I turned the tap and the water came down on me from above.
Cold. It hit the top of my head and ran in sheets over my face, my shoulders, the closed wound at my throat, the smooth places on my back where her nails had been. I stood under it with my eyes shut and let it take the night off me — blood, the residual of her, the thin mineral film of the cell.
Why does he want it stopped?
I didn't have an answer. I had the shape of one, and I didn't like the shape.
If they lied to me, then whatever it was for is evil.
Or Monica's in my head. That's her whole ability.
[ The last part isn't something I'd overlook if I were you. ]
"Shut up."
[ Okay. ]
The water ran down me, cold enough to keep me awake inside my own skin. It pooled at my feet and found the drain in a thin continuous sound. Steam didn't rise; the water was too cold for it. My breath showed once in the air and vanished.
