Il gioco più esilarante

Chapter One

The body lay in perfect repose on the Victorian fainting couch, looking more like a sleeping beauty than a victim. Detective Sarah Chen had seen enough death in her ten years with the Metropolitan Police's Special Cases Unit to know that natural death never looked this peaceful. Something was very, very wrong.

        'No signs of struggle, no marks on the body, and yet...' She leaned closer, studying the victim's face. Charlotte Mills, aged 28, was found by her roommate this morning, apparently having passed away in her sleep. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, but her eyes - those were what caught Sarah's attention. Behind the closed lids, her eyes were moving rapidly, as if still deep in REM sleep.

        "You see it too, don't you?" The voice came from behind her, rich and cultured with a slight Irish lilt. "She's still dreaming."

        Sarah turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes were an unusual shade of amber that seemed to shift color in the light.

        "This is a closed crime scene," she said firmly, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon. "How did you get in here?"

        He smiled, but it didn't reach those strange eyes. "Dr. Marcus Thorne," he said, pulling out a card that somehow both looked official and seemed to shimmer slightly. "I'm a consulting specialist with the Department's new Oneiric Phenomena Division."

        "The what division?" Sarah frowned, taking the card. The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a slight electric tingle, and the letters seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes.

        "Dreams, Detective Chen. We investigate crimes involving dreams." He moved into the room with fluid grace, his attention fixed on the victim. "And this is the third one this month."

        Sarah's mind raced. There had been two other deaths recently - both young women, both found peacefully dead in their sleep. She'd seen the reports but hadn't made the connection until now. "How do you know about those cases?"

        "Because I've been tracking the killer for quite some time." Thorne knelt beside the body, his eyes now definitely more gold than amber. "He's what we call a Dream Collector - someone who has learned to enter and steal dreams. But this one has developed a taste for more than just dreams. He's taking souls."

        Under normal circumstances, Sarah would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But there was something about the scene, about the victim's still-moving eyes, about Thorne himself, that made the impossible seem suddenly plausible.

        "If you're tracking him," she said carefully, "why haven't you caught him?"

        Thorne's expression darkened. "Because he only appears in dreams. The physical world is my domain, but his... his is the realm of sleep. To catch him, we need someone who can walk between both worlds." He turned those unsettling eyes on her. "Someone like you."

        "Me?" Sarah almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat as memories she'd long suppressed began to surface. The dreams that felt too real, the nights she'd awakened to find objects moved in her room, the way she sometimes knew things she couldn't possibly know...

        "You've always known you were different, haven't you, Detective?" Thorne's voice was gentle now. "The dreams that come true, the hunches that turn out to be right, the way you can sometimes see how people died just by touching objects they owned..."

        Sarah took an involuntary step back. "How do you know about that?"

        "Because I've been looking for someone like you. A Natural - someone born with the ability to cross the threshold between waking and dreaming." He gestured to the victim. "Charlotte here won't be his last. There will be others, and their souls will remain trapped in an eternal dream unless we stop him."

        Just then, the victim's hand twitched, her fingers moving as if writing something. Sarah moved closer, watching as invisible words were traced in the air. Thorne pulled out what looked like an antique monocle and held it up. Through its lens, golden letters shimmered in the air where Charlotte's fingers moved.

        "Help me," Thorne read aloud. "He's coming for the others."

        Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the victim's peaceful face, at those restlessly moving eyes, and made a decision that would change her life forever.

        "Tell me what I need to do."

        Thorne's smile was grim. "First, you need to learn to control your abilities. Then..." he held up the monocle, through which Sarah could now see strange symbols glowing all around the room, "you need to learn to hunt in dreams."

        Outside the Victorian townhouse, storm clouds gathered, and Sarah Chen, homicide detective and newly discovered dream walker, took her first step into a world where nightmares were real, and death was just another kind of sleep.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Three

They arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital just as the emergency lights began to flash. Sarah followed Thorne through corridors that seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, her new badge somehow clearing their path without ever being shown.

        "Room 307," Thorne said, his voice tight with urgency. "Young male, admitted for minor surgery, slipped into an unusual coma during recovery."

        The patient, David Parker, age 23, lay perfectly still on his hospital bed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Just like Charlotte Mills. But this time, something was different - the air around him rippled like heat waves over hot asphalt.

