A chi fa male, mai mancano scuse. 

Who does evil, is never short of excuse.

His winding, indigo veins spread all across his tumefied body, deepening and surfacing at different intervals. Translucent skin sheltered dysfunctional organs, decayed by extended usage of alcohol. Each finger ended in a chipped nail encircled by dry specks of blood.

I wonder how terribly grieving that person was if he had drowned his misery in all sorts of burning liquids. Moreover, I wonder why the University would receive a body whose state of blight was advanced.

"Oh, dear, had a family member upset you? Or your employer had sacked you? Perhaps you had lost a friend? Either way, I hardly think I will ever be your confident. How ironic, isn't it? To expect others to confide in you regarding their affliction, when you have been a pain-generator your entire life."

My voice dropped all at once, alongside my arms, now resting on each side of the corpse. My palms fisted veraciously, gripping the sheets that covered the body's pale legs. Normally, methanal would have aided any conflicted emotions I filled the dissection room with, but that moment was not a fortunate case where I could numb my flashbacks with chemicals.

My shoulders began quivering violently, the expanding and retraction of my ribcage intensifying with each passing minute. I had already lost track of time – of anything – but was it really of much importance, when I found myself unable to breathe? Yet again? For it seemed pointless to suppress flashbacks that clung onto me like raven claws on a succulent pray.

This was all your fault! I suddenly remembered the accusation, ringing loudly in my ears, making unmendable cracks in my heart just like the first time. You and your unholy mouth! And then the cries became audible. Not mine, for I had not shed a tear ever since, but hers – the lady whose hair hang loose and disheveled from too much pulling, the lady whose shirt was dampened from musty tears. God will give you what you deserve!

Her voice was too deafening. My head pounded so mercilessly that I collapsed on my knees, taking half of the dissection tools with me on my way to the cold, white, glossy floor. A part of me wished to accidentally cut myself in the scalpel, just to divert my thoughts to a more palpable pain, but no such luck has been granted. I remained with my knees pressed tightly to my forehead, rocking my frame back-and-forth, trying and failing to steady my uneven pants.

Stop it, God, please stop it! I pleaded internally, the crying instinct kicking in. I squeezed my eyes shut, pursed my lips and forced myself to cry, bearing hope that a sense of relief, however limited and ephemeral, was possible. I could feel my cheeks burning from the pressure I voluntarily put on my lacrimal glands, but to no avail. I assume I had not learned my lesson just yet.

My body trembled from my fingertips to my toes, not a sole part of me ignored by the turmoil that encompassed me ever-so-crudely.

"Nasty flashbacks, aren't they?" The voice I knew so well scraped my ears, making the woman's cries more vivid.

I heard steady footsteps approaching the whereabouts of my latest break-down. My gaze stilled on the floor, counting the tiles untouched by my shadow. His eyes burned me. It was not the kind of flame that blazed in between lovers' embrace. Oh, no, that would have been too simple. His scrutiny was demon-summoning – it invited all the Ghosts of Christmas Past to reunite in a celebration of life and death. Who lived? The demons he so carelessly liberated. Who died? Me.

"Why are you here?! Have I not been tormented enough?" I inquired in a tone of utter despair.

His simper crawled onto my skin and somehow invaded its depths as well. "Still not able to look at me? Or even say my name?"

In the heat of the moment, I grabbed the nearest scalpel and rose to my feet. "They all call me the Satan's spawn when it should be you who deserves such nickname!" I growled impatiently, launching myself at his neck – carotid, to be precise.

Unfortunately for my fit of short temper, he was much more skilled than I was. He ducked on the side, snatched my wrist and squeezed it until I eventually released the scalpel. He then caged me in his furious, implacable arms, forcing me to gaze at his ice-cold orbs.

"I have every right to torment you, Leonore!" He grunted, screeching his teeth ungallantly.

"Do you really think vengeance will change anything? Bring you closure? Bring her closure?" I asked, my tone mellow, almost sympathetic.

He gripped me even tighter, his breath hitching as he continued his statement. "At least you will become aware that hell is written all over you; that you belong to it."

I shook my head, locks of sun-kissed hair touching his stubbled jaw. "God has already forgiven me. I belong to Him. Therefore, you are partially right. I do experience hell, but only here, on Earth. Because of you, who intervenes in every effort of mine, and I, who cannot forgive myself."

The strain in my shoulders eased, and part of his own tension subsided. He abandoned the pressure he had been exerting on me for the past few minutes and pinched his nose. I could feel him doubting his choices, but I was beyond sure that he would never admit that.

"Anyway, I am the new financial contributor to the University. You will hear of me more often than you would fancy. Maybe my presence will remind you that while expressing your opinions is advisable, silence is essential."

He dusted his suit off, turned on his heels and stormed out of the dissection room. My mask was nowhere to be seen. The straight-forward, ironic, witty smoker kneeled before him once more, being replaced with nothing more than a shadow. The painter of my canvas started to despise his own creation, splattering water so that colours could fade. And they did fade, to such extent that no defined figure was visible.

Who was the painter, then? God? No, He was the painter of the painter, waiting for him to repent. The lagoon-eyed man? Yes, indeed, beyond hesitation.

I put the dissection tools back in their rightful place, said my farewell to Paul, the newbie corpse, and left. I was to meet Georgia at a nearby café. Was I ready to tell her who was my puppeteer? No, I was never going to be prepared for a full confession. But the bare minimum was to be told, for despite our differences, she was my closest acquaintance.

Of course, my recent rendez-vous with him was slightly halting my enthusiasm – more likely, my sanity – but I tried to focus on the road ahead. The reason why I bore a grudge against wind was my incapacity to lite a cigarette. Every time Zephyrus decided to twist my nerves, the flame would go off, leaving me into a very irritable state. Maybe it was a sign to quit smoking, but Medicine was not going to finish on its own. I needed a stress-reliever.

