Reality Check

Antonia’s brutal rape had left her in a strange half world. She told no one and withdrew further and further into herself. She barely ate and barely slept. At work, somehow she managed to remain punctual and methodical and only one female colleague noticed with mild concern that she was looking thin and pale. Antonia rebuffed the woman’s enquiries with a polite “I’m fine” and with a smile forced briefly across her gaunt face, she slipped away to the copier in avoidance, with some hastily gathered files which had no need of copying. As winter approached, she spent her spare time walking along the beach, a solitary figure on the empty expanse of cold sand, with strong winds whipping her hair around her face and powerful grey waves crashing at her feet. She often walked for miles and miles, sometimes wading into the icy surf, without removing shoes or turning up her jeans. She would stand looking out to where the greyness of the sea and sky merged, oblivious to the cold, wishing that it would swallow her up, or that it might enable her to feel something, anything. It was a freezing winter morning that her little car decided not to start. Antonia got out, with a resigned sigh, closed the door, locked it, sank her hands deep into her coat pockets and walked to work focusing on the patterns made by her breath as it condensed and disappeared into the air. Beneath several layers of clothing, her bones jutted through their thin layer of skin and the freezing air penetrated to her very core. She sneezed and coughed continuously at her desk and her head grew progressively more painful, behind the darkened circles of her eyes, as the day wore on. As she tried to stand to replace some files, the floor seemed to give way beneath her feet and she fell heavily back into her chair. The female colleague, who’s concern had previously been rebuffed, came over and gently placed a hand on Antonia’s arm, insisting that she really should go home. She also took advantage of the moment to offer her services as a confidant, just in case Antonia needed to talk. With no reserves left to fight the flu-like symptoms, Antonia conceded only that she was feeling quite unwell and would go home. The colleague asked if she would be ok to drive. Antonia replied that she would be fine, wrapped her layers around her, walked through the door and headed out along the street under an already darkening sky. The colleague, caught a glimpse of her small figure disappearing, on foot, beyond the car park, into the darkness. She dashed to the door to call after her, but it was too late, Antonia had gone and she returned to her own desk with an uneasy feeling. A few hundred yards from home, Antonia collapsed obliviously onto the pavement. “ Bella bambina! Bella bambina! Sveglio! Mi sono innamorato! Madre, Madre! Guarda cosa lo trovato per strada! ” “Angelo! Angelo! Bring her here – on the chair.” Antonia came around to an orchestra of Italian passion. A sea of olive faces, three generations deep, jostled in an excited throng, behind an ample-bodied matriarch. “ Domenico, bring some coffee!” The mother ordered. Angelo sent a satisfied smirk toward his older brother, who stood in a moments defiance before turning to the kitchen.“...and Angelo!” exclaimed the mother, who saw all, despite the fact that her back was toward him, “go make her an omelette!” The briefest beginning of the sound of protestation had barely formed in his lungs when it was cut dead, by the mother long before any words could actually gather in his vocal chords, “Vai! Go!” The mother turned shooing the family throng away, “Tournare al lavoro! Tutti voi! –back to work! All of you!” She turned to Antonia, who had managed to pull herself up a little in the chair. “What have we here?”