- What is love in the end? I don’t need to love, I don’t need to live either.
- Love doesn’t exist. I do not love your mother, I have come to terms with her, for you son it will be even harder to find it.
I was born on the 20th September 1980 and today, 20th September 1995, I confess to the world that I do not know love, I do not love and I am not loved either. Those were the first words of my story, my true, real, intense story. My father, a typical socialite, as he loved to define himself, used to tell me, in an authoritative tone, that love doesn’t exist, and emphasized his thoughts with mumbled words that extinguished my hopes. I would never be loved nor love anybody. Maybe, between the lines, I have always perceived something wrong in that sentence: not a lie, but an attempt to keep me away from that feeling, to make me leave the straight path. You might be right dad. However I have never left the straight path so far. - I do not love your mother, I have come to terms with her, for you son it will be even harder to find it. One day I asked the local parish priest what it means, to love; he looked at me in a rather strange way, almost intimidated, then he told me: “Vinicio, love is a nice feeling: I love God, like your father loves your mother”. “My father doesn’t love my mother” I thought. I used to look around, during those unusual walks, I read stories, poems, but I couldn’t get my father’s sentence out of my head. - I do not need love. I do not know it. And, if it’s something difficult, I don’t want it. Love doesn’t exist. I do not love your mother, I have come to terms with her, for you son it will be even harder to find it. One day, I asked my mother to take me to the park: I hadn’t left our house for years. The scent of the real world seemed finer than the one I fumbled to smell from my window. My mother struggled to push the wheelchair until the first park bench, under the shadow of a poplar that broke the great heat of the sun with its leafage. My mother was tired, her face was wrinkled, wretched, maybe surrendered. All of a sudden a good friend of hers approached us and my mother smiled. They soon began to talk about my disease. I nodded. My mother pattered her favourite speech. Every time she repeated the same expressions, the same gestures. She played her role and, when she had finished, she spat down a stream of questions and, waiting for her friend to speak, she relaxed her anxious face, almost relieved. She was tortured by that life, so different, so hard. She loved to listen, she didn’t like to talk and, most of all, she didn’t like to talk about me. “Yes, we are fine, thank you, look at Vinicio, he is in top shape, his disease is stable, although in recent years it has worsened a little. He doesn’t speak, he writes, nods, sometimes he uses his fingers to point at things. It is hard but we carry on. You know, he is my son. My husband is fine. He has become a bit surly, recently. And what about you? Your family? Your work? Your mother? The kids? What about your neighbours? And the dog, how is it doing? Tell me!”. They used to chat for hours whereas I happily examined the world, from my place. I hadn’t left home for years. I spotted a couple, maybe they were married. They were strolling hand in hand down the boulevard, he stroked her hair, she smiled and stood on tiptoes, crossing her feet each time he stretched out his hands to embrace her. They frantically moved their hands, which looked like the wings of a butterfly that – maybe in love – was flying around them. Now he kisses her. From far away, I used to steal emotions from people around me. To leave home in my conditions was a nice and at the same time destroying experience. When I went back home, my story mixed with all those I had watched as a spectator in silence. My long silence. “SHIT what a blow!”. All of a sudden I got a ball in my face, and the wheelchair almost turned over. My mother let out an ear-splitting scream. Her friend immediately had a disturbing thought: “OH MY GOD, he’s dead”. Everybody was panic-stricken. My nose was bleeding, maybe I had a broken tooth, the wheelchair had staggered, I didn’t know whether I had wet or shitted my pants. She was beautiful and immediately came towards me, wrapped up in an intense, almost unreal, white light, that prevented me from seeing her. Maybe I was dead for real. She lifted my head and pressed a handkerchief on my nose. All of a sudden I began to feel weak and tired. I woke up at home, in bed, with two doctors and my parents standing there, motionless, in front of me. They were tired, frightened, desperate, old. It took me a few days to recover, the blow with the ball had completely unsettled me. - Love doesn’t exist. I do not love your mother, I have come to terms with her, for you son it will be even harder to find it. After one month at home, I felt confined. Those two hours outdoor, for me, had been like a breath of fresh air for those who fumble underwater. I was used to be alone, accustomed to build my world around the wall of that room. Those fragrances were still under my nostrils, I can still feel that sun, the great heat and the fresh wind in the shade of that tree. I thought about that girl. At the worst way to introduce oneself. Two months at home… I should go out a little, but
