Under the Mediterranean sun

Please regard this as my full confession. I do not wish to die with a heavy heart.

I wish you were able to see him just now. He is preparing to land the final blow, and I know I will be dead within seconds; yet, even when he harbors murder in his eyes, I have never seen a more attractive, more enticing - more, more, more - beautiful human than him. Please do not take offense to this, I am sure you are quite tantalizing yourself; I probably would have stalked and hurt you too, as many times as I did him, if we had had the pleasure to meet before my death.

I am not sure who I’m talking to. You are probably a figment of my imagination, so I will let you choose your identity - a noble priest? A nefarious judge? My best friend? Did we grow up together, hiding our lanky limbs under a desk, our buzzing giggles shadowed by one of those huge Herman Miller office chairs after we had terrorized our neighbors? Or were you the one to finally catch me, scold me for ever having existed (as if I had chosen to do so), before you too, like my darling Arthur, in memory of all my victims, would strike me dead, overwhelmed by the merry feeling that you are ridding the world of a pest?

Here is my advice - please refrain from choosing your identity until I finish my confession. I do not wish for judgment or sympathy. I do not wish for looks of disdain or understanding. I was born into a family of stalkers, torturers, the worst of the worst, as we had been called, who took enjoyment from stabbing, piercing others, instead of a caress, a hug, a loving kiss; but I do not wish to die the way my family made me. I was already granted half a wish - dying in Arthur’s arms - so grant me the other half.

Grant me the relief of shedding all labels others have chosen for me my entire life, until I take my last breath, and then you can choose to mock, to sympathize, or to shrug and then never think of me again.

The problem is, though, you will think of me again. 

No matter who you are, no matter how fortified your home is, my family is everywhere. And if you are real, then they will find you, stalk you, hurt you, and treat you like I treated my Arthur. I promise you this. I guarantee it.

Unless you live in Iceland. Screw that place. Not even you are worth that much icy discomfort.

—

It was June when I started stalking my first victims. 

Why? Because I had dared to fall in love, and Mother wouldn’t let me date without first drawing blood. “If you are old enough to mate, you are old enough to make use of that weapon you inherited from us.” I always hated the way she spoke to me - she called it ‘mating’, I called it ‘the ultimate form of bonding with another’. I suppose you can call me a romantic. But she was right - in my family, drawing blood was a rite of passage, a predecessor to making love. Some would agree that it was a necessity, or perhaps superstition. “Aunt Bianca tussled with your uncle before she found her first victim, and she never had any offspring. She never became strong enough. Her eggs were spoiled.” 

I hated talking about our reproductive system with Mother. Another one of her horrid terms - ‘offspring’. Who calls them that? 

I call them babies. Like you should.

Like Arthur did.

At that time, I was so adamant about the ultimate form of bonding with my boyfriend Ambrose - Buzz, for short - that I agreed to Mother’s terms, and flew to Chalkidiki to begin my reign of terror. 

I confess to being a little superstitious myself, aside from being a romantic, so I didn’t want to risk the existence of my future babies for morals and the ethical treatment of people. 

I chose Chalkidiki - the town of Neos Marmaras, to be precise - for sentimental reasons. It was where Buzz and I first met. Let me tell you a little about that day.

His father and he had flown there on holiday, but Mother and I were there for (her) business purposes. While Buzz and his dad were sipping on freshly squeezed OJ by the sea, Mother was scanning the beach for her next strike. 

We moved through the crowded beach with ease. The shore was doused in scents of nutty Ladolea olives that bobbed in tourists’ plastic cups filled with cheap Dirty Martinis. I noted wafts of other alcoholic beverages sold by sweaty locals in the shade of their shoreline kiosks - pine flavored Retsina wine, tart brandy some fools paid too much for, sunny colored cocktails of many names, but that all smelled of citrus and the promise of assistance in leaving your worries behind. I preferred the smell of those amber-colored locals’ sweat to all these abominations I just listed; you would blame it on my youthful nature, but Mother felt the same.

She eyed an attractive sunscreen-laden senior, his exposed shaggy belly drooping over his swim trunks; but ultimately declined his inviting stance. She moved her focus to a redhead whose skin was riddled with freckles like patches of mold on basement walls - she was incredibly attractive herself. Mother declined this temptation as well.