What I did enjoy on autumnal days was coldness. Raw, harsh chills that travelled all the way down the marrow bone and ended at the farthest nervous termination. Despite becoming a doctor in a few years, I had always been reckless regarding the weather, especially when it came to gloves. Not wearing them might bless me with a flu, or maybe a fever, but I would enter a state of total, uninhibited numbness that was the only cure against depression – against him.

A quarter of an hour consummated until I reached the place of encounter with Georgia. She was already there, sipping on a glass of apple cider, licking her lips every time she took another gulp. Adjacent to her drink was a simple, hot chocolate mug, which practically winked at me to indulge myself in its warm sweetness. I grabbed it eagerly, ignoring the steam that emerged from the upper part of the mug, and cursed gracelessly as the tip of my tongue burned.

"Couldn't wait, could you? Maybe your amniotic liquid was made of hot chocolate, who knows?" Georgia laughed amusedly, patting my back for comfort.

I smiled half-heartedly, responding at her joke with as much enthusiasm as I could gather. "You and your medical jokes..."

"Better than the placer's artsy one, eh?" She continued, tilting her head. The retro chandelier shone above us, casting a feathery light on her soft, angelic features. Why did I only ooze intimidation, toughness and cynicism while her smile could soothe anyone in a jiffy?

Because he is right. You have not changed much ever since that day. My internal, nagging voice retorted, earning a low growl on my behalf.

"That is precisely our subject of discussion. What happened there was a visit from a ghost, one that even in its absence, manages to haunt me." My vocal chords slightly ceded as I fought back those life-altering flashbacks.

"A sexy, panties-dropping one." Georgia chuckled, wiggling her eyebrows tentatively.

A glimpse of his sharp-cut, stubbled jaw stained my retina, soon followed by his soul-searching sapphire orbs and sensuous, cruel lips. I have never had a full view of his body, but his broad frame towered over any man or woman, despite their height.

"Leonore?"

I shook my head, canceling those thoughts, and reminded myself that notwithstanding his looks, he was still my tormenter. I would have driven to hell and beyond just to combat that alternative, equally-devious Stockholm syndrome. He has been the reason of my mental instability for the past few years, and I was to give in his appearance? Absolutely not.

"Pardon me. Anyway, I am not going to reveal the entire story, for most of it has been repressed already, but I need you to watch out. He is the new sponsor of my University and will use any weapon he can find in order to bring me down. Since you are my closest... anything, he will definitely approach you some day. Mark every day in the calendar just to make sure you are conscious of what is coming. Understood?"

I spoke with great authority, knowing that without my mention, she would abandon herself immediately.

"Of course." Georgia meowed. Her pupils were dilated, she was twisting a loose strand of hair with one hand, and the hem of her shirt with the other.

I smacked the table furiously, catching unwanted attention from the other customers. I would not let him pervert her so easily, just because those fucking butterflies roamed in her stomach like a herd of starved cows.

"He can have you wrapped around his finger using words and nothing more. That is the immense power he wields." I grunted, my jaw clenching involuntarily as I shot Georgia a deadly glare.

"My fingers will not be the only parts to be wrapped around his..."

I stepped on her foot, dug my nails into her wrist and yanked her outside, not before leaving money on top of the receipt.

Georgia protested, trying to cling unto my coat for support, but I jerked her hand away and almost banged her skull against the door of the café.

"I have never been more serious in my whole life, not even in those few months before University admission. Dry that naïve, imprudent pussy of yours and listen to me. If you want to be a puppet whose sole purpose is serving his ill, malicious intentions, be my guest. But if you still have the tiniest ounce of dignity and respect for whoever knows better, you will stand your ground. Notably when he makes Shakespeare a despicable epigone, a lousy amateur."

My nostrils flared after my speech had ended, a raging fire exhausting my insides. He wreaked havoc into me, annihilating any solace I could ever receive from God. It felt as if he fought against Him and won. Every single time. And yet, a minuscule bud of assurance bloomed once in a while, healing what he had destroyed, stitching what he had unearthed.

"What is his field of expertize?" Georgia asked meekly.

I was overly glad that she changed the subject, although I still demanded certitude of safety from her.

"At origins, he is a mathematician."

"I cannot believe a math-geek ruined your life." Georgia stared at the pavement, then moved her watery gaze to my visage. "I am sorry. I'll be good, I promise."

I nodded and embraced her closely, feeling the need of proximity for the first time. "He ruined my life after I ruined his. It is only fair, I guess."

Georgia put a hand over my back and whistled at a cab, inviting me to her home. I was about to accept, when a loud buzz came from my phone. Message text from an unknown number, it said.

"Bonding with your friend Georgia? I think not. Meet me at Angelos Cemetery."

I heaved, a brutal tremor soon engulfing me.

"Are you cold?"

"Yes." No.

"Well, let's get home as quickly as possible. I'll warm you up with a fuzzy blanket." Georgia's chirpy voice sounded like a blow right in the middle of my stomach.

"I have to go, G. Sorry, I'll make it up to you." I apologized, knowing that given his multiple interventions, I could not keep my promise.

"O-ok?"

I pursed my lips, called for another cab and told the driver the aforementioned location.

"Do you need to pour salt over my wound so devotedly?" I texted him.

No answer after two minutes. No beep after ten.

Right before paying the driver, my curiosity eased off. I thanked the man wearing a black, shiny hat and descended from the cab. I then glanced at my phone, and realized shortly enough that the merry-go-round he started would never stop.

"And miss all the fun?"