Chapter 264: Memories Too Painful to Touch

Constantine dragged his feet all the way to Houston Street, finally squeezing out of the crowd and finding just enough space to light another cigarette; it was clear his mood was not good.

Ma Ma Zhaodi felt nothing special; a crowded New York subway at midnight was just that, but if you really wanted to see sardine cans, you should look at the morning rush hour back home. Office workers rising at dawn would squeeze into the same cramped space at the same time, heading toward the dead-end job they had been stuck in for years, perhaps for another decade, or if lucky, another two or three decades, dozens of eyes like dead fish, flashing with numb and desperate light.

During his time at work, Ma Ma Zhaodi had kept thinking that if supernatural powers truly existed in this world, the subway station overflowing with resentment would likely be the first place to breed a vengeful ghost or evil spirit.

The two walked out of the subway station, strolled down the street for a distance, and finally arrived in Greenwich Village.

Once inside the street, dead memories suddenly began attacking Constantine's brain; at every street corner, past memories would surface along with familiar scenes—memories he once shared with Emma.

The two walked deeper along the main road, while Constantine's memories kept flashing in his mind; the memories he usually tried deliberately not to think about became completely unstoppable at this moment.

It was like dealing with an old scar; every time a bit was peeled back, the wound hurt a little more. Constantine struggled to suppress the urge to turn around and leave, finally arriving in front of a building.

He did not want to go in, but he had to—if not for Ma Ma Zhaodi.

Right around here, Constantine thought, Lester had sent the bottle to this place, sent it to Emma's residence.

If luck was good enough, that hungry spirit might not have had time to destroy the bottle yet.

"I don't want to go in," he said to Ma Ma Zhaodi. "It's this place. You go in, ask the people on the fourteenth floor which unit the painter Emma lives in."

"Are you serious?" Ma Ma Zhaodi said. "Your girlfriend lives here, yet you won't go up yourself? And how am I supposed to tell her? Should I say, 'Constantine doesn't want to come see you'?"

"I said I don't want to go up," Constantine took a deep drag of his cigarette. "Besides, she isn't up there—she's dead."

Hearing this, Ma Ma Zhaodi paused; he finally understood why Constantine insisted on having him help.

"Alright," he said. "No wonder. Do you need me to help with anything else?"

"No," Constantine looked down, took a drag of his cigarette, and waved his hand impatiently at him. "Hurry up and go ask the questions clearly; I want to find a hotel and get some sleep as soon as possible."

After Ma Ma Zhaodi's footsteps disappeared into the hallway, Constantine still couldn't resist looking up; he gazed at that familiar window, where warm light was still on.

The studio light was still on; at this time in the past, she must have been staying up late working—if that damn demon "Avanti" hadn't thrown her out of that goddamn window.

Thinking of this, Constantine threw the cigarette butt on the ground and stomped on it fiercely several times.

"Damn, falling in love with a second-rate exorcist like Constantine is the result."

He thought cursing himself fiercely would make him feel slightly better, but actually it didn't; he felt even worse.

At this very moment, the guilt and pain in his heart, along with the sense of longing, were tormenting his internal organs; he wanted to leave directly, but the task for tonight wasn't finished; he wanted to go upstairs, but he was afraid to see Emma's room.

Finally, he sighed and chose to light another cigarette for himself.

Ma Ma Zhaodi went up to the fourteenth floor, but he didn't go door to door asking, because it seemed there was only one painter household on this floor.

Amidst the complex smells of paint, thinner, and turpentine throughout the floor, the smell of the painter's doorknob stood out particularly; it was a scent soaked into the door over years and years; Constantine's girlfriend probably lived here for quite a long time.

"But Constantine clearly said before that Emma was already dead."

Ma Ma Zhaodi tilted his head curiously to listen; footsteps were clearly audible inside that door, heavy and loud, sounding like ordinary men's shoes stepping on wooden floors.

Who was this person? The next tenant after Emma? Are New Yorkers so cold and indifferent?

So he stepped forward and knocked on the door.

A moment later, the door creaked open a gap the size of a fist, and a man with long red hair and a goatee looked out at Ma Ma Zhaodi through the not-very-wide crack.

"Looking for someone?"

"Emma; I was sent by her boyfriend to find her here—do you mind if I come in?"

The man sized up Ma Ma Zhaodi's Asian face and his rather formal attire from head to toe, thinking this person seemed quite wealthy and his demeanor didn't look like a gangster, so he opened the door for him.

Ma Ma Zhaodi stepped inside and took advantage of the moment; he scanned the entire room in a few seconds; it was filled with canvases, flower petals, oil paints, and watercolors. Obviously, the man in front of him was also an artist, and he happened to have rented the studio left by Emma.

"Actually, she doesn't live here anymore, buddy," the painter said to him. "You won't find her here."

"I know, she passed away," Ma Ma Zhaodi took two more steps; at this point he was completely certain that in this not-very-spacious small room, there was no smell of insects whatsoever, nor any smell of a magic glass bottle—that bottle had been touched by Lester and the fat man who choked himself to death, carrying the scent of them.

Finding nothing here, he felt a bit regretful and could only sigh, asking the nearby portrait, "Is this her? Fell to her death?"

On the canvas, a bright red beam of light fell to the ground, and a woman's face floated on the paper; she looked very beautiful and very young.

"Yes, the matter is very strange; although I wasn't close to her, her death did give me some inspiration for painting."

"Artists don't have many taboos, do they?" Ma Ma Zhaodi glanced at him, offering no further comment on his taboo-breaking behavior.

"Actually, it wasn't painted correctly," a familiar voice sounded behind the two: "Remember to close the door when you open it, kid."

Ma Ma Zhaodi smelled the familiar scent of smoke, but he was not surprised—his hearing was very sharp, allowing him to completely memorize the footstep characteristics of certain people, so Constantine's footsteps going up the stairs did not escape his notice.

"Decided to come up and take a look yourself after all?"

Constantine did not answer Ma Ma Zhaodi's question; instead, he turned back to close the door, then took a deep breath.

(End of Chapter)