Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 127476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
The peculiar description makes me smile.
"It is," I say. "The glow reminds me of flames, like the city's on fire."
She turns around to look at me, leaning back against the wall lining the balcony as she crosses her arms over her chest. "Rome burned once."
"It did."
"I heard the Emperor did it... that he burned it down so he could rebuild it like he wanted it. They say the jackass played the fiddle while it burned."
"Is that what they say?"
"Yep."
"Huh."
Her eyes narrow. "Is that wrong?"
"Yes."
"How do you know?" she asks. "You weren't there."
"Neither was the fiddle," I point out. "It wasn't even invented then. And while I'm sure he could've had his own city destroyed, it's not really logical, since he lost his palace in the fire, too."
"He built another."
"But he salvaged what he could from the old," I say. "A man desperate enough to burn his home to the ground wants a clean slate... he wouldn't carry anything over."
"Maybe it just got out of hand," she says. "Maybe he lost control of it."
"Unlikely."
"You sound like you know a lot about this."
I contemplate how to respond to that, or if I should even humor it, since it wasn't a question.
"I know enough," I say. "I was once that desperate."
She stares at me for a moment before uncrossing her arms and pushing away from the wall. She wordlessly strolls over to me, surprising me as she slips into the chair, draping herself across my lap and settling into my arms. I pull her to me, shifting to give her more room, and press a kiss to the top of her head.
She smells like me.
The scent of sweat and cologne is all over her.
She's staring out at the city lights again, completely at ease. I brush her hair back off her shoulder as I gaze down at her, seeing the faint fingertip shaped marks on her neck. They're barely visible and will probably fade by morning, but they call to me like flashing neon signs. I graze my thumb along one, making her tense.
"Does it hurt?" I ask.
"Not anymore," she whispers.
"But it hurt when I did it?"
She hesitates. "I'm not sure."
My brow furrows. How can she not be sure?
Almost like she can read my mind, she sighs and shrugs. "I mean, yeah, it hurt, but it's hard to remember if it was more pain or fear, so I don't know if you actually hurt me or if I was just terrified you might."
"I don't do it to hurt you."
She tilts her head, looking back at me. "Why do you do it?"
Heavy question.
I'm not entirely sure how to answer.
"You like it, don't you?" I ask. "The high's like nothing else."
I've seen the way her body convulses, the pleasure so overwhelming she sometimes starts to cry. I can only imagine the intensity.
"For me, maybe, but what about you?" she asks. "What do you get out of it?"
An even heavier question.
I don't want to answer this one.
But she's looking at me, so vulnerable and open, it all laid out for me to see. She may hate me sometimes, but it hasn't stopped her from letting me back in. I owe her that much in return, even if the reality of what she'll see isn't pretty.
It's ugly.
Fucking wretched.
Just like me.
"My wife died."
"I know she did."
"So you know," I continue, "that I watched her die. That I held her, and stared down at her, watching as she took her last breath."
"Yes."
"There was nothing I could do for her... no way to save her... no way to make her breathe again. I was dying myself, but I didn't care, didn't care if I bled out right there just as long as I could keep her breathing. Nothing worked, though."
She says nothing as I look at her, thumb still gently stroking the discolored spot on her neck.
"So what do I get out of it, Karissa? I get to watch you inhale. I get to make you breathe. It's like you're coming back from death, and it's a goddamn beautiful thing to see. And maybe that's sick. Hell, I know I'm sick. But it gives me a high, too."
"It's not sick," she says, looking away to settle in my arms again. "It makes more sense than most things you do."
I laugh. "Everything I do makes sense."
"Yeah? So why are you with me?"
"Why—?"
"Not," she cuts me off before I can finish. "Why not? That's your answer every time, you know. Every single time. But it's not an answer, and it doesn't make any damn sense."
I have no other answer.
She doesn't press for one.
Instead she sighs, closing her eyes, and drifts off to sleep in my arms. I rest my cheek against her head, staring out at the glowing city as she starts to snore.
I get no sleep myself.
Why am I with her? I don't know. I really don't.
I'm with her simply because I want to be. Because I need to be. Because she needs me, I think, and if I'm being honest, I need her just as much.
"Italy." Her voice is a stunned exhale, the word accompanied by an edge of laughter. "Fucking Italy."
At first, I think she's on the phone, that she called somebody back home, but I see her cracked iPhone with the pink case lying on the center of the bed, while she stands out on the balcony. Water drips down my chest, my hair still soaked from the shower, as I stand in the room and pull on a pair of boxers.
Quietly, I step toward the doors leading outside, catching sight of her leaning against the wall and staring down at the city. It's just after dawn. Rome's coming alive again as tourists start to swam the area, cars packing the streets. She's in her pajamas, hair a tangled mess. She just crawled out of bed.
"I can't believe it," she says quietly, and I realize she's talking to herself. "I'm really in fucking Italy."
"You are."
She jumps, startled by my voice, and clutches her chest as she swings around. Her face is flushed, a smile flickering the corner of her lips as she gazes at me. It doesn't escape my notice that her eyes trail the length of me, lingering on my bare stomach leading down into my boxers.