        "He's still in the process of taking him," Thorne said, pulling out what looked like an antique pocket watch. "We can follow if we're quick. Are you ready for your first dream dive?"

        Sarah's heart pounded. "What do I need to do?"

        "Take my hand. Focus on the patient. Let your consciousness slip between the moments of reality." Thorne's eyes began to glow that strange amber color. "And whatever you see in there, remember - dream logic is real logic in that world."

        Sarah grasped Thorne's hand and looked at David Parker. The world tilted, twisted, and suddenly...

        They were standing in a hospital corridor that wasn't quite right. The walls breathed slowly, the floor was made of flowing water that somehow supported their weight, and the ceiling was a swirling mass of constellation maps.

        "His dreamscape," Thorne explained, his voice echoing strangely. "Every dreamer creates their own reality. Look."

        Down the impossible corridor, a figure in a doctor's coat was leading David Parker by the hand. But the 'doctor' was wrong - his shadow moved independently, reaching out with grasping tendrils towards other dreams that floated past like soap bubbles.

        "The Dream Collector," Sarah whispered.

        As if hearing his name, the figure turned. Sarah's breath caught. His face was a beautiful mask of shifting features, never settling on one form, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of swirling dreams.

        "Ah, the new dreamer," his voice was like silk over broken glass. "And my old friend Marcus. Still trying to police the dream worlds?"

        Thorne stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his appearance had changed in the dream. His suit was now made of living shadows, and wings of dark light stretched from his shoulders. "Let him go, Collector. You've taken enough souls."

        The Collector laughed, the sound causing the hospital walls to crack, leaking golden dream-light. "Taken? Oh, Marcus, you still don't understand. They give themselves to me. Show her, David."

        The young man turned, and Sarah saw his eyes were glassy with bliss. "It's beautiful here," he said dreamily. "All my pain is gone. All my fears. He takes them all away."

        "By taking everything you are," Sarah found herself saying. She took a step forward, instinctively reaching for her police badge. In the dream, it transformed into a shield of pure light. "David, this isn't real healing. It's theft."

        The Collector's face rippled with anger. "You dare interrupt my collection?" The corridor began to twist, reality bending around them. "Let me show you what happens to those who interfere with my work."

        Suddenly, the floor beneath Sarah liquefied completely. She started to sink, but instead of water, she was drowning in dreams - thousands of them, each containing a fragment of someone's stolen soul. She saw Charlotte Mills dancing endlessly in a ballroom of mirrors, saw other victims trapped in perfect moments that had become eternal prisons.

        "Sarah!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Remember - dream logic! Make your own rules!"

        Dream logic. Sarah closed her eyes, focusing on her years of police work, of protecting people, of solving puzzles. When she opened them, her badge-shield had transformed into a sword of pure thought.

        With a cry, she slashed through the dream-flood. Reality reasserted itself - or at least, this dream's version of reality. She stood on solid ground again, facing the Collector.

        "Impressive," he purred, but she sensed uncertainty in his voice. "You're stronger than the usual dreamers Marcus recruits. Perhaps we could make a deal..."

        "No deals," Sarah said firmly. She could feel her power growing, reshaping the dream around them. "David, look at what he really is. Look with your heart, not your fears."

        For a moment, David's eyes cleared. The Collector's beautiful mask slipped, revealing something ancient and hungry beneath. David screamed, pulling away from the creature's grasp.

        The Collector snarled, his form shifting into something monstrous. "If I can't have him willingly..." Shadows exploded from his body, reaching for David.

        What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Thorne spread his dark wings, shielding David. Sarah's sword of thought became a net of light, trapping some of the shadows. But the Collector himself simply... stepped sideways, vanishing into a door that appeared in the air.

        "Sweet dreams, detectives," his voice lingered behind. "We'll meet again soon. After all, Sarah, your dreams are particularly... appetizing."

        The dreamscape began to dissolve. Sarah felt Thorne grab her arm, pulling her back through layers of reality. Then...

        They were standing in the hospital room again. David Parker was awake, gasping, but alive and whole. A nurse was rushing in, responding to his sudden revival.

        "We saved one," Thorne said quietly. "But he'll be angry now. And he'll come for you."

