Imaginary Friends

Giovanna has a schizophrenic moment.

I had a dream that night. In it was a bee and a wasp. The bee found itself in the nest of the wasp, a labyrinth of tunnels that seemed to lead nowhere. It flew without rest for hours and hours, fearing it would die here. Eventually, the bee did find a tunnel that led outside, and waiting for it was the wasp. The two flew in the air, circling each other, each waiting for the other to falter. The wasp inched closer and closer, threatening the bee with the point of its stinger. Before the bee could even react, the wasp darted in and wrapped itself around the wasp, poking its stinger into it over and over. In a matter of seconds, the bee was left poisoned, and its wings struggled to beat. It fell down to earth, staring up as the wasp got further and further away. The clouds seemed to contort into faces, scowling, mocking the bee.

And then I wake up. My eyes flick open, and I’m staring up at the ceiling, with the straw pillow having been pushed off the bed onto the floor in my sleep. I arch my back to stretch, and try to rub the sleep from my eyes. I kept stretching, and push my shoulders back to force the tension out. When I finally finish my stretch, I let myself flop back onto the bed, shaking it slightly. I take a few moments to keep staring at the roof, my head completely empty.  I know I have to get up eventually, though, so I kick my feet over the side of the bed and sit up to yawn. Then I get up, step out of my room, nearly trip as my shoulder bumps into the door, and somehow manage to rebalance before tumbling forward. Luckily Papa isn’t in the room, so I don’t have to feel too embarrassed. The pot is still sitting over the now dead fire, the lid put on top to ensure no bugs found their way in. I take a bowl, open the pot, and fill it. Even cold, the soup is still filling.

It’s weird not to see Papa in the morning. He’s usually cleaning up after us the night before by the time I wake up, but it seems like he already did it. After finishing breakfast, I put the bowl down on my chair, and as I look down I realize I slept with my shoes still on. I was so tired that I forgot to even make myself comfortable. I suddenly notice the ache in my feet, like they’re wedged between two rocks trying to crush them. I sit down to finally take my shoes off, and let out a long, satisfied sigh as the pressure slowly drains away. The floors feel cold and smooth against my bare feet, and I notice the air is starting to get nippy. Fall must be coming soon. 

I walk outside to feel a breeze come by, carrying on it the sound of metal bashing metal. I move to the side of the house and peek around the corner into the workshop, where I see my father working. “Papa? Why are you working this early?”

He jumps as my voice surprises him, causing him to miss his strike and hit the anvil. “Gia! Don’t scare me like that.” Without looking back, he gets back to work.

“I’m sorry. But really, why are you up? Are you still stressing over that sword?”

“Gia, it’s midday. You’ve been asleep for a while.” The hammer falls down, and he finds his rhythm again pretty quick. I look up at the sky, and realize that it is, in fact, midday. How could I possibly have slept that long? “I remember you saying you were going to practice today?” He says between grunts as he swings the hammer. Holding a conversation at the anvil isn’t easy to do, so he’s probably saying that just to remind me of what I should be doing. 

It didn’t take me long to get ready. I take off my sweat stained clothes and pull out a new pair from one of my bags. A white cotton shirt that’s just a little bit too long on me, so I tie the front and back up to make it fit better, and a pair of baggy linen pants that tighten around my ankles. I kept my shoes off so I could feel the grass between my toes, and let my heels press into the dirt. I pulled one of the several rapiers from the racks on the wall, and found a nice spot in front of our house. This rapier is a bit longer than the ones I practiced with, has a slightly wider blade, and instead of the cross guard there was a full cup hilt; those little differences shouldn’t matter much. The first thing I do is think back to Vittoria; she knew what she was doing. 

How did she stand? Her left foot was behind the right, and pointing slightly to the left. She kept a wide stance, and her legs stayed bent. She seemed to slide on the ground instead of stepping, never letting her foot fully into the air. She didn’t seem to move to the side though. Her movement was linear, back and forth. Her lunge seemed to have no end to its reach. She would sink into a low stance and take a step with her lead food. I don’t understand how she moves her legs so far. When she did miss with her thrust, she would push off with the front leg, and find herself back in a safe position. 

How did she hold her sword? Her hand was angled down to keep the tip of the blade pointed at me, and she kept her hand and wrist hidden by the basket hilt. Her index finger was wrapped around the guard, almost like she was pulling the blade with it. She didn’t seem to try to cut me. Maybe it was because she didn’t want to injure me for the sake of training, or maybe she finds it useless.

I have a base now. I already feel better! Before I was standing stiff legged, and I found it hard to control the point of the blade. I move back and forth a bit, and try a few simple thrust. If only I had something to actually practice on.

