Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
“You worthless piece of shit! You call yourself a man?” she spits, followed by a crash—a glass or a bottle meeting a wall or the ground.
“You’re the fucking whore!” he roars, and more curses ensue.
The neighbors, who, like me, are accustomed to this nightly ritual, shout back from open windows, “Shut up already, for fuck’s sake!”
Another voice, hoarse with exhaustion, yells something about calling the cops, but no one actually will. Not here. The cops don’t come unless they have a reason, and even then, they look the other way for the right price.
It’s why I don’t trust them to keep whoever is stalking me at bay. I suppose they’re just an imaginary safety net I hold on to so I won’t go mad.
A gust of wind carries the scent of cheap perfume and sweat from a nearby alley where a woman leans against a car, her thigh peeking out from a torn fishnet stocking as she laughs at what a man is whispering in her ear.
I step over a fresh puddle of something dark—could be coffee, could be blood—and pull my hoodie tighter around me. This place is a landfill of humanity, a breeding ground for ghosts who are still alive, but just barely.
And I’m one of them.
My feet halt by Johnny and Bo, who are sleeping by a corner. They’re covered with scraps that barely protect them from the night chill. I gave them my blanket when my sister Dahlia bought me a new one, but I think they sold it. It’s summer anyway, so they probably don’t need it.
“Night, guys,” I whisper as I drop the sandwiches I usually buy them, then, because we got decent tips tonight, I slip a few bills under each of the wrappers.
Dahlia always tells me not to give them money, because they’ll buy alcohol with it, and maybe they do, but the other day, Bo was grinning wide after he showed me the shoes he bought from the thrift shop with the money I gave him.
I walk through the alley that leads me straight to our street. The lone streetlight that’s still working flickers with a buzz, highlighting the waste rotting on either side. I breathe through my mouth to avoid inhaling the stench of piss reeking alongside the walls.
Heavy steps echo behind me, slashing through the silence. My heart lunges and I grab my backpack tighter, my nails sinking into the straps as I quicken my pace.
The footsteps follow, bouncing off the alley’s walls with a threatening caress.
My hoodie sticks to my back and sweat beads on my temples. Could it be…?
No. He’s never approached me.
But then again, he’s also never shown up in front of HAVEN before.
Is he escalating twice on the same day?
I just need to get home and hide—
A strong hand latches onto my elbow and pulls me back. I go into shock mode.
It’s… I don’t know what it is, but whenever I’m in danger, I just freeze completely, catatonically, almost. My limbs go numb and refuse to follow my brain’s commands to move.
Run.
Do something.
Anything.
People have fight or flight, but I have freeze.
I stare back, expecting to see the black helmet of my grim reaper, but all that comes into view is balding shaggy blond hair and a stained sleeveless white shirt.
“D-Dave…” I exhale, my heart still beating loudly, but at least my muscles unlock.
It’s the local alcoholic, Dave, who’s been drinking himself to an early grave ever since his wife took the children and left.
“Heeey, beautiful…” He sways on his feet, his meaty fingers digging into my arm as he takes a swig from his bottle of whiskey.
I pull my arm, but he latches onto it tighter, so I feign a smile. “Let me go, please.”
It’s not the first time he’s done this, and he lets go when I ask. Usually, that is. Right now, however, he looks terribly drunk. Flushed cheeks, beady eyes with bags underneath them, and he reeks so badly, I have to breathe through my mouth.
“Maria won the court case, and I can’t see my kids.” He slurs his words.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I speak softly, subtly pulling my arm.
“Stupid judge says I’m a bad influence. Why the fuck is that?” He growls, tightening his grip on my elbow, and I wince.
“I’m sure if you show you’re improving, the judge will let you see them—”
“Shut your trap.” He’s in my face now, his alcohol-laced rotten breath skimming over my face. “All you women do is yap and fucking complain. You never appreciate a good man.”
He’s anything but a good man. Maria is the good woman who took a lot of abuse from him before she finally left, but I can’t say that, because he looks irritated and I’d bear the brunt of his anger.
If anything, I’m instinctively cowering, withdrawing into the broken shell Mama built for me one lash at a time. I’m back to being the little girl she screamed at, kicked for being a nuisance, and locked in the closet.