Three, I think, maybe four in the morning. I've been out here for hours, ever since Karissa fell asleep. Insomnia is a bitch that stalks me in the darkness, making my surroundings more haunting than serene.
I feel dead most nights. The walking dead, except I still have a pulse, a faint heartbeat. It's hard to feel alive when you've been obliterated inside, hard to feel real when you no longer remember how to dream.
It's probably fitting.
The only people that seem to be out at this hour are the Italian police, the military force called the Carabinieri, wielding their machine guns, monitoring the streets. You'd think it would unnerve me, but I feel more at ease here than back in New York.
Nobody here is gunning for me.
The doors to the room are open behind me, a breeze wafting through, ghosting across my sweaty skin. I'm still dressed, my sleeves shoved up to my elbows, shirt halfway unbuttoned, and tie discarded. I stretch my legs out, crossing them at the ankles, when I hear movement in the room.
Her footsteps are subdued, like she's purposely tiptoeing, as she makes her way out onto the balcony. Her presence looms right behind me, shadows falling over me. She walks right around me, approaching the edge of the balcony to look out. She's wearing only a t-shirt and underwear, the white fabric illuminated in the darkness.
She gazes out at the city, taking in the view. "It's so… orange."
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."