Nate

**Before **



She’s scared.
I already know her well enough to recognize certain details of her body when she feels that way. Isabela’s eyes widen, her chest starts to rise and fall frantically, and, hell, who wouldn’t be afraid of entering a seemingly abandoned three-story building with a vandal, only to meet more delinquents like me? Who wouldn’t be spooked walking through two massive wooden doors on a crumbling facade, covered in so much graffiti that you can barely see the wall behind it?
It’s been a month since we became friends. That definitely scores some points on my side; she already trusts me a little more, after all, she agreed to come to the Den.
Ever since the day I beat up that asshole Caíque to defend her, we’ve gotten closer. I basically felt like a hero, useful, finally doing something good, because Isabela started looking at me with such admiration, as if she really saw me that way: as someone deserving of a bit of her trust.
I’ve been to her grandmother’s house, Mrs. Hellen’s, and that was the first time I saw her singing and playing. It was surreal, man! It stuck with me, seeing that beautiful girl sitting on a stool in front of a red grand piano, with sunlight streaming through the window, casting glimmers across her face. Isabela really looked like a piece of the sun, singing with the most beautiful voice in the world to Lana Del Rey’s *Dark Paradise*, while her slender, nimble fingers danced across the keys. Even though that song probably hurt her a little, she sang it in a way that I could almost see fragments of her soul swirling with the piano notes, spinning through the air.
She had already told me how much she loved her father, that she saw him as the most important part of her life. And I know the song she was playing very well. It talks about loss and a love that surpasses death. My mom listens to it all the time; she probably doesn’t even understand the lyrics, but she always says it brings up some kind of nostalgia. Well, my mom doesn’t usually make much sense anyway.
To give you an idea of how beautiful it was to see Isabela at the piano, I filmed it and posted it on my Instagram. The video went viral, and I think for the first time, Isa realized that she’s really talented and beautiful. When I showed her the comments, she blushed like a tomato. But I made sure to read several to her, because she was so shy and scared by the number of people who had watched, she didn’t even want to look.
“Such a beautiful girl!”
“OMG, listen to that voice!”
“Man, I even got emotional. Besides being gorgeous, the girl’s voice is amazing!!!”
It was really cool to see her big eyes sparkling, that shy yet scared smile Isabela gave when she heard me reading, seeing how much people liked her. And I did it—posted the video so Isa would finally understand that there’s no reason for her to put herself down so much.
In the days we’ve spent sitting side by side, having snacks during break, or staying up late on the phone having deep conversations, Isabela always rejects compliments or tries to belittle herself in some way. She can’t see how beautiful she is or how much she deserves to be praised and appreciated.
It’s like Isa’s mind is twisted when it comes to her self-image, as if she’s been blinded somehow. And realizing that, seeing her behavior, hurts like hell. For a long time, I thought I’d never meet someone with a soul as messed up as mine, and then she came along, my Little Sun, showing me that yes, there are many stories of broken people out there.
“Nate, you’re not going to kill me and send my pieces to my mom, right?” she tries to joke, but her trembling voice shows there’s some truth behind her question.
“Would you prefer if I sent you whole?” I tease, and as she starts to descend the cement steps, she stares at the right wall of the staircase.
At the bottom of the row of steps below, it seems like the place is wrapped in shadow, as if I’m guiding her into another dimension, dark and full of mystery. And to make matters worse, I even spray-painted “Hell” in black on the wall, next to an arrow pointing downward, straight into the darkness.
Shit!
She’s brave, because even though her fingers are trembling in mine, Isa keeps walking down, pushing past her fear, stepping in her pink flats, having no idea where I’m taking her. The poorly cemented walls, full of cracks around them, don’t improve the image of this ruined place. And that’s exactly what it is—nothing more than ruins. The only thing overpowering the damp smell of mold is Isabela’s sweet perfume, her usual grape scent that never leaves her. The perfect scent for a perfect girl.
When we reach the bottom of the stairs, Isabela squeezes my fingers tighter, hard enough that it hurts. I can hear her breath, uneven, intense, full of fear.

"I'm scared!" she admits, raising her other hand and grabbing my forearm.
And yeah, she’s been touching me. Isabela can touch me like any normal person would. And I want her to touch me, to never stop, to make me feel the warmth of her soft skin against mine. It’s me who can’t touch her, ever. It only works when Little Sun is the one who takes the initiative. I realized that Isabela needs control. She suffers when she feels like she’s not in charge of the situation, when she believes others are making decisions about her body. And no, I didn’t come to this conclusion on my own—my therapist André did. I see him once a week, and I see a psychiatrist once a month. This is the price that asshole, my father, made me pay to have this place. I traded a few therapy sessions to keep this place going, but with how rundown it is, it’s my dad who hasn’t been holding up his end of the deal.
I started vandalizing things right after I got back from boarding school the first time. That’s when I began to give in to the rage, feeling a volcano in my chest that had to erupt, or it felt like I would die. That’s when it all started, when my disorder began to manifest.
My dad owns a company that builds real estate developments, big condo complexes. Furious that he sent me off to boarding school and didn’t give a damn about how things were there, I bought a can of black spray paint and tagged the word “coward” on the model home of one of the new condos going up in Tijuca. It was a housing complex called La Grassa. I was so angry, so pissed off that he didn’t even bother to come home to greet me when I finally returned from Switzerland, at only twelve years old, that I made the driver take me there. And, man, it was intense to let that anger out for the first time.
Of course, the security cameras caught me in the act.