they don’t want me to. They are fearful, evil, and selfish. Maybe it exists. Seven months. I didn’t know whether I should feign an illness and force them to take me to the local hospital, in order to breathe some clean air or simply to spite them. Something strange had happened and I was feeling caged. I couldn’t explain this need to go out, to breathe, to contemplate the imprecise landscapes that followed each other and listen to the voices of other people that, like a soundtrack, helped me to travel with them. At the park, voices, colours, fragrances, that girl. - Oof, I’ve had enough. One day my mother entered the room in a frenzy: “Tomorrow is your birthday. What do you want to do? Shall we go out? Look up! If you want to stay home, look down. My neck nearly came off by dint of looking up. - Tomorrow we are going out! I was excited, curious, fascinated, frightened by those who played ball, happy. We entered the restaurant. I cannot explain under what law of physics it happened but, among the 50 or 60 people that were sitting or standing in front of me, I immediately saw her, the blonde girl. Maybe it was a chance or an omen: she was sitting there, at a table with some friends. I tried to smell her from a distance: she was fresh, free. I looked at her intently, almost hypnotized, until she met my eyes. She remembered me, stood up and came towards me. She was smiling. She was one of the most beautiful things that my eyes had ever seen. “Hello, do you remember me? I’m the one of the blow with the ball at the park. Sabrina, nice to meet you.” I nodded. “He can’t speak!” my mother said. She explained that I couldn’t speak and didn’t move much, but I could understand everything. So I used small gestures to answer. She smiled and continued to chat with my parents for a while. I don’t know whether it still depended on the blow with the ball or on her scent, her legs, her smile, in any case I lost track of time and reality. “Do you mind if I come and visit you every now and then? You know, I study psycholinguistics. I’d like to get to understand your language, so that I can help you, if you wish”. Maybe it was the first time I didn’t look at my parents before answering. I lifted up my head, which meant yes, and my mother translated. I wasn’t sure how I should behave nor what I should say in such cases. She wrote down my address and we said goodbye to each other. I had dinner in silence. Of course: I couldn’t speak. I was thinking about her – our first rendezvous, the angry face of my father and the curious one of my mother. Two days later she rang the doorbell and my mum opened the door. She came to my room and, after some courtesy, began to talk about herself, university, her plans… I didn’t interrupt her, I liked to listen to her words. I was listening to a true story for the very first time, and it was moving. I prevented my face and a part of my body (the other couldn’t) from making the faintest movement: I remained motionless, to let her know that she could go on as long as she wished. She had a beautiful voice, her story was unrelenting, intense, it was real life. The first real story I had ever heard fell down on me like a turn-off. I had something to dream of, something different from any television story. She often came and see me during that month: I felt happy, alive. It was strange to imagine my life and my days, so different from each other. All of a sudden, I realized that there were a lot of things to discover around me. One evening she came for dinner at seven o’ clock. I was waiting for her, all dressed up, in my wheelchair. She wanted to give me a surprise, to take me out for dinner. My father wasn’t happy at all. - She is going to hurt him, he is not a normal guy you know! You shouldn’t let her come here again. Well done, daddy. Love doesn’t exist. I do not love your mother, I have come to terms with her, for you son it will be even harder to find it. I did not hesitate and we went out. Leaving that house behind, alone, I experienced, maybe for the first time, a strange feeling of normality: this was exactly what I used to miss. After a quick dinner at a restaurant by the sea, she took me to the beach. We strolled for hours. In the night, that sea seemed to be painted. When I came back home my mother took me to bed. While she was doing it, she unusually looked at me straight in the eyes: it seems she wanted to scrutinize me. She asked me if I was happy. I lifted my head, she smiled. She kissed my forehead, she looked proud, satisfied. Our meetings became more and more frequent. My story started to write itself. I realized that in my strange and solitary situation, during those nights in which I used to dream of being someone else, without ever recognizing my face in the protagonist’s one, something had changed. I had stopped stealing emotions from people around me. I found it difficult, afterwards, to dream like that again. I began to recognize myself in my stories and, being able to dream about my future, I felt different from my own difference. My stories were a stream of thoughts that, in their unreal situation, always exasperated the good and the bad in my life. One day I wrote a short letter to my father, in which maybe I didn’t manage to sum up all that I wanted to tell him. - I have left the straight path, dad, your path, and I have found LOVING, at last.
