89
I’m breathing, but time has stopped.
My pulse hammers in my ears.
My side is killing me. My muscles are frozen cold, and my joints ache like I’ve poured busted-up glass into them. I feel filthy and leprous and hideous.
I haven’t been face-to-face with Ayaka in years. I watched her murder my father on video. We had a phone call. She texted me and told me over an intercom that it was time for me to die. I glimpsed her face as she threw herself out a window.
Standing still, facing each other, is different.
I’d forgotten her presence. Even half-drowned and half-burned, Ayaka carries herself like she’s ready to tear a body part off of anyone and use it to beat the rest of the crowd to death.
And laugh while she does it.
The Thames carried her to the same general spot as it did me. Ma