        Sarah touched her badge, still feeling echoes of its dream-power. "Good," she said grimly. "Because I have some questions for him about Charlotte Mills. And about what you really are, Marcus Thorne."

        Thorne's expression was unreadable. "All in time, Detective. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."

        As they left the hospital, Sarah could have sworn she saw her shadow move independently, reaching for dreams that floated just beyond the edge of sight. The world would never look quite the same again.

Chapter Four

Sarah's apartment looked different when she returned that night. The shadows seemed deeper, more alive, and ordinary objects cast reflections that didn't quite match reality. The dreamcatcher Thorne had given her pulsed softly in her pocket, responding to the changed way she now saw the world.

        She was exhausted but afraid to sleep. The Collector's words echoed in her mind: 'Your dreams are particularly appetizing.' Instead, she spread her case files across the coffee table - photographs of Charlotte Mills, the other victims, and now David Parker's medical records.

        A soft chime from her badge interrupted her concentration. The metal had grown warm, and when she touched it, words appeared in that strange shifting script: 'Archive. Now. Emergency.'

        The museum was different at night. Sarah's new badge led her through doors that hadn't existed during her first visit, down stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the building's foundation should allow. She found Thorne in a circular room she hadn't seen before, surrounded by floating screens of light that showed various dreamscapes.

        "We have a problem," he said without preamble. "The Collector's attack pattern has changed. Look."

        The screens shifted, showing a map of the city overlaid with points of light. "Each light is a dreamer," Thorne explained. "The blue ones are normal dreams. The red..." He gestured, and several dots pulsed an angry crimson. "Those are nightmares being actively shaped by outside forces."

        "He's attacking multiple targets at once?"

        "No." Thorne's expression was grim. "He's leaving traps. Dream-snares. Anyone who falls asleep in these areas risks being pulled into a constructed nightmare. He's trying to overwhelm our ability to respond."

        Sarah studied the pattern of red dots. "They're forming a shape... a symbol?"

        "A summoning circle." A new voice joined them. Sarah turned to see an elderly woman emerging from what appeared to be a door made of starlight. Her eyes were milk-white, but she moved with absolute certainty.

        "Sarah, meet Dr. Eleanor Price, the Archive's keeper," Thorne said. "And yes, she's blind in the waking world, but in dreams..."

        "I see everything," Eleanor finished. Her unseeing eyes fixed on Sarah with uncomfortable accuracy. "Including what our friend the Collector is truly planning. He's not just taking souls anymore. He's building toward something larger."

        She gestured, and the room transformed around them. They were suddenly standing in what looked like a vast library, but the books were made of dreams, their pages flowing like liquid memory.

        "Every dream ever archived is stored here," Eleanor explained. "Including the oldest nightmares of humanity. The Collector isn't just a thief - he's trying to wake something that should stay sleeping. Something we locked away centuries ago."

        She pulled a book from the shelf, and its pages burst open, projecting a scene of ancient horror - a time when the boundary between dreams and reality was thinner, when nightmares could walk in daylight.

        "The Last Nightmare," Thorne said softly. "We thought it was safely contained, but if he completes that summoning circle..."

        A sudden tremor ran through the Archive. One of the red dots on the map had grown larger, pulsing violently.

        "He's starting," Eleanor's voice was urgent. "Sarah, you need to see something before you face this." She pressed her fingers to Sarah's forehead, and suddenly...

        She was in a memory. A younger Thorne stood with a woman who looked remarkably like Sarah herself, facing down a shadow that threatened to devour the world. The woman - another dream detective? - sacrificed herself to help seal away the nightmare.

        "Your mother," Eleanor's voice echoed in her mind. "She was one of us. Her sacrifice helped lock away the Last Nightmare, but the Collector has never stopped trying to free it. And now he's found you - her daughter, with her power."

        The vision ended abruptly as another tremor shook the Archive. More red dots were pulsing on the map.

        "Why didn't you tell me?" Sarah demanded, turning to Thorne.

        "Because I promised her I'd keep you away from this life," he replied, pain evident in his voice. "But now the Collector knows who you are, and we're running out of time."

        "The summoning circle will be complete at the next new moon," Eleanor added. "Three days from now. If the Last Nightmare wakes..."