“Why not her, Mother? She is so… luring.” I finally inquired , trying to make use of one of the new descriptive terms I learned that day from her when referring to victims. I couldn’t understand how many perfectly suitable fools she denied.

“AL-luring,” she corrected, nudging me uncomfortably close to a distracted group of gentlewomen with skin as smooth as lacquered wood; their pits smelled of apricots that had been left too long in the sun. I loved it. “You have to favor diversity, my darling. Detect, discern, juxtapose. You do not choose a victim before comparing sugar cubes to salted gherkins, feta to buttery Brie, honey-roasted carrots to Kansas barbecue dipped chicken bites.” She was talking, of course, of the way those tourists smelled when she would pierce their skin with the weapon she had inherited from her Mother. Their blood usually smelled of their last supper, or so she claimed. She was searching for indications of a scent she hadn’t tried before - so we kept moving quietly through the oblivious fools.

“My family has always been obsessed with scents. Mother makes me sniff armpits.” I confessed to Buzz later that evening, when we met and shared a peach nectar on a desolate folding chair by the salted waves. We were sharing ‘ten-interesting-facts’ about our families as part of our courting ritual.

While I was enjoying Buzz’s company, Mother had broken into one of the apricot-scented gentlewoman’s Airbnb, and was hacking into her arms as we spoke.

—

I was, understandably, drenched in candied nostalgia when I landed in Neos Marmaras, thinking fondly of Mother and all the lessons she had taught me during that last trip. I rested on a folding chair that was about to be ambushed by the high tide, just to keep Buzz’s memory fresh in my mind - he was my purpose for being there, why I scanned skins and pits and hairy toes and temples sullied by sweat. I resisted the urge to choose the first peach-scented idiot as my first victim, recalling Buzz’s lean arms as he helped me sip on that nectar juice we had shared (I truly am a romantic), and focused on Mother’s education - detect, discern, juxtapose.

Oh, I sure did detect. I sure did discern. I sure did juxtapose.

By the end of that first day, I had followed five morons back to their air conditioned suites, to their whitewashed camper trailers, to their intimate Gyros dates in greasy diners, to their pain and anguish and ow’s and get-away-from-me’s.

And here is my first confession, my patient priest, my judge, my best friend -

I enjoyed it. 

Under that Mediterranean sun, I saw skins sizzle and blister and turn to shades of chestnut and cinnamon. I saw them seek comfort in the silky sands of Porto Carras after a quick splash in the Aegean sea. I saw their bellies bloat with Pastitsio, Avgolemono soup and Lokma. As I watched them do so, I turned to shadows. I turned to the pitch black that engulfed the salted town after dusk, to stealth and patience and obscurity. I waited for them in the darkest corners of their perfumed bathrooms, where they’d enter after midnight forms-of-ultimate-bonding with their partners, where they’d find me, feel me, struggling to deflect my attack, yelping after their failure to do so. I waited for them endlessly in moonlit sea ports, watching ferries bobbing closer to the shores, to me, to the pleasure I took in hurting them when no one looked.

I gave in to the darkest corners of my mind, my nature, my family’s culture, and I savored every moment I spent on every beach dotted with confetti-colored umbrellas in Neos Marmaras.

I knew for certain that my eggs would not be spoiled like Aunt Bianca’s. 

I would soon return home to Buzz, we would be blessed with hundreds, millions, billions of babies, and we’d spend our days teaching our girls to detect, discern and juxtapose until they’d bless us with grandbabies, and Mother would be proud.

—

I would never figure out how life would’ve played out with Buzz by my side, because by the end of July I wanted more - more, more, more - from Arthur, with Arthur, and only him. Our affair started much like it did with Buzz - we shared a folding chair peppered with crumbs of sesame pretzels, watching Mount Itamos stretch along the peninsula like a sleepy giant. 

In the mornings, he smelled of damselfish and loggerhead turtles; he’d often go snorkeling in the shallow waters of the Toroneos Gulf, or kayaking with friends in the tiny fishing village of Vourvourou, always early in the day. I told him I had always feared water and would wait for him on any folding chair or beach towel.

