felt like nothing would ever go wrong in her world again. She stopped injecting once, a long time ago but then started again after her hopes and dreams had been shattered. That was too much for anyone to handle, she had justified at the time.
As soon as the needle touched her skin she lay on the bed and felt the relaxation drape over her like a blanket. She breathed in and out, listening to the sound of herself in the silence, thinking about the first time she took heroin.
What was the guy’s name? she wondered. They had met at a party for someone whose name they didn’t even know, and the attraction between them was instant. The knowledge that Sapphira had with her a bag of coke, twelve joints pre-rolled in her father’s Cartier diamond Art Deco cigarette case was also appealing. They blew her bag of coke together in the bathroom, smoked three joints in the spa and then fucked at her apartment.
She tried heroin because she could. There was no thought that she would be hooked, no thought of her father’s addiction. She was attached to nothing and addicted to no one but the drug had other ideas. The first time she was sick. The second time she thought she was kissing God. And now all she did was shoot up trying to chase that feeling.
The sex with the guy on smack was beyond anything she had ever felt before. It lasted for hours and Sapphira recalled a continual searching for something elusive, not finding it, yet still being incredibly satisfied.
‘Ethan,’ she said out loud. ‘That was his name. Ethan.’
She felt strong enough to rise up from the bed and finally explore her surroundings. Walking downstairs, she took in the frescos on the wall, depicting magnificent gardens and angelic characters. Grabbing the map and the large set of keys from the hall table, she stood in the foyer and tried to get her bearings. Sapphira loved this part best: being in the mystery, finding her way. Wandering from room to room, map in one hand and lit cigarette in the other she was almost happy.
Where the church had originally sat in the centre of the monastery had been transformed into the most amazing sitting room. The pews were now around the outside of the walls; the vaulted ceiling had angels and demons carved into the ancient stone. While the space was awe-inspiring, however, it was not really to Sapphira’s taste. A little too overdone and European, reminding her of her father’s house in LA, filled to overflowing with his family’s heirlooms.
Looking at the map, she took in the pool, the pool house, the kitchen, the bedrooms and the bathrooms. She noticed a smaller room on the other side of the property;
biblioteca
, it read on the map. Padding barefoot through the villa, Sapphira felt at home. She had an almost chameleon-like ability to feel instantly at ease wherever she was, one of the few benefits that came from her gypsy-like childhood. Touching the silk tapestries that covered the walls, she headed down the hallway and checked the map of the villa. The
biblioteca
should be here, she thought, as she stood in the huge passageway. She could not see a door anywhere. Stopping, she tried to get her bearings. Yes, there was the room there on the map. So where was the freaking door, she wondered, loving the mystery unfolding before her.
Standing in front of the huge tapestry where the door should have been, her eyes squinted at the needlework of knights and maidens in front of a doorway. In the doorway was an angel, holding what seemed to be the Holy Grail and a book. Sapphira stood and looked and then got the message. Knowledge is God.
Pulling back the heavy tapestry, she found the doorway to the room behind the image. The door was heavily carved in Latin, but Sapphira didn’t know what any of it meant. She tried the brass handle but the door was locked. She grabbed the set of keys from her pocket and looked for the oldest one. There were three. She tried the first one but it did not turn; the next one didn’t work
As soon as the needle touched her skin she lay on the bed and felt the relaxation drape over her like a blanket. She breathed in and out, listening to the sound of herself in the silence, thinking about the first time she took heroin.
What was the guy’s name? she wondered. They had met at a party for someone whose name they didn’t even know, and the attraction between them was instant. The knowledge that Sapphira had with her a bag of coke, twelve joints pre-rolled in her father’s Cartier diamond Art Deco cigarette case was also appealing. They blew her bag of coke together in the bathroom, smoked three joints in the spa and then fucked at her apartment.
She tried heroin because she could. There was no thought that she would be hooked, no thought of her father’s addiction. She was attached to nothing and addicted to no one but the drug had other ideas. The first time she was sick. The second time she thought she was kissing God. And now all she did was shoot up trying to chase that feeling.
The sex with the guy on smack was beyond anything she had ever felt before. It lasted for hours and Sapphira recalled a continual searching for something elusive, not finding it, yet still being incredibly satisfied.
‘Ethan,’ she said out loud. ‘That was his name. Ethan.’
She felt strong enough to rise up from the bed and finally explore her surroundings. Walking downstairs, she took in the frescos on the wall, depicting magnificent gardens and angelic characters. Grabbing the map and the large set of keys from the hall table, she stood in the foyer and tried to get her bearings. Sapphira loved this part best: being in the mystery, finding her way. Wandering from room to room, map in one hand and lit cigarette in the other she was almost happy.
Where the church had originally sat in the centre of the monastery had been transformed into the most amazing sitting room. The pews were now around the outside of the walls; the vaulted ceiling had angels and demons carved into the ancient stone. While the space was awe-inspiring, however, it was not really to Sapphira’s taste. A little too overdone and European, reminding her of her father’s house in LA, filled to overflowing with his family’s heirlooms.
Looking at the map, she took in the pool, the pool house, the kitchen, the bedrooms and the bathrooms. She noticed a smaller room on the other side of the property;
biblioteca
, it read on the map. Padding barefoot through the villa, Sapphira felt at home. She had an almost chameleon-like ability to feel instantly at ease wherever she was, one of the few benefits that came from her gypsy-like childhood. Touching the silk tapestries that covered the walls, she headed down the hallway and checked the map of the villa. The
biblioteca
should be here, she thought, as she stood in the huge passageway. She could not see a door anywhere. Stopping, she tried to get her bearings. Yes, there was the room there on the map. So where was the freaking door, she wondered, loving the mystery unfolding before her.
Standing in front of the huge tapestry where the door should have been, her eyes squinted at the needlework of knights and maidens in front of a doorway. In the doorway was an angel, holding what seemed to be the Holy Grail and a book. Sapphira stood and looked and then got the message. Knowledge is God.
Pulling back the heavy tapestry, she found the doorway to the room behind the image. The door was heavily carved in Latin, but Sapphira didn’t know what any of it meant. She tried the brass handle but the door was locked. She grabbed the set of keys from her pocket and looked for the oldest one. There were three. She tried the first one but it did not turn; the next one didn’t work
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