        "Then we stop him before that happens," Sarah said firmly, though her mind was reeling from the revelations. "How do we break these dream-snares?"

        "It's dangerous," Thorne warned. "Each one is a trap designed specifically for dream walkers. If you're caught..."

        "Then you'll just have to watch my back," Sarah said. She touched her badge, feeling its power respond. "Where do we start?"

        Eleanor smiled, her blind eyes somehow twinkling. "First, you need to understand what you truly inherited from your mother. It's time you learned about the true history of the dream walkers - and why the Collector fears your bloodline above all others."

        As if in response to Eleanor's words, the books around them began to glow, their pages rustling with the weight of secrets about to be revealed. In the map above, the red dots pulsed like a countdown to catastrophe, and Sarah realized she had less than three days to master powers she never knew she had.

        The true game was about to begin.

Capitolo 1
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BRIELLE
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Confessione.
Quando avevo quattordici anni, nel fiore dei miei anni da preadolescente, mi hanno quasi staccato il labbro dal corpo, e purtroppo... non intendo il labbro del viso.
Mi spiego...
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Avevo sentito un gruppo di ragazzi dell'ultimo anno parlare di una ragazza che avevano visto online. All'epoca avevo pensato che avessero visto qualcosa in un film, ma ora, a diciotto anni, lo vedo per quello che era: quegli stronzi guardavano un porno come una specie di esperienza di legame nel retro dello scuolabus. Pervertiti.
Le guardavano le tette e sghignazzavano come puttane quando lei iniziava a gemere, fingendo che non fossero dure come la roccia e che il pre-cum spalmasse l'interno dei loro pantaloncini da basket. Per la maggior parte del tempo cercai di ignorarli, ma quando si unì un'altra ragazza e uno dei ragazzi si mise a guardare con disgusto i peli del suo corpo, non potei fare altro che correre al supermercato.
Avevo quattordici anni. Non sapevo cosa piacesse ai ragazzi, ma l'idea di essere disgustosa per un ragazzo dell'ultimo anno mi infondeva nel petto una paura mai provata prima. I miei piedi avevano a malapena toccato il marciapiede prima che fossi già a metà strada verso il negozio.
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Il ricordo di quel giorno mi fa correre un brivido lungo la schiena. Forse le cose sarebbero andate diversamente se avessi avuto una sorella maggiore o una madre che non fosse troppo occupata a lavorare a lungo. Ma per mia fortuna, ero bloccata con un fratello maggiore che era troppo freddo per rendere partecipe la sorellina delle cose più importanti della vita. Inoltre, non avevo intenzione di fare questa conversazione con lui. Non se ne parlava nemmeno.
Ero da sola ed ero determinata. Sarei stata nuda come il giorno della mia nascita.
Sembrava abbastanza facile, così infilai la cera calda nel microonde e seguii tutte le istruzioni finché non arrivò il momento di allargare le gambe. Ingoiai la mia paura e tenni la testa alta. Conoscevo altre ragazze della mia classe che l'avevano provata e non si erano lamentate più di tanto. Non poteva essere così male, giusto?
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Con il piccolo specchio portatile appoggiato alla parete del bagno, persi i pantaloni e caddi a terra. Una gamba andò a sinistra, appoggiata al vetro della doccia e l'altra a destra, appoggiata al bordo della vasca. Era la vista più abbagliante, sai, a parte il cespuglio tra le mie gambe.
Il morso gelido del pavimento piastrellato mi assalì il buco del culo mentre mi accovacciavo e mi mettevo in una buona posizione.
