We Have Not Lost Love (Grace Kay)

Part One

      The morning sky spun as my heart thumped slowly. The air, thick and filled

with flies, smelt of mold. My eyes slipped back into my head as I collapse

atop, what used to be, a brick road. It wasn’t long before a pair of tight,

brown, leather shoes clicked in my direction. The sound stopped, as I

attempted to open my eyes, I felt a firm grip grasp me and lift me off the road.

I could make out his glossy brown hair, deep sorrowful eyes, and pressed

suit. This couldn’t be the Collectors, could it? I awoke to the sound of voices

that filled the chapel; however, my mother’s voice was the closest and the

loudest. She yelled, “Vittoria! You cannot be alone, we talked about this.” I did

not answer her, I did not want to. All I could think about was the boy who

saved me. I remained on the cold floor, until the moon pierced through the

cracks of Michael Angelo’s once great work.

     Small fires begin to light the Sistine chapel. This is where I was born and

raised, amongst the ruins of Italy. I rise slowly to my feet, shaking with each

move. His eyes found mine once more, he is here! Back against the wall, on

the other side of the chapel. Making my way to him quietly, I ask, “What is

your name, signore?” His voice, trembles at first then as he collects himself,

he replies, “My name is Luciano, I have never been here before, um…I…” The

seemingly put together boy was coming undone. His hands, shaking, knew

nothing more than to push his curls back over his head, franticly.

Attempting to comfort him, while a bit confused myself, I state, “Luciano, I

can get you home, but I don’t know exactly where you are from.” Eyes

widening, he begins to tell of his home, as if my question was not “Where is

your home?” But rather, “What is your home like?” He continues, “Well

Vittoria, I grew up as an only child. Our home is not like yours…we did not get

rations as you do. I walk down the halls of my home and am greeted by a

hologram; it asks me what I want and when I want it. All my needs are met

and the worst of all, we, meaning the others in my community and I, are not

told of you people. There are only the wealthy and then well, apparently you.”

His eyes shrinking back in shame, I can tell he isn’t proud of his wealth. “How

did you find out about us?” I ask. He, once more lights up at the thought of

over explaining. “Well, let me just take you through that day.” I internally roll

my eyes but not showing any annoyance, I say “Go right ahead.” Folding one

hand over the other, then placing them on my lap, I prepared for his long

story. After all, he did just save my life.

He starts once again, “I woke up on that crisp and bright day, the air smelt

of deep, red roses and fresh linen sheets. I tilted my feet towards the

floorboards below my bed, my slippers glided on to my feet swiftly.” He

glanced at me and then combed his hair back, “don’t ask me how the floor

does that, no one really knows. Nevertheless, I walked to my first class of the

day, History 110. This is when it all went, well, right actually. My professor

walked around the room, he removed the traditional schoolbooks from our

desks and slammed a large, dusty book on the ground. All the students

gathered round, I stayed seated, staring at him with great sorrow. He stared

back, then gave a shrug, and a sort of, “who cares” look. For I, being the son

of the ruler of Italy, knew enough to know this meant his termination. This

relic, now lying on the cold ground, held our real history. We had all been kept

from it, the older us students got, the more curious we had become. Our

professor had finally given in to the student, but he was adamant that I,

specifically, investigated the book for myself. I, leaning over my desk, peaked

at the book, the colors of such sadness were enough to make me turn away.

Sadness, this was something our class had nothing to do with. We had lives

of ease and joy, and as far as I knew, everyone in Italy lived as such. Finally, I

had plunged into the book, reading all through that night. Bombs, a

worldwide collapse, Italy was it.” I interjected, “I’m sorry, did you say Italy was

it? Like there is no more land left besides us.” I Look at him and raise my

eyebrows in suspicion. He states firmly, “Yes, Vittoria. Italy has been the only

livable land for a hundred years now. I am not sure why, but my father has

tried to keep this, and your people, hidden from me. It’s not right, keeping all

these people in one city, waiting for them to die off. I have come to learn, that

that is the Collectors job, to watch and wait for people like yourself to drop,

just as you did.” I once again jump in, “I know what they do, Luciano. Please

don’t explain that part to me.” We walk a little through the chapel as he

continues telling me about his journey here. Through valleys and mine fields,

he has walked to find us.

As we walk, I am greeted by my fellow neighbors within the chapel. They

stare at Luciano, no one says a word, for they know he is in trouble, his

shaking and sweating palms say that much. Little Maria, dressed as I am, in

terribly old rages, runs past with the other children. Luciano asks, “How can

they find joy in such a place like this?” Choking back tears I answer, “Joy is

not found in wealth, as I am sure you know, rather in the comfort of being

love. We are loved signore, even if no earthly human loves us.” Luciano’s face

grows sorrowful once more. “There is no way of knowing that; there is no

love other than human love.” I glance at him for a moment, then remembering

how he was raised, I say, “Luciano, we will leave in the morning, to take you

back home. I will tell you all about His love then.