I no longer craved peach-flavored nectars.

In the afternoons, he smelled of salt and milky bed sheets. He’d refuse to shower right after his sea adventures and we’d both dash straight to bed, and nap in the drafty bedroom of his rented bungalow.

In the evenings, his skin was freshly browned by the latest sunset, and smelled like it. I’d cling to that sun kissed skin everywhere we’d go, his arm hair tickling my lean limbs. I would laugh at his friends’ jokes and sneak a sip out of his pineapple smoothies, and momentarily forget all about Mother, about family weapons, about apricot-scented pits and the importance of drawing blood before dates. I wanted more of those mornings, those afternoons, those evenings, when his skin smelled of fish and adventure and linen sheets and all that was good in the world. I wanted more, more, more, and he gave me all of it.

—

This is my second confession, my kind priest, judge, cherished best friend -

In early August, when he locked me out of his bungalow, I immediately thought of making use of Mother’s weapon on Arthur.

I couldn’t help it, I guess; it’s in my nature. Forgive me, I don’t intend to use this as an excuse, but how else would you explain my sudden shift in intention? The shadows that made their way back to me in an instant, the pitch black, the stealth and patience and obscurity? He was so disgustingly crass about his indifference too - he made no attempt to hide Sophia from me (I never got close enough to her to figure out her smell, but I imagined putrid Roma tomatoes that had been forgotten on vines for hundreds of years). They would kiss on our folding chairs and beach towels. They would share pineapple smoothies and jokes and his friends liked her better than me; I could tell, they talked to her, not around her, like they used to do with me.

I watched it all from the shadows I’d discovered around the peninsula back in June. I started breaking into his rented accommodation, creating hiding places out of disregarded shadows in the corner, the back of a couch, an empty shower cabin. 

Because I wanted more, more, more, and Arthur was providing less, less, less.

My anger muddied my caution, though, and I grew careless about my stealth. He’d find me and yell obscenities - 

“Get out! Get away from me! You disgusting piece of sh-” He’d eventually trail off, chasing me out of his bedroom, and he’d be free of me for that night, but I always went back to him.

My last and final confession, my dear someone, is this -

I stalked, and tortured, and dissected Arthur’s sunset-scented skin inch by inch, for twenty eight days. And enjoyed it.

I dodged his strikes, his obscenities, his hatred for twenty eight blissful days, when my two worlds collided - the love I felt for darling Arthur, and Mother’s merciless education of our family’s ways. No torture was fatal, no cut too deep, just so he knew that I would be back the next day - relentless, angry, vengeful. No corner was lit well enough to expose my heartbroken presence, no room quiet enough to reveal my buzzing enthusiasm.

I now only lived for the more, more, more of it all. I no longer lived for imagined futures with Buzz, our hundreds, millions, billions of babies surrounding us on the beaches of Neos Marmaras as we shared a folding chair by the sea. If Arthur was giving me less, less, less, I was taking more, more, more blood.

But you tire of it, you know? And Mother never taught me what to do in case I grew tired of it. 

I rode the crescendo of my tortures all the way to Arthur’s limit. When I broke into his rented bungalow this morning, I mentioned to you that I saw him harbor murder in his eyes. For that reason, I thought, for just a second, that he’d grown to fit so well with my family, that I could teach him all about sniffing armpits and detecting, discerning, juxtaposing, before he would strike his victims. I touched his skin and recognized the scents of damselfish and loggerhead turtles - if I could have, I would have wept in that moment! - and allowed his arm hair to tickle me one last time. Maybe, just maybe, he would forgive me, understand me, and we would have more, more, more days of salted villages and pineapple-flavored adventures under the warm Mediterranean sun.

I close my eyes and let out a humming sigh of wistful relief - for you have kept your promise, my noble priest, my nefarious judge, my best friend, and did not label me until this very moment.

I felt Arthur’s hand descend upon me, and I knew no more would come.

—

“Did you get it?” Sophia called from the kitchen, slicing ripe Roma tomatoes for their breakfast.

“Yeah.” Arthur confirmed excitedly, lifting his hand to find the dead mosquito crushed between his arm hairs. “Thank God. It feels like this stupid thing’s been following me around for months.”