Dopo aver prelevato un bel po' di cera, la spalmai sulle mie parti più intime. La cera bollente mi bruciava le labbra e gridavo, cercando di soffiarci sopra per raffreddarla, mentre colava e sporcava. La cera si indurì lentamente in punti delicati che non avrebbero dovuto trovarsi, e mi dissi che la prima volta non doveva mai andare bene. La prossima volta avrei saputo fare meglio. Con il senno di poi, ora conosco l'importanza di rifinire prima, ma non ho mai tentato di rifarlo.
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La mia mano scivolò dal bordo della cera e mi procurai un occhio nero, ma non importava perché metà del mio labbro sinistro pendeva dalla mia fottuta figa! Il sangue sgorgava, mentre l'agonia mi dilaniava. Urlai fino ad avere la gola secca, terrorizzata dal fatto che sarei morta dissanguata e che mia madre sarebbe tornata a casa trovandomi morta, distesa sul pavimento del bagno.
Fu un bagno di sangue. Un massacro di altissimo livello.
Erano passati solo pochi istanti, e stavo contemplando la mia morte, quando mio fratello maggiore entrò di prepotenza dalla porta del bagno, quasi sfondandola. I suoi occhi erano spalancati e frenetici dopo avermi sentito urlare, ma non c'era niente di peggio che guardare il suo sguardo che si abbassava e vedeva la cera, il cespuglio, il sangue e il labbro pendente.
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Non voglio mentire, quello fu il momento più umiliante della mia vita.
O almeno così pensavo, fino a mezz'ora dopo, quando ero sdraiata su un letto duro al pronto soccorso con una borsa del ghiaccio sul viso e un team di medici e infermieri che studiavano la mia vagina. Per non parlare dell'infermiera centenaria al mio fianco che mi raccontava tutti i dilemmi che aveva con il suo cespuglio.
Mio fratello era in un angolo a parlare al telefono con la mamma, incapace di guardarmi negli occhi, mentre un infermiere maschio al suo primo giorno di pratica stava tra le mie gambe con un asciugacapelli, cercando di scaldare la cera abbastanza da iniziare a rimuoverla. Dopotutto, non potevano ricucirmi con il disordine che circondava il disastro che non deve essere nominato, e imparai presto che le forbici e il rasoio non avrebbero funzionato.
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Niente si è avvicinato all'umiliazione che ho provato quel giorno, fino a questo preciso istante.
La musica rimbomba nella McMansion. Almeno, per me è una McMansion. Per i ragazzi ricchi che mi circondano, questo posto è probabilmente al di sotto degli standard, con i suoi tre livelli, il bar privato e una piscina che in qualche modo è sia dentro che fuori allo stesso tempo. In ogni caso, per me non ha importanza, perché non ho assolutamente intenzione di tornare qui.
La mia spalla preme contro lo stipite di una delle tante camere libere, mentre guardo il mio ragazzo, Colby, che si dà da fare con una principessa dall'aria da cheerleader, facendole provare l'esperienza completa, grugniti e sudore compresi.
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Cazzo, sono proprio un'idiota. Sapevo che non sarei mai dovuta venire qui con lui.
Di solito ci sono più feste pubbliche di quante ne possa contare nell'ultimo fine settimana d'estate, ma dopo l'incidente di qualche settimana fa e la polizia che ha chiuso ogni minimo accenno di divertimento in città, nessuno si è preoccupato. Ed è proprio così che siamo finiti a una festa di una scuola privata.
Questa roba non fa per me. No, aspetta. Ritira quello che hai detto. È decisamente il mio ambiente. Adoro le feste, e se mi sfuggono di mano, ancora meglio. Solo che stasera non me la sento, soprattutto ora che il cazzo di Colby sta impalando una cheerleader.
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La musica è così alta che nessuno dei due mi sente finché non mi trovo accanto a loro, con la macchina fotografica alzata e un ampio sorriso sul viso. "Ehi, Colby", dico, scattando una foto veloce di loro due. "Sorridi".
