“The point is you’re obsessed with her.” He jabs a finger at my chest. “I’ve seen the way you look at her. Like she’s—”
I feel rage different than most men. Every story I’ve ever read describes rage as a white-hot flame that rips through you and burns everything it touches. Maybe that’s why I’ve always smoked: to try to feel some of that for myself.
Because the rage I’ve always experienced is much, much different.
Outwardly, my face goes blank and every inch of my body remains perfectly still. But beneath the surface, it’s like winter. Cold, so f*****g cold. Not a preserving cold or a pleasant cold, but the nastiest cold there ever was, a violent cold one degree away from annihilating all the life in its path. It’s a cold that snuffs out soul and breath. It’s a death cold.
It’s strang
