Page 114 of Dante
I've seen men die. Watched the light leave their eyes. Pulled triggers and felt nothing but the recoil. I've buried bodies and washed blood from my hands and slept soundly afterward.
I haven't cried since I was twelve years old. Since I crawled out of that closet and found my mother's body on the kitchen floor.
Something broke in me that night. The part that makes tears. The part that feels things the way other people feel them.
But Marina sits here in the dark, weeping over a ship that sank a hundred years ago. Over fictional people who never existed.
I don't understand it.
I want to.
"Couldn't sleep," I say.
Marina studies me. Her eyes are still wet. Lashes clumped together.
"The pain?"
"No."
She waits.
I don't explain.
"We could watch something," Marina says. "If you want."
The offer surprises me.
Maybe Titanic did something. Softened whatever wall she's been building between us.
Or maybe she's just tired of being alone with her thoughts.
I know that feeling.
"Okay," I say.
I move toward the couch. Slowly. Each step measured. My wound protests, but I ignore it.
Marina shifts to make room. Not much. Just enough for me to sit on the opposite end.
I lower myself onto the cushion. The movement pulls at my stitches. I breathe through it.
"We can watch something else," Marina says. "If you don't want?—"
"Keep watching what you were watching."
She looks at me. Uncertain.
"You want to watch Titanic?"
"I want you to finish your movie."
Her brow furrows. "You don't seem like a Titanic person."
"I'm not."
"Then why?—"
"Because you were watching it."
