Page 78 of The Cannibal

The wind pushed and pulled me by my day dress. As the water soaked completely through, it clung as if to keep me from being carried off.

“It’ll hurt.”

The spoken words didn’t even feel like they were coming from anywhere besides my head.

I looked to my left. Silas stood on the baluster. I didn’t even check if anyone was out here. Next to the door there was a dry corner just under the lip of the rooftop entrance.

When my eyes returned to his, he was already staring. His hair stuck to his face, tired eyes highlighted by the red of his lash line.

“When you hit the ground.” He glanced back down at the street. “It isn’t high enough.”

His comments were barely registering, everything felt more like a dream. The roar of the coastal storm further disoriented the scene.

“I can count to three,” he suggested, “together.”

He inched his shoes toward the edge, the points of those perfectly polished shoes beading the sharp rain as they hit the lustrous surface. I could see the two of us standing there, two specters in the night.

He lifted his foot.

My hand snapped out to grab his arm.

A smirk pulled at his lips when I did so, as if completing some self-fulfilling prophecy.

“You fucking pest,” I laughed, the rain washing away my tears as they came.

“You expect me to let you die without permission?” He tried to look sincere, shaking his head. “You know better.”

He stepped down from the ledge, his shoes splashing in a puddle before it drained into the gutters.

Suddenly I was unsure of everything—my fate, my purpose, my resolve. Yet there was always that constant, pestering certainty.

He held my waist to help me down. I grabbed the lapel of his coat for steadiness on my shaking legs. The minute my feet touched the ground, he was taking off his coat, throwing it over my shoulders. He tugged the coat closed, twice for reassurance.

Whatever darkness that festered inside us was made of the same rot, and if we let it, it would one day deliver us back to the soil we came from. Together as one.

But today was not that day.

Water dripped from his hair, the bridge of his nose and chin. The tips of our noses touched, the water spilling over our faces. As with statues, the elements were not even a bother. And like stone, we could have stood there forever until the weather wore us down to bone.

His hand held my face, the smell of leather in my nose as I closed my eyes. The weight of my head leaned entirely on his hand. His thumb brushed against my cheek as our chests touched.

I was afraid to look. To see how he saw me. Today was already a day of removing wool from my eyes to the way others perceived me, how easily I could be discarded when the monsters of our lives were no more than dust at dawn.

When I opened my eyes, the rain clouded my vision enough where I thought they may be deceiving me.

It was the same look he gave me when I’d told him that I hated him. The pain of a blade, the sadness of a much greater loss.

His brows knit together. The glassiness of his eyes could have just been the rain.

I did not hear the words over the clash of thunder, the lightning reflecting off the back of his retina.

“I am so sorry, Alina,” I read on his lips.

“I love you!” I screamed over the deafening rain.

He heard me; by my muted voice or the song of my heart, he heard me perfectly fine.

His hand held my head on both sides, so impossibly close. My lips were on his, but he did not kiss me, he wanted me to feel his lips as he spoke.