All of us, nocturnal beasts on the prowl.

Around two in the morning, I return to the restaurant I was kicked out of earlier. I follow the waiter who woke me up and I kill him on the dark doorstep of his home.

The knife slides softly beneath his upper eyelid, the broken blade sinking right up to the hilt and protruding, uncannily obscuring his eye.

I take a step back.

I don’t know if my desire is somehow logically justified, or if it’s just necessary for me to commit an act of violence for its own sake, to express the rage that grows within me alongside the cancer cells. And, like an empire falling apart in need of a war to preserve its wholeness, I need to go back to killing, use the nightmare outside to defend against the nightmare inside. As I stab him, I’m not even thinking about what it is he did to me.

In a state of shock, he looks at me senseless and stupid—he won’t recognise me—his neck is glossy with sweat, the white of his other eye shines. There’s almost no blood. I pull out the knife and stab him a few more times—in the neck, in the chest—the black blood squelches. I thought it would be more difficult because of the ribs, but the flesh is soft like warm butter. He turns and, staggering, moves into the entryway, where he falls face down, hitting his head on the steps, head and arms twitching. I dart in and stab him a few more times in the back. Finally, he goes still.

All this happens in silence, without a single sound. I drag him under the stairs. I rub, close and open my eyes. There’s blood splattered everywhere. I wish I had some wet towels to wipe my hands with. Thank God I’m sleeping, or I’d have to flee the country.

Then the doubts creep in. I’m quite lucid and I’ve had as many wakeups now as I’ve had dreams. So this may well all be happening.

An odd feeling of liberation and relief suddenly descends upon me: it doesn’t matter. I will kill myself tomorrow anyway. I’m free to do anything.

But first I need to finish off the letter and find a postbox. This letter is getting ridiculously long. Maybe I’ll have enough time to get to the post office in Caltagirone tomorrow morning. The one around the corner from the Santa Maria del Monte staircase. Do you remember how we climbed up it?

It was delightful.

F.

Catania, Sicily

P.S. I hope you can read my handwriting. Although, of course, it’s too late to start worrying about that.

Chapter 2

Maria sat on the bonnet of a black Lexus wrecked in a road crash, eating a cheese sandwich and drinking coffee from a thermos. It was where cars were taken to be examined after accidents.