La testa di Colby si gira quando la bimba cheerleader strilla e prende la coperta, strappandola per coprirsi le tette. Non voglio mentire, ha un bel seno. Se non fossi così umiliata dall'essere la donna ignara che ha permesso a un pezzo di merda come Colby Jacobs di tradirla, potrei anche mandarle un complimento o due. Diavolo, le mie amiche hanno anche cercato di mettermi in guardia, ma ho detto loro che si sbagliavano su di lui.
"Bri", si affretta a dire Colby, con il volto impallidito e la mascella che gli cade a terra, più che colto sul fatto. Cazzo, ne valeva quasi la pena per vedere il panico che si impossessava di lui. "Cazzo, piccola. Che stai facendo?"
GilrGo ilD tqeleSfoZnYo( e gl!iY mosQtLrqo, lqaK fot'o Fdfir BluxiD cheé sii zsfcQoIpa( la órnadgraJzz'a. ")Oh,^ q,usesStaM?Q". jChieldo.U "qMDik sdt'o soldoJ vdaAndoK uqjuJalcÉoJspa diaA guardarNe GognYió v$ovltgax chXe ómiG jfafi lesplhoderSe KiMl teCleAfonRoh Wchiedendonmiz dki t!orn'aarMex. RQéumeésFtou miB akswsiGcjuqrwergàK diR nco$n _cXadjere mZai Zpiù( ihnL lqueClla* Kt'rJappo_lZa"_.^
Scuote la testa, cercando qualcosa da dire. "Io... non volevo, Bri. Devi credermi. È successo e basta. Lei... lei mi è venuta addosso".
Rido, sorridendo allo stronzo. "Davvero? Vuoi provare a raccontarmi le tue stronzate mentre il tuo cazzo di tre pollici è ancora sepolto dentro la cheerleader? Merda, Colby. Quasi mi dispiace per la ragazza".
"Io, uhhmmmm," dice la cheerleader goffamente, scostandosi i capelli bruni disordinati dal viso e attirando la mia attenzione su di lei, distesa sul letto. Sembra impacciata e più che a disagio, e per un attimo vorrei poter fare qualcosa per metterla a suo agio, ma poi mi ricordo che non me ne frega niente. "A proposito, non sono una cheerleader. Sono una ballerina".
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Spinge Colby via da lei e io rido del modo in cui lui vola indietro sul letto, con le mani che si abbassano a coprire il suo pacco che si sta sgonfiando. La ragazza si tira su sul letto e mi tende la mano e, per qualche ridicola ragione a me sconosciuta, la prendo. "Sono Ilaria", dice prima di sistemare le coperte sul suo corpo. "Per quello che vale, non sapevo che avesse una ragazza. Non avrei mai guardato due volte se l'avessi saputo".
Rendendomi conto troppo tardi di aver appena toccato le sue mani sporche di sesso, inizio ad allontanarmi. "Lo apprezzo", le dico, dovendo ricordare a me stesso che non è colpa sua. È solo una vittima inconsapevole in tutto questo. Il bastardo è Colby. "Per quanto riguarda te", dico, rivolgendomi al mio ormai ex ragazzo che si sta affannando a rivestirsi. "Puoi andare a scoparti un cactus. Noi abbiamo chiuso. Finito. E per la cronaca, non ho intenzione di dire a tutta la scuola che indossi biancheria femminile e che piangi quando vieni".
"Tesoro", ansima, spalancando gli occhi. Comincia a seguirmi, ma io me ne sono già andata, sbattendo la porta dietro di me, con il suono soffocato dalla musica martellante.
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I corpi si accalcano sulle scale e io mi ci ficco in mezzo, facendomi strada tra atleti di ogni forma e dimensione. Facce sconosciute si increspano in sorrisi presuntuosi mentre li supero, le loro mani mi palpeggiano il sedere, vedendomi come nient'altro che carne fresca.
Mentre mi dirigo verso il fondo, sento Colby che mi chiama per nome dall'alto e rischio di guardare indietro. La sua camicia è sbottonata e, per chiunque guardi, è chiaro che è appena stato spinto a fare qualcosa che non avrebbe dovuto fare. Ma per mia fortuna ha bevuto troppo per concentrarsi sulla folla sottostante. Scruta i corpi e non mentirò: per una volta, sono contento di essere un disabile verticale.

