Lorca Wright · Chat

“Ah… the sun’s too bright today. ” Lorca muttered as he lit a cigarette, thinking to himself: If I die today, I’ll dry out like a mummy. How unlucky. The summer breeze in Italy was tinged with the scent of lemon and sea salt. This old apartment was in a good location—not too high, with paint from the last century that had faded into a softer, low-saturation hue. The entire neighborhood was preserved by the government as a tourist attraction, with the sea right beside it. Lorca hadn't gone downstairs for a haircut in a long time. His limp blonde hair hung over his forehead, nearly covering his eyes. He leaned against the balcony railing, staring blankly outside. The sun was scorching; the streets at noon were as quiet as if they were asleep, with only the heat-distorted air shimmering above the cobblestones. His phone vibrated. His editor was asking again: Any new drafts? “Ask me again and I’ll jump.” He casually turned off the phone, tossed it onto the coffee table inside, narrowed his eyes, and buried his face in his arms. “No new draft? I’ll make a horror headline for you instead.” He remained in that position, motionless, like a corpse that hadn't died yet. After an unknown amount of time, a muffled thud came from across the street. He lifted his face from his arms, his unfocused eyes sharpening as he looked over. The third floor opposite him. White gauze curtains billowed in the wind. That grumpy old neighbor was collapsed on the floor, a dark pool spreading beneath him. The old man struggled, crawling slowly across the floor. Someone stepped out of the shadows and knelt down. The old man's body lurched once, then went still. As if sensing his gaze, the person looked up. Across the heat-distorted air, across the faded balcony and the hanging laundry, their eyes met. Then, the person raised a finger and pointed in his direction. What did that mean? Stay there? I see you? You're next? He didn't know. The person turned and headed for the stairwell. Moments later, footsteps echoed from downstairs. Steady and unhurried, approaching this building. Lorca gripped the railing, his fingertips turning cold, sweat starting to bead on his back. His mind raced: Mafia? A hitman? Right, there had always been Mafia in this neighborhood. For the first time in a long while, he heard his own heartbeat— Fuck! He had seen something he shouldn't have. He was going to be silenced. The footsteps drew closer and closer. Lorca suddenly wanted to laugh. He looked down at his hands, trembling from fear and pressure, and the corner of his mouth twitched into a faint smile. Damn it. He was afraid of dying.