Carnem Levare by Jaxx Summers

 
     
Late Eighteenth Century Venice
(Pre-Revolution)
     
     
    Stefano Bonaro awoke floating face down in a hidden
canal. The alley appeared to be closing in on him. He gasped,
swallowing a mouthful of fluid. His nostrils filled. He jolted and
flipped over onto his back. Looking up, he could see a distant
sparkle, letting him know that night was dipping away. The stars
clung on, in hopes of providing a touch of added pleasure, Stefano
reasoned. He couldn’t understand how he’d ended up this way and in
this location.
    Luckily, he’d learned to swim at an early age, so he
propelled around the marble foundation of a palatial structure. At
first he felt lost in the once lonely lagoon but, as the edges of
the waterfront came into view, Stefano relaxed. Arriving at the
steps of the dock, he quickly took to dry land rung by rung. Once
settled on the planks, he rummaged through his mind. He remembered
drifting along with Anastasia; an argument. Or rather, emotional
pain and her speaking in calm phrases. He pictured the detached
manner of her rejection.
    Rejection !
    And then it all came back . . .
    Stefano dove back into the water, swimming far out
into the Grand Canal and searching for anything that would confirm
his thoughts. He sought to debunk what his mind confided. Tears
clashed with his surroundings. He dove under, plunging further into
the abyss. Forcing his legs to flash fiercer, tearing through the
heavy fluids.
    “ Anastasia,” he gurgled. He was
barely able to make out trash that had been thrown against the sea
floor, and his frustration at this unproductive search
increased.
    By the time he returned to ground, he panted in
exasperation. And dangled his legs from the edge of the pier,
slowly manipulating the waves. He studied his limbs—the
watered-down slacks that clung to muscular legs and long fingers
that were pale and colorless. A dingy white shirt threatened to
smother him entirely, so he loosened the top two buttons and
collar. His mind raced as he considered the inward flow from the
Adriatic Sea in relation to its exit. In search of true love,
Stefano would brave the entire roundabout—even out to the massive
entrance. He pondered its strength with slight fear. Common sense
forced him to finally step onto the main road.
    As his countrymen walked along the paving, they did
not take even a moment to acknowledge him. Stefano was distraught.
He buried his face in his palms. His weeping was loud, yet no one
comforted him. They went about their lives, oblivious to Stefano’s
pain. His fingers rested at his forehead before running through the
full length of his copper-brushed, curly brown coils. For one so
appealing to study, his strong square jaw might as well have been
caved in, since heartache so tragically robbed Stefano’s joy.
    He forced himself to stand tall, pacing slowly
around. His feet shuffled. The sun was now blazing into his face.
Of the few people around, Stefano was the only one not in a hurry.
He turned in the direction of home, nearly being overrun by another
man that was several inches taller. And as Stefano sidestepped,
another overtook him. Preparing to withstand the effect, the second
man passed right through him.
    Stefano was now frozen in the middle of the path. He
no longer tried to dodge his peers. Instead, he allowed them all to
overtake him. He coughed and spun around. For whatever reason,
Stefano was no longer a part of their realm. He had lost Anastasia
and at the same time, it seemed, his humanity.
     
    *****
     
A Year Earlier
     
    “ Stefano, I promise to love you
with my very last breath,” Anastasia declared.
    They were hiding behind a set of freshly primed
shrubbery. The docking area for the Soranzo home was built with
lightly colored stones that were a perfect complement to thick
layers of marble flooring. Water would dash against and onto the
entrance. But it was ever silent and peaceful now. At times, the
cinnamon-shaded gondola would brush against the concrete, though