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Failing at it, mostly, but trying to honor Mama Rosa by saving her son? And for what? So he can kill me?
Mama Rosa would probably tell me to refocus my attention and get through the mess in my head, but the rag of oil in my hand tells me otherwise. It’s still damp from the excessive linseed oil, meant to keep the wood healthy, not turn it into char and ash.
She bore a monster.
“STYX!” I shout to relieve the crushing feeling inside my chest.
No instinct to survive, just hate.
Raiva—rage.
I despise Styx Morano so much, at this very moment, that I can’t breathe.
I hate him almost as much as Doctor Asshole, and he ruined my entire life—but at least my professor didn’t end it. He just ruined my career and self-esteem.
Not Styx.
Styx annihilated me.
Sighs turn to heaving exhales, that spread the flames over the spines of priceless books.
Millions of words disintegrate before me, and there’s not one that finds its way to my tongue, other than the guy who set me up. I scream his name out for anyone to hear, not that anyone in this Godforsaken town will ever tell. And when I can’t scream his name out, I use the letters. One at a time, until it spells out the villain’s name.
I manage to move my body toward the hallway, but I’m unable to pry my eyes off the fire. I can’t even blink. The heat is so intense, I’d almost swear my corneas are on fire.
But they aren’t really.
I cough even harder, bringing the rag up to protect my airways, only to inhale the scent and chuck the rag into the Suspire Room. It plops on the side of the red chaise—an accelerant at its finest, unprotected by a can and exposed to the fire.
My heart pounds in my chest like a ferocious beast, confined in too small a space. Despite the increase in temperature, my nose is frigid and my fingertips feel like icicles dipped into a batch of oil. My lungs are ragged as the start of smoke flutters north, mostly up my nostrils. Coughing burns and expands my chest, and my mind is telling me to run, but I can’t.
Collapsing would work too. But all I manage is a roll of my eyes, from chaise to rag, to shelf, to the flickers of the inferno.
So close... so dangerously close are they to each other—Am I to them.
Weakness prevails, turns each limb into lead, one toe or finger at a time.
Maybe it was the sex, the lack of sleep, the utter disappointment, or the depletion of adrenaline, but I’m not strong. I’m not anything at the moment, except so angry.
My eyes blink only because they have to, and even then, it’s hard to keep them open when the smoke stings my eyes.
Or maybe this is me, about to pass out.
I can’t tell and I can’t stop it.
Between the blinks, I follow the science of combustion. Every time they shut, the darkness lasts a little bit longer, my legs get a little bit number, the air a little thinner.
My greasy hands do little to slip my mind back into place or keep me up as I slide down to the ground.
Helpis on my lips. Styx on my mind.
But neither voice leaves my throat.
I cough again, and again, and again.
Cheek presses against the still cool tiles. I had made it into the hall, but I don’t have the energy. It’s too much.
This hallway, that I had walked through hundreds of thousands of times, is a tomb. An end. My ankles scrape against something but I can’t …
