief. No way! He can't remember? …Could he possibly have amnesia?
"Mi dispiace davvero," he whines (I'm really sorry).
Amnesia: probable. I want to laugh out loud and scream into my pillow at the same time. This does not help the anxiety I have built up and am storing up in my tense shoulders. Ironia! (Irony!)
"Lei sa che?" I smile after a moment of soaking in this unbearable revelation (You know what?), "È giusto. Perché ho un nome per chiamarla, comunque." (It's okay. Because I have a name to call you, anyway.) Victor leaps into my lap.
A glint of something like hope sparks in his gray-green eyes. "Realmente?" (Really?)
I nod. Then out of reasons unfathomable by me I place my hand on his ankle and rub back and forth. This action reminds me of a mother comforting a child. "Il benvenuto alla casa di Diluca, Angelo." (Welcome to the Diluca house, Angelo.)
0o.o0o.o0
Quiet. Darkness. Eerie. Stillness. I wade through it all like an egret in a swamp. Stepping lightly across the apartment, I have risen from the uncomfortable couch and come into my room. Victor is relaxed by Angelo's side, who sleeps even more peacefully than before. The door is ajar enough for me to see the unconscious blackness filling my bedroom, but I can't squeeze through it. Ever so carefully I inch it open until I can barely make my way inside. It seems darker than the rest of the home in this room, so my eyes adjust for a minute before I continue on my quest. I creep along the carpet and around my bed, every breath, every creak amplified by a million. I come to the pile at the back of the room of things that I took from Angelo's jacket, the things that hold his unreadable past within them. And then, with extreme caution, I put each item in the trash can, one by one.