they don’t want me to. They are fearful, evil, and selfish. Maybe it exists. Seven months. I didn’t know whether I should feign an illness and force them to take me to the local hospital, in order to breathe some clean air or simply to spite them. Something strange had happened and I was feeling caged. I couldn’t explain this need to go out, to breathe, to contemplate the imprecise landscapes that followed each other and listen to the voices of other people that, like a soundtrack, helped me to travel with them. At the park, voices, colours, fragrances, that girl. - Oof, I’ve had enough. One day my mother entered the room in a frenzy: “Tomorrow is your birthday. What do you want to do? Shall we go out? Look up! If you want to stay home, look down”. My neck nearly came off by dint of looking up. “Tomorrow we are going out!”. I was excited, curious, fascinated, frightened by those who played ball, happy. We entered the restaurant. I cannot explain under what law of physics it happened but, among the 50 or 60 people that were sitting or standing in front of me, I immediately saw her, the blonde girl. Maybe it was a chance or an omen: she was sitting there, at a table with some friends. I tried to smell her from a distance: she was fresh, free. I looked at her intensely, almost hypnotized, until she met my eyes. She remembered me, stood up and came towards me. She was smiling. She was one of the most beautiful things that my eyes had ever seen. “Hello, do you remember me? I’m the one of the blow with the ball at the park. My name is Sabrina, nice to meet you”. I nodded. “He can’t speak!” my mother said. She explained that I couldn’t speak and didn’t move much, but I could understand everything. That I used small gestures to answer. She smiled and continued to chat with my parents for a while. I don’t know whether it still depended on the blow with the ball or on her scent, her legs, her smile, but I lost track of time and reality. “Do you mind if I come and visit you every now and then? You know, I study psycholinguistics. I’d like to get to understand your language, so that I can help you, if you wish”. Maybe it was the first time I didn’t look at my parents before answering. I lifted up my head, which meant yes, and my mother translated. I wasn’t sure how I should behave nor what I should say in such cases. She wrote down my address and we said goodbye to each other. I had dinner in silence. Of course: I couldn’t speak. I was thinking about her – our first rendezvous, the angry face of my father and the curious one of my mother. Two weeks later she rang the doorbell and my mum opened the door. She came to my room and, after some courtesy, began to talk about herself, university, her plans… I didn’t interrupt her, I liked to listen to her words. I was listening to a true story for the very first time, and it was moving. I prevented my face and a part of my body (the other couldn’t) from making the faintest movement: I remained motionless, to let her know that she could go on as long as she wished. She had a beautiful voice, her story was unrelenting, intense, it was real life. The first real story I had ever heard fell down on me like a turn-off. I had something to dream of, something different from a television story. She often came and visited me during that month: I felt happy, alive. It was strange to imagine my life and my days, so different from each other. All of a sudden, I realized that there were a lot of things to discover around me. One evening she came for dinner at seven o’ clock. I was waiting for her, all dressed up, in my wheelchair. She wanted to give me a surprise, to take me out for dinner. My father wasn’t happy at all. She is going to hurt him, he is not a normal guy you know! You shouldn’t let her come here again. Well done, daddy. Love doesn’t exist. I do not love your mother,
I have come to terms with her, for you son it will be even harder to find it. I did not hesitate and we went out. Leaving that house behind, alone, I experienced, maybe for the first time, a strange feeling of normality: this was exactly what I was missing. After a quick dinner at a restaurant by the sea, she took me to the beach. We strolled for hours. In the night, that sea seemed to be painted. When I came back home my mother took me to bed. While she was doing it, she unusually looked at me straight in the eyes: it seemed she wanted to scrutinize me. She asked me if I was happy. I lifted my head, she smiled. As she kissed my forehead she looked proud, satisfied. Our meetings became more and more frequent. My story started to write itself. I realized that in my strange and solitary situation, during those nights in which I used to dream of being someone else, without ever recognizing my face in the protagonist’s one, something had changed. I had stopped stealing emotions from people around me. I found it difficult, afterwards, to dream like that again. I began to recognize myself in my stories and, being able to dream about my future, I felt different from my own difference. My stories were a stream of thoughts that, in their unreal situation, always exasperated the good and the bad in my life. One day I wrote a short letter to my father, in which maybe I didn’t manage to sum up all that I wanted to tell him. I have left the straight path, dad, your path, and I have found LOVING, at last.