For now, I have to practice against the air. I can imagine a blade pointed out in front of me, with a spectral hand grasping at it. Vittoria seemed to constantly keep her blade pressed against mine, not letting me move it at all. Every thrust I tried would end up with her forcing my blade away, and stepping in with her own. I lifted my blade, keeping my arm straight and pressing the side of my blade against the imaginary sword. She would barely even move; all it took was a small turn of the wrist to throw me off balance. 

I spend a long time rehearsing, while the image of Vittoria stands beside me, mimicking my moves more perfectly. “Do you always flick your elbow out like that? Maybe if you weren’t so lazy, you would actually move your feet correctly.” I can hear her shrill laugh in my head. Even imagining her voice makes my face heat up, and my chest tighten. I grit my teeth and keep drilling. 

My feet slowly start to move more naturally, and my sword stays steady as I learn to keep my arm straight. The sound of Papa’s hammer becomes a backdrop, giving me a sense of rhythm as I move. The wind at my back is like cold hands driving me forward as I thrust again and again. The soft dirt melds with the soles of my feet, not letting them move into the air. The world around me falls away as I bury myself deep in my training, and all I can see are phantom blades. 

My back foot moves first. Do it again. My grip is wrong. Do it again. I turned my head to the side as I thrusted. Do it again. Over and over, till my muscles grow sore and a dull pain starts to form in the back of my head. My eyes glaze over, and I forget what I’m even practicing. My body finds a rhythm, and follows it. Step forward, exhale, thrust, pull back, inhale, recover. Nothing could pull me from this dance.

“Gia!” Papa yells from the door right as I’m about to perform a thrust, and the shock nearly makes me jump into the air. “How many times are you going to do that? Supper’s almost ready.” He sighs as he turns back into the house and shuts the door behind him. I shake my head as the world around me suddenly comes back into the focus, and the images around me disappear. I look into the sky, and it, in fact, is  almost supper time. The sun is once again starting to set behind the trees. I take a deep breath as I suddenly realize how bad I ache, and I reach my left hand behind my right shoulder to rub it. I’ll have to practice lighter tomorrow if I want to be ready for Vittoria. 

I move inside, take a bowl, fill it, and sit down next to Papa. The same routine I’ve followed for… what, nineteen years now? Papa never kept track, but I’m pretty sure year twenty is coming up soon. At the very least, I know I was born mid-winter. Papa doesn’t like to speak about my mother, not that he actually knew anything about her. She was a woman that wandered into his home one night, begging him to help her. Papa did his best, but she passed during labor. He never even knew her name. He said he spent that whole night just trying to keep me warm in the house, while he worked outside to bury my mother. It would be a sad story, if I’d ever actually gotten to know the woman. As is, she feels more like a prop to my story, some side character just meant to introduce me. I know that’s wrong, she was a person with her own life, but that life doesn’t matter anymore. I’ll never know what might’ve been, or the kind of life I would’ve led with her.

“Gia, eat. The stew will get cold.” Papa says as he watches me doze off, daydreaming about what will never be. He’s right though, the stew will get cold. I drink some of the broth first, tasting the flavor. I think he used too much salt this time. “You know, I’m a little worried about you.” Papa speaks up as I drink. “I’ve never seen you actually spend so much time practicing at something. It was like you were in a trance.”

I pull the bowl from my lips and swallow before I speak. “Well, I’ve never had to deal with Vittoria Rosa before.”

“How bad could she be?” He says as he drinks from his own bowl.

“Papa, you don’t understand. Even looking at her makes my blood boil. She's so cocky, and I can’t beat her!”

“Kind of like when you and Aristide used to wrestle? It took you a few years to finally start getting the better of him. Come to think of it, you practiced a lot back then too.”

“I don’t have years to learn, Papa. Our next duel could be the end of my schooling.” He pursed his lips and stared off in front of us, as if he were thinking hard. I take in more stew.

“You’ve never been a great student, Gia.” He looks back to me, laughing a bit as he speaks. “I remember trying to make you teach you to swing a hammer. How many times did you hit my finger before you got a grasp of it?” I did hit his fingers a lot. His left ring finger still cant bend fully. I can’t help but laugh, thinking about it. “The point is, you tend to stick with things you’re naturally good at. Even as a girl, you were quite the wrestler. You’ve never had to learn under pressure like this.”

“Well then what should I do? I don’t understand this stupid weapon…” I say, gesturing off to the other rapiers mounting the wall, “and I’m not there to learn wrestling! There’s no hope!” My frustration finally gets to me, and my knuckles turn white as I grip down on my bowl, trying to release some tension.

“Gia, there is always hope! I’ve never known you to give up, and I know won’t give up now.” He puts his bowl down on the floor and turns in his chair to face me, and leans forward. “Your intuition has carried you this far. It let you best Aristide, and it helped you drive off those bandits. Vittoria cannot best you forever.” He let us sit there in silence for a moment before picking his bowl back up and eating again. I follow his lead and sip from my own. It’s cold now.

Author's Note

This is probably not very good, but I'm tired and just want to post this.