Page 28 of Niccolaio Andretti (The Five Syndicates)
Redundant.
Monotonous.
Wearisome.
Sometimes, when I would get so stir crazy, I would succumb to the insanity tugging at the fringes of my brain, and I’d talk to my Asshole on the ceiling. After the third time or so, I realized that I was talking to an inanimate object, referring to a speck of paint on the ceiling as my asshole, and stopped.
At the time, it was an all-time low.
Since then, I’ve sunk even lower.
Like waiting around all day for a glimpse of fiery hair and a constellation of faded freckles.
Like considering whether or not I should cyberstalk a total stranger.
Like focusing my energy on a random hot chick because I don’t want to think about the fact that my little brother, who I still love and would still give my life for, wants me dead so much that he would pay five million dollars for it to happen.
Nope.
Not thinking about it.
I’d rather stare at my Asshole all day.
And I do.
I stare at the damn thing until the grayness of its color blurs into the white, and I’m not sure if what I’m seeing is a color that exists in any color spectrum.
I stare at the damn thing until my neck aches from glancing up at the ceiling, and my shoulders ache from carrying the burden of my neck.
I stare at the damn thing until the tiniest sliver of evening light left outside stretches into an all-consuming darkness, and my boredom doesn’t even register in my mind, because my mind has shut down.
Off.
Inoperative.
Out of order.
And when there’s a light thud of a door closing on John’s side of the street, the subtle noise miraculously registers in my brain, sending me out of my seat and flying toward the door. I shout for my guards to stay behind, assuming they heard me get up.
And for some damn reason, my boredom has reached its limit, and I open the door and ever so eloquently say, “Hi.”
I don’t even remember the last time I’ve greeted anyone with anything other than a bullet.
But hi?
It’s so mundane.
So normal.
So friendly.
In other words, it’s the exact opposite of me, and that makes me want to laugh. It’s only fitting that a woman that elicits from me a reaction so different than anyone else gets a greeting from me that is equally out of character. And saying hi, like I’m a fucking pre-pubescent teenager that has just barely found the confidence to talk to a girl for the first time after opening his first Playboy magazine or some shit, is most definitely out of character.
She stares at me, her petite face upturned into a pretty scowl. “What do you want?”
It’s her go to question, one that she always asks and I never quite seem to answer. And despite the I don’t give a fuck look I typically have permanently glued onto my face, the corners of my lips turn up into a genuine smile, amused in a way that I’ve noticed frequently happens when I’m around her. Only this time, I allow myself to show it with a brief smile, because what the Hell. If I’m saying hi like an everyday Joe, I may as well smile, too.
“Nothing,” I purposely reply in a tone that says I mean the opposite.
