Chapter 30: Casandra (3)
Blurgh!
Someone falls down the stairs, vomiting. I step back and watch the fall of a naked, plump blue. Plump is an understatement; it’s self-endangerment to stuff one’s body with so much fat. He lands face-first in his own orange-green vomit, then at the feet of a prostitute. He reaches for her. Her buyer steps aside. The fat man sticks out his tongue, trying to reach her bluish toes. I move on. Disgusting, but there are worse things. I take another large step over another puddle of vomit, seeing the silent crowd three to five meters below. Again, they look at me, then avert their gaze. You’re lucky I’m who I am. I know people who would rip out your blue tongue for a second glance and eat it. I think of Alex—a creepy fellow. Wilson would wait until the third glance before cutting out the tongue, but he wouldn’t eat it. I daydream out of boredom until I finally stand before one of the rooms. I choose the first door. Conveniently, the wenge wooden door is slightly ajar. My flesh-and-blood hand pushes it open further, and blue light streams in through the open window. The wind carries an unpleasant stench—death-like, but not death. A naked man stands before a simple, soiled mattress. I see the dark hair on his plump backside, and beneath him, a child. A girl. I step closer, my brows furrowing. There are worse fetishes... The fat man turns around, and I see the small, delicate girl, also naked. Her eyes are closed. He has his thumb, resembling a sausage, in her mouth. I prepare to extend my claw to draw blood, but I stop. My vision blurs. My knees tremble. The girl. Orange hair. Like hers.
In the color of burnt sienna.
My hands begin to sweat, and blood floods my eyes. My breath grows shallow, ragged. I see him again—the bald, fat man walking away from Casandra. His thumb slips from her small mouth. My daughter. I see her. I see her in orange and green. Blood. Eyes cupped in my palms. Gouged out. Those ghastly silhouettes. That wide grin. The fat man becomes that silhouette. I stagger back, clutching my head. I’m shaking. Voices echo in my skull.
“I–I bought her! I–I don’t share!”
That black silhouette in the dead of night, walking from the fire—the fire.
“There’s no sharing. Get your own red one.”
The voice distorts, reverberating through my mind like a curse. I dig my nails into my scalp, desperate to make it stop. But even the silhouette recoils.
“Shit... are you shifting?”