Martha

Translation Notice

This article is a work of fiction originally written in Italian. It has been automatically translated to English using an AI tool. The rhythmic and narrative qualities may differ from the original.

He would remember this evening for a long time. He was sure of it.

Usually he tried to limit himself with age, but after spending a hellish work day – what anger seeing the long-awaited and hoped-for promotion slip away – he really needed a change; to push his limits a little further.

So yes, for that evening he asked for an underage one. The criminal offense was a memory of the past, at most he would get a fine that, although hefty, would be a crumb of his fortune. She was sixteen. She could have been his granddaughter. But he had no children, no family and, fundamentally, had never felt anything for anyone; he had been held back, always and exclusively, only by legal consequences.

She did everything he asked. In terms of experience she was second to none of the forty-year-olds he was used to. Perhaps she was also driven by the enormous amount of coke he had offered her and that she had never refused.

The night had certainly worn her out. She was there; sleeping in the bed, with her face strangely full of bliss, while he washed in the shower.

He was ready in a few minutes. He approached trying to make little noise to leave a few extra bills on the nightstand, when he heard her whisper two words. They were unmistakable. I love you. Yes, the bitch had said exactly that: I love you.

But how could she even think of saying such a thing? After just one night, moreover paid for.

He took back the bills from the nightstand and rushed to the exit. The girl whispered again, but this time her words reached no one: "I love you, mom."