Death In My Voice [Severe Editing Era]

Chapter 9

You can't even look me in the eye
Oh, I can tell, I know you're lyin'

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       I woke up at four in the morning from the fact that someone seemed to have ordered me to do this. My eyes automatically opened, even though I really wanted to sleep. It was as if I was watching my actions from some distant point and couldn't understand what was actually happening. 

       It was incredibly scary to watch how out-of-control hands pulled that same ill-fated black suit made of elastic material onto unruly legs. 

       It all seemed like a terrible dream from which I am not able to get out. 

        It was as if my body knew that what it is doing at the moment is the only correct action. The extremities turned cold, hit blood in my head when I took a gun out of a cardboard shoe box and started charging. A sensation of vague deja vu suddenly flooded. 

      What the hell is happening now? 

      Before getting out of the tower, I looked at myself in the mirror, so that, as it seemed to me, I was sure that I was fully prepared for something: my eyes were burning with insane horror, in my hair, hastily combed, there was still some kind of yesterday's curls to in the evening, and the skin turned pale. 

       Yes, I look like a real maniac, if not worse. 

       Getting out of the Avengers Tower turned out to be a surprisingly easy task. The first time I regret that I am not a criminal. Although, who knows, it is entirely possible that now, while I am not in myself, I will do some things. 

       Yes, such that Tony Stark with the "Avengers" will not get me out from jail.

       If my body turned against me in itself, then it was damn smart action. No one paid attention to the girl in the hoodie with the hood on her head. 

       Even at such a time (I'm really not joking, it was half-past four in the morning) the people on the streets were enough. Basically, of course, the principal inhabitants of the streets at the moment were homeless people, drug addicts and prostitutes. 

      Soon after, the primary keepers of New York, the wipers, came to their service. I turned into the alley and slightly increased my pace. 

      My horror was somewhat feigned than real. 

     Against my will, everything that happened seemed commonplace and nothing more than another ... task? For some reason, this particular word came to mind when I wanted to characterise my actions. 

     The underground didn't work right now, and I had to walk about forty minutes, and then with a quick step. Sweat came out from such an active walk on my forehead and back, and I wanted to slow down, but not a single limb obeyed. 

      Soon the fright was replaced by a thrill at what awaits me when I get to my destination. 

     What awaits me there? 

     What should I do? 

     Ten minutes later it seemed to me that I had come. In the alley between the houses, I found a fire escape and, pushing it in, started quickly sorting through icy extremities — first, second, third and, finally, the fourth floor. 

      My heart missed a few beats before I opened the window further and got inside.

     It was the most common apartment of the average New Yorker. Everything covered the gloom, but it was quite realistic to see a bookcase, a coffee table, a nightstand with a TV on it, a long nap carpet and two single beds against the wall, on which someone was lying.