Page 1 of Prayer of the Damned

Chapter One

Bellcolor

To all those I leave behind,

Mother left an unbearably heavy burden behind her that I could no longer carry on my shoulders. Therefore I leave my last letter, my suicide letter, so as not to curse you as well with the guilt I’ve carried.

It’s important to me that you understand I’m not doing this lightly. I did extensive research before making the decision to put an end to my life.

I read many letters of souls with whom I’m about to share a similar fate, but for some reason I couldn’t identify with the poetic imagery they used to depict their desolate lives. Although there was one metaphor that caught my attention – a sense of drowning.

All I have to say about that is that at least those bastards gathered enough courage to charge straight into the great wide world. All I did my entire life was watch those brave ones from the sidelines, locked up in an aquarium.

They all live – some succeed, some fail – but at least they try, damn it. Meanwhile I’m still waiting to take the first breath of my life…

I crumple up the sheet of paper and crush it in my hand. It’s so damn dramatic and not like me at all. My father would be furious. If it’s at all possible he’d bring me back to life just to kill me again.

I let out a frustrated breath and throw yet another draft into the garbage can by my desk. Shit, why is this so hard?

Don’t get me wrong, the choice to die was ridiculously easy. It’s just this damn letter standing between me and absolute freedom.

You must be thinking that I’ve gone crazy, and I wouldn’t be surprised. Everyone thinks Bellcolor Fermi is crazy, so why should you think any different?

I know. Bellcolor, right? I’m sure my name just made you raise an eyebrow. Yep, I’ve caught you red-headed. And I know, it’s horribly Italian. My father named me that because he believed that my arrival into the world would paint my mother’s life in beautiful colors, but no color could pierce the darkness she existed within. All I ended up with was an unusual name, just like me. Maybe that was what triggered the other kids to trip me up every fucking chance they got my whole life.

But why you ask, why would I choose death over life?

For me, the answer’s simple – because I’ve never truly felt alive.

I think you only understand the depths of the tragedy called “your life” when you tell your story aloud. My story? Well, I’ll let you be the judge. But I retain the right to be the one to pass the sentence I deserve.

Because that’s the fate of all damned ones.

So let’s rewind a bit, I wouldn’t want you to judge me before you really knew me.

My family emigrated to New York many years ago, but the Italian accent clung to my father like he’d never left Italy. Unfortunately, I never really knew my mother. She killed herself before I could gather actual memories to accompany me through my adult life. All I have left of her are fragments of memories that never really come together to form anything tangible, but just enough to be haunted by. My father claims we share the same curse. My mother suffered from a deep depression that eventually led her to put an end to her life. She left nothing behind, aside from fucked-up genes and a broken little girl. That’s me, by the way.

Since we share the same cursed gene, my father sent me to therapy. As a result, I’ve been on mood stabilizers for as long as I can remember, and meeting Dr. DiAngelo on a weekly basis. Yes, another Italian devoted to my father. Despite the existence of the term ‘medical confidentiality’ I don’t think it counts for my therapist, since after every weekly meeting my father quizzes me like I’m under a microscope, and his expression always lets me know he’s not at all pleased with the results.

Italy still rules his heart and his entire being, he rules New York – and money rules us all. Othello Fermi owns a medical technology company, something involving genetic engineering.

Go figure, I never understood exactly what his work was all about. Despite his pleas for me to major in Chemistry and Biology and start my training, I stopped listening to him years ago. I’m the sole heir of Fermi Medical Inc. – original, right? But I chose to disinherit myself before my father could do it. I always knew I was meant for failure, so for once I decided to be the one who’d have the last word.

I always wondered, out of all the cities in the world, why New York? My father always complained about being a wolf among sheep, a genius in a nation of morons. And if I was born here, what did that make me?

As you’ve no doubt figured out, my family is stinking rich. I live in a penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park, which I’ve never even walked through. I have a closet the size of an average New York apartment, which I’ve barely used because the schools I attend have a uniform dress code. I own a fleet of cars I don’t drive because I have a driver. I have VIP tickets to every event, and I don’t go because I have no one to take with me, because I’m Crazy Bellcolor Fermi. That’s the thing about the crazies, no one wants to be friends with them.

My daily routine includes waking up, carefully getting organized, having a bran-rich breakfast, school, a schedule of extracurricular activities and private lessons that change on a daily basis, meeting Dr. DiAngelo every Wednesday, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling until I fall asleep. Rinse and repeat.

Tomorrow is my high school graduation ceremony. A ceremony where no one will whistle or cheer for me in the crowd because my father’s in Tokyo on business. Maybe my driver will do me a solid and join me.

Marcus is pretty nice, but he’s wrapping up his role as my babysitter since I’m leaving for college tomorrow. Sorry, ‘university’ – as they say in Europe. I’m flying out to Italy all summer so I can get acclimated before the semester begins. Yes, I’m going back to my roots. My father’s choice, of course. The University of Bologna.

I’m sure some of you are rolling your eyes and thinking to yourselves: “What a spoiled little brat. Swimming in cash and getting sent to Europe. Boo hoo.”

But my life isn’t mine. It’s an imaginary negative of the daughter my father always wanted and is insisting on getting. Meanwhile I’m screaming as loud as I can, and it’s like no one hears me.

So what other choice do I have besides choosing death? No one will notice that I’ve disappeared anyway. Because that’s thething about New York, it’s a city where nobodies try to become somebodies, and I’m somebody trying to become nobody.