The tragedy of Pucci’s life is that he cannot read his own memory.
It’s been twenty-two years since that summer. Some of it is still clear as a bell – the way he had struggled through the St. Johns river with his robes soaked and dragging him down as he wrestled Perla’s body from the boat. Dio’s foot hooked over his knee, and the warm red wine in the glass, and the idea of Heaven. Waking up in the chair by the phone, seeing the dawn creep through the window, and knowing in that moment that he was alone again.
Others have faded and blurred. He remembers the names of every other stand user in the Mansion, but the faces he pictures when he thinks of them are the photos from the SPW’s records, not the faces he saw coming and going from Dio’s chambers. Who was it that used to smoke in the courtyard at dusk? Hol Horse or Mariah? Who was it that spoke to Pet Shop? Telence, or N’Doul? Or was it only Dio that spoke to the bird? Who was it that came to blows in the foyer with Daniel D’Arby? Who was it that Pucci once found weeping behind closed doors? It must have been Kakyouin, but he no longer remembers for sure.
What did his first kiss feel like? He knows he had it with Dio, and he remembers a few of the others they exchanged. Each time he arrived, Dio would greet him with a kiss. And each time he departed, Dio would kiss him goodbye. A dozen kisses at least, a dozen, and he only remembers two of them with any clarity.
He can’t remember kissing Dio goodbye the last time. Pucci remembers being halfway down the stairs before he realized he forgot his book and he had to run upstairs to fetch it. It had his name in it, and Dio was going to win, but just in case he had to retreat, they couldn’t leave anything. He remembers rushing for it – why does he remember that? The way he had run down the hall and the slight ache in his shins from the lack of forgiveness in the stone. He remembers that… but not if Dio cupped his face to kiss him, or if he rested a hand on Pucci’s shoulder, or hugged him, or…
Pucci can’t remember the last kiss he had with Dio.
But it’s there, in his head. It’s written to the silver disc in his skull. The memories stay clear as a bell, even as people forget how to read them. He’s pulled discs from thousands of people; people so old that they no longer remember their names, children so young that the discs come out smaller than the palm of his hand, from those unable to speak, and those unable to make their speech clear. Each of them had the memories crisp and clear and perfect. Even if the person had convinced themselves they no longer remembered – or what they remembered was different than the truth of it – the disc always presented Pucci with a memory untarnished by bias or doubt. The truth, as it truly is.
In his mind, that kiss is still there, that kiss and all the other moments he shared with Dio that he can no longer remember the exact details of. All the bits turned soft and uncertain after twenty two years without Dio, all of them lie within his mind as sharp and vivid as the day he first lived them. And every last one is denied to him.
Every year takes him further away from Dio. Every year eats at his memories. He holds tight to what he still has, and he pushes forward, seeking the end of all things. Jotaro Kujo is closer than he has ever been before. With his memory, Pucci will have Dio’s diary. With Kujo’s stand, he will finally see Dio avenged.
He will never kiss Dio again. He will never remember the last time Dio kissed him. In time, he might forget all those kisses, all those soft and tender moments, the first and only love he’s ever known.
But he will see Heaven. Then, he’ll be a peace, and all those lost memories will never trouble his mind again.
He wakes up in the remains of the Cairo mansion. There’s sunlight coming through the walls, bright and vivid. He raises a hand and watches the light pour through him. DIO leaves no shadow.
Dead, then. Dead a second time. From one half life to another. His body must be dust. They likely burned him, rather than risk his return, no matter how unlikely. They were not Jonathan.
There are other ghosts here. He finds Vanilla Ice pacing in row upon row, following a death spiral on the second floor. His eyes are full of fury, but he doesn’t respond to a word from DIO. The same scene plays out in the basement as Telence agonizes over a game that’s long been lost. His servants can’t see him, even though they are all dead. They carry on, and DIO is left mute, disrespected and disregarded.
If this is Hell, it’s been very well tailored for him.
The living pay him just as little mind. He watches his home combed over and picked apart by men wearing the Speedwagon Foundation uniforms. Jotaro Kujo comes with them. He finds DIO’s diary and burns it, failing to comprehend the secrets that lie within. Jotaro, ignorant and boorish, throws aways the secret of Heaven, out of nothing but spite.
DIO watches. He is condemned to watch.
When he can stand it no longer, he faces West and walks. He crosses sands and rough terrain. He never tires. And when he hits the sea, he hesitates only briefly before he takes a step forward. His feet rest lightly on the surface of the water, and he treads above his prison, walking over the waves as he heads to the only place he has left to go.
There were many followers he left scattered over the world. But there’s only one he wants to see. Enrico. Enrico. Enrico.
Time is meaningless. He does not hunger. He does not tire. Boredom is all that remains. DIO marks the first seven days and then no more. He merely treads forward, as the blue of the ocean turns to black.
When he reaches the shore, he climbs a distinctly American beach and walks towards the nearest lights, orientes himself, and walks to a home he knows. To the boy he loves. Here, he finds more ghosts, all the same as before. They lie in ditches, screaming. They sit on highways, weeping. They stand in graveyards and in restaurants and hospital parking lots and every since one sees no one else around them. All of them, trapped in a personal hell made of their last moments, or greatest failure.
DIO carries his hell with him.
The house remains, just as he last saw it. There’s no need to wait for someone to open the door for him this time. DIO walks through it, and he winds his way to the room he lay in with Enrico.
Enrico is there. He sleeps. He’s lost weight since DIO last saw him. The little things that Enrico treasured look neglected, or forgotten, or perhaps thrown away entirely.
In Enrico’s hand, DIO sees it: his bone.
He’s a ghost. Nothing he says is heard. Nothing he does can be felt. DIO has no power to change his world anymore. He no longer than The World.
And yet, as he lies on the bed behind Enrico and wraps an arm around him, he swears he feels Enrico relax in his sleep.
This is Hell. But if it is to be Hell, then DIO will choose who he spends it with.
You cannot ground DIO 