Bloodlust

4 | Predator

The world is bigger than this city, Cami.

You just need to open your eyes.

You're looking, Cami, but you're not seeing.

Open your eyes.

Open them.

I wrap my hands around my coffee mug as I stare out into the city, early morning mist sitting heavy in the air. The view from the thirtieth floor is spectacular. Unobstructed. Clouds and skylines. It's mesmerizing. Quiet, peaceful, like nothing is moving. Everything is still, calm, serene.

I crave these moments. They're rare. Fewer and fewer each year. Like his voice. It's fading. Slowly, but it's fading.

And one day I won't hear it at all.

Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe his voice is a poison. And maybe when it's gone, when it's left my system, I'll be cured.

Maybe.

God, what a horrible word. Maybe. At least no is concrete. Solid. Finite. I hate the mystery of maybes. They're like advent calendars for optimists. That's not me. Not anymore.

I glance down at the city blocks, tiny dots of human existence filling the streets like worker ants.

Go. Go. Go.

Always somewhere to go. Some goal to accomplish. Some dream to chase. The people down there... they're made out of maybes.

That's their fuel.

Maybe if I work hard enough I'll get that promotion. Maybe this new treatment will work. Maybe she'll say yes. Maybe there's another way.

Idiots.

It's like they don't know there are two sides to maybe. Like they refuse to acknowledge reality, the hard truth. Such ignorance. But what's to be expected? Society favors beauty, and the truth isn't always pretty. It's harsh and ugly and downright depressing. I've seen the truth first hand. I know that the other side of maybe only brings misery, misfortune, and mistrust.

Sooner or later, everyone learns about the pitfalls of maybes. I did. And I'll never forget. It's ingrained in my memory. That was the point. To make sure I never forget. Never waver. Never think about the possibility of maybe ever again.

It worked.

Never again.

I take a comforting sip of coffee, closing my eyes, the liquid warming my chest. The warmth doesn't last. It passes in the blink of an eye, and I'm cold again. It's odd. I was expecting to feel something by now. A sense of relief. A smidgen of pride, perhaps. But it's been two months.

Where is it? Why am I still cold?

"Cami."

"Yes?" I sigh, turning around as Zoey enters my living room, iPad in hand. This should be interesting. "Did you find someone?"

"I did," she replies, pulling up a profile on the tablet. "Name's Dr. Wick. He'll send reports to the judge."

"Hmm..." I purse my lips, examining the old man's aging features. Money can't buy time, and this man doesn't look like he has tons left. "Good enough."

"My father knows him from poker," she adds. "He says we can trust him."

I suppress a snort. "But can we trust Enzo not to fuck me over?"

"My father voted for you," Zoey says. "All the De Rossi's did."

"We don't know that for certain," I state, walking to the kitchen. "Your family could be lying."