Page 69 of Anarchy Missing

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - CASE

She molds her back into the curve of my chest and we make a new shape together. Panting at first, trying to catch the breath that wants to escape. But I hold her tight in case she gets any funny ideas about leaving.

I think her eyes are closed, but I don’t know. And I’m afraid to break the moment. She’s calm, for once. Not asking me stupid questions about what me and my friends are doing to the city. Not blaming me for things I didn’t do. So I keep quiet.

It goes on for so long I conclude she really did fall asleep. And even though all I want to do is pick her up, place her in my bed, and crawl in next to her and never leave—the heat is rising in my body.

The sex is not enough. Not at night. It will never be enough and there is no way I can ignore it. So when she finally rolls over, creating some distance between our bodies, I quietly get up, not bothering with clothes because I have to go outside naked anyway, and grab the knife I stash in the bedside table.

Steve is in the second-floor hallway when I walk towards the back of the house. “Don’t,” he says.

“Shut up,” I say absently. Like I have power over this new me. It pisses me off because he does this every single time and he knows. He knows I can’t help it. “And go the fuck away.”

The back bedroom is mostly empty. Just a guest bed and one long modern dresser. But it’s got an expansive square terrace that faces the mountain. When I pull the French doors open, the wind and snow rushes in, bathing my body in sweet coolness.

It feels so fucking good. I place my hands on the snow-covered iron railing, pressing down until I touch cold metal. It doesn’t stay cold for long and that’s the part that drives me. The relief I feel. How will I be able to deal with my needs in the summer?

It’s a question that bothers me. But I don’t dwell on it much. I really don’t think I’ll be alive next summer. I think whatever this is, it’s killing me.

I can pretend it’s made me immortal all I want, but it’s just the delusions talking in my head. To keep me going. Keep me cutting.

I swing my leg up onto the railing, pulling my body up by grabbing onto a narrow architectural concrete shelf. When I’m standing on that, I grab an ornamental detail made out of metal that reminds me of a trellis and acts like a ladder. Less than a minute later I’m on the flat roof of my house, captivated by the city view.

Or what I can see of it through the blowing snow that beats against my back and instantly melts.

The whispers start immediately. Like she’s been waiting for me. My city.

I need you. Do as I ask. Be me. Help me. I need you. Do as I ask. Be me. Help me. I need you.

Over and over and over.

“I’m here,” I grumble to the city’s whispers. I walk to the edge of the roof and stand there, my arms outstretched. I don’t care if people can see me. Let them see me.

Who owns a city? she asks me.

“The people,” I say.

No, she whispers back.

“The politicians.”

No. No. No.

“The predators,” I growl, lifting the knife to the fleshy part of my upper left shoulder. I make the cuts deep and with practiced ease as the blood pours out. It runs down my arm, burning it. Making the skin blister. But all I feel is relief.

“Predators like me,” I finish.

Yes, she calls out. Yes, yes, yes.

I start laughing. Loudly. I am insane. I’m up here on my roof, naked. Cutting myself. Mutilating myself like an ancient sacrifice.

And I love it.

“I fucking love it!” I yell.

“Case?” My city is talking. And shaking me. “Case!” she yells.

But it’s not my city. It’s my Lulu.