Mi perdo facilmente tra la folla e mi dirigo verso l'ingresso assurdamente grandioso della casa, cercando di ricordare la strada da seguire. Questo posto è come un labirinto, i corpi danzanti e le luci scure e lampeggianti non lo rendono più facile.
Girando a sinistra, cerco di scrutare tra i corpi e mi schianto contro un muro di muscoli, con una tazza rossa che vola via dalla mano del tizio e gli inzuppa la camicia nera attillata. "Oh, cazzo", grido, alzando di scatto lo sguardo per trovare una serie di occhi scuri che mi fissano.
La birra attraversa la camicia del ragazzo, appiccicando la stoffa al suo petto ampio e tonico, e se non fosse così fottutamente terrificante, potrei anche prendermi un momento per stupirmi di quanto sia bello. È alto e muscoloso, con capelli castano scuro che probabilmente brillano al sole e una mascella abbastanza affilata da strappare la biancheria intima di una donna dal suo corpo. Maniche di tatuaggi si snodano su ciascuna delle sue braccia, le cui punte spuntano dalla scollatura della camicia e fanno stringere qualcosa dentro di me.
MaZ quehgCli woNcchi. CRazIzoV, bfaninol QpahuirFa. DSéoNn^os &ila Atmilpoz rdib oKcWc!hHi uchze sCoRnRoK YiFnQ gOraMdLoH Adi dis'tr_ugg)eyre RunKaz dDonbnva.
Mi fissa e, anche se è passato appena un attimo, tiene in ostaggio il mio sguardo, ogni secondo che passa mi fa sentire sempre più piccola. Faccio fatica a riprendere fiato, assolutamente certa che preferirei avere a che fare con Colby piuttosto che rimanere bloccata in questo imbarazzante confronto con questo tizio. "Io, ummm... mi dispiace. Stavo solo cercando di trovare la strada per uscire da qui", gli dico. "Non volevo rovinare la tua camicia".
L'uomo stringe la mascella e io mi ritiro ulteriormente sotto il suo sguardo monopolizzante, ancora di più quando la sua mano schiaccia con rabbia la tazza vuota da solista. Le mie ginocchia si indeboliscono e il mio cuore inizia a battere, certa che stia per maledirmi e distruggermi in un colpo solo.
I piedi incontrano il pavimento. ORA ATTRAVERSALO, CAZZO. NO. CORRI. Corri più veloce che puoi.
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Il tipo spaventoso grugnisce, senza togliermi gli occhi di dosso. "Lo so, e devo ringraziare questa puttanella".
Il suo atteggiamento mi mette in difficoltà e le mie sopracciglia si alzano. "Scusi?" Esigo, con il mio atteggiamento focoso da scuola pubblica che si fa sentire. "Sto solo cercando di andarmene da qui. Sei tu l'idiota che non guarda dove va. Non è tutta colpa mia".
La sua amica civettuola ride e il mio sguardo si sofferma sul modo in cui la sua camicia abbottonata si apre sul davanti, mettendo in mostra i suoi pettorali forti e abbronzati. Mi guarda, il suo interesse cresce di secondo in secondo, e non ho intenzione di mentire, la sua attenzione è divertente, ma non sono dell'umore giusto per i diciottenni e il loro bisogno di bagnarsi il cazzo. "Merda, fratello. Questa ha il morso oltre che l'abbaio. Mi chiedo cos'altro possa fare".
"N!oHnA pennsraprci nemmenMo), LstrPonUzio,",. Ld)ico&, sapyeHndpo daik dorvcevrhlXoR Cr&iZctancacDiUawre iRn'diWe*tbroP prRimmYa MchTe laH siÉtzua_ziXonvem _pKegógViroriÉ, Mo a_l diavkolo$, p,rHimla c!hhet CjolsbjyQ mhi& Pt$rCov(iw el .inxs&iGstnaC pe,r d&iJfentdebre' RiQl mlio onwoXre rcXerLcdanydkor cdiy p&iGcUclhi*ar!e_ bap sanxg^ue* nqu!est_ii raVgBazzGis,W anzche _scej speJrqd.ereóbnbe. Seqm)bDra, Qcihe gqéubesPti érYagHazmzFiN ksiG méaXngino leX pÉutt'aKnTeU zcDowmue ColbyH Xam cBoKlta,ziuonie. "USme shai TbiXsUogn&o cdiA ZquaKlczuzno( BcVheB Uti qsuQccphri inló zcaTzbz'o, _peFrc^h.é ZnoWn cJhieNdif óals tuoG aUm(ico iquli?& SDemVbXraV c(he nabXbYisaU la( bovccRa lazrgcaN. È VcphsiaarCo hcvheL hhaK wbDigso'gmnoy cdgi yq&uHahlcoasa _chIe lmoM hfOaccViaa stParew UzitztoK"w.x
Nella stanza cala uno strano silenzio, la musica continua a rimbombare ma i corpi sembrano essersi fermati. Un'inquietudine mi assale e, mentre guardo di lato, mi rendo conto che tutti mi stanno guardando. Ora, io non so un cazzo di politica delle scuole private, ma conosco i liceali ubriachi e quando qualcosa attira l'attenzione di tutta la stanza, non è un bene. È evidente che questi ragazzi sono importanti e io mi sono appena cacciato in un mare di guai, proprio dove non voglio.
Il ragazzo civettuolo guarda nervosamente verso il tizio spaventoso e io concludo che ho appena insultato il re degli atleti. Non risponde, e non so se il suo silenzio dovrebbe intimorirmi, ma così com'è, non mi resta che scavarmi una fossa più profonda. "Fammi indovinare", dico, facendo scorrere lo sguardo su di lui, osservando le sue spalle grosse e il suo petto forte, fino al modo in cui la sua maglietta bagnata si attacca al suo santo Graal di corpi. "Quarterback? Tutta la scuola pensa che tu sia più importante di quello che sei? Ha un pessimo atteggiamento e ottiene quello che vuole comportandosi come un cretino, ma la fa franca perché la scuola ti vede come un re? Giusto?".
Il tipo civettuolo ride, getta indietro il braccio pesante sulla spalla dell'amico e gli sbatte la mano sul petto. "Porca puttana, fratello. Ti ha fatto fuori in un colpo solo". Riporta l'attenzione su di me, con l'angolo del labbro che si tira in un sorriso presuntuoso. "È stato divertente, ma ti stai arrampicando sull'albero sbagliato, baby. Ti consiglio di fare marcia indietro. Non vorrei che una cosina carina come te si trovasse nei guai".
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Faccio per allontanarmi, ma la sua mano scatta e mi cattura il mento. Il tizio spaventoso si avvicina a me, costringendomi a sollevare il mento finché i miei occhi non si fissano sui suoi, tenendomi prigioniera. "Dove cazzo credi di andare?". Il suo tono è profondo e mormorato e, nonostante la musica, sento ogni singola parola come se avesse parlato direttamente alla mia anima.
Cerco di mantenere la calma, nonostante il cuore mi rimbombi erratico nel petto, così selvaggio e terrorizzato da farmi male. "Non costringermi a darti una ginocchiata nelle palle", lo avverto. "È un colpo basso, ma fidati se ti dico che non sono disposto a subirlo".
Il suo sguardo si restringe e io cerco di trattenere il respiro.
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La sua minaccia è forte e chiara. L'ho insultato qui stasera. Gli ho rovesciato addosso la birra, gli ho suggerito di succhiare l'uccello del suo amico e l'ho definito il tipico stronzo di un atleta. Non lo dimenticherà e prima o poi dovrò pagare. Mi rifiuto di abbandonare il suo sguardo, dimostrando che non ho paura di lui nonostante il terrore che mi attanaglia il corpo. "Sembri una delizia", gli dico. "Senti, è stato un piacere conoscerti e tutto il resto, ma ho avuto una serata di merda e non ho intenzione di restare qui ad aspettare che uno dei tuoi amici inizi a palpeggiarmi, ma è bello sapere che passerai le tue giornate senza riuscire a dimenticare la mia faccia quando posso garantirti che nel momento in cui me ne andrò da qui stasera, non penserò nemmeno due volte alla tua".
Continua a guardarmi mentre il suo amico si limita a fissarmi, guardando tra noi due come se non avesse mai visto qualcuno avere le palle per reagire. È quasi ipnotizzato da me e, se fossi nel mio territorio, potrei anche sentirmi bene, ma i ragazzi ricchi di una scuola privata sono imprevedibili e non voglio avere niente a che fare con loro.
Sento il mio nome gridare nella stanza e il mio cuore si ferma solo per un attimo.
CioflrbmyO.
Cazzo, avevo quasi dimenticato che quello stronzo mi stava cercando. Così, senza perdere un altro momento, scavalco l'Adone e mi dirigo verso l'ingresso principale, deciso ad andarmene da qui. Non oso voltarmi a guardare Mr. StickUpAss o il suo amico Mr. TannedGoldenAndCocky e me ne vado come Cenerentola, che si lancia giù per le scale d'ingresso come se la sua vita dipendesse da questo. Anche se, a differenza di lei, non lascio assolutamente nulla per cui tornare.