Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 40274 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 201(@200wpm)___ 161(@250wpm)___ 134(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40274 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 201(@200wpm)___ 161(@250wpm)___ 134(@300wpm)
The smile starts to evaporate from my face as I realize that we might be in danger here. I’m getting the same feeling I used to get when Rick would come home late and overly energized.
Rick was my husband, once. Not anymore. Not since….
“We don’t want you here, alien scum. We’ve been living here for thousands of years. We know what we’re doing. You’re not going to farm us.”
“Get him out of here! Go on, git!” Another patron joins in but doesn’t bother to get up. He just waves his hands in a fluttering way, as if a seven-foot alien is going to blow away in the very slight breeze.
Cupid are controversial figures. Not all of us regard them as rescuers of humanity, though they saved my life personally. I owe everything to these aliens.
Three weeks ago…
“JESSICA! Open the fucking door!”
A man I once married, and then un-married is trying to break down a door into the bathroom. He’s angry because I’ve stolen something from him that he very much enjoys. It’s a bag of powder that rhymes with hugs. I don’t do hugs myself, but Rick really likes his hugs a lot.
What I need is money. I took Rick’s hugs so I could sell them, get some money, and do things like eat. There are other ways to make money, but with the job market being what it is, and every single person I know having a personal porn channel, the options aren’t what they used to be.
I didn’t count on Rick noticing they were gone so quickly, and I definitely didn’t count on him working out that it was me. I figured he had more shady friends and associates than that.
“JESSICA! Give it back and I won’t hurt you!”
Never answer a door to a man who feels the need to declare he won’t hurt you. That man is planning on fucking you the fuck up. My apartment is already well fortified because I’m not technically supposed to be here anymore. It was boarded up to keep me out. Not just me, but everybody. Theoretically, I was evicted, but I never moved out. They thought I did because all my stuff was gone, but I’d already sold my stuff before I moved out. I’ve been living without living for a while now.
Anyway, Rick knows I’m here, because Rick knows how fucked up and desperate my life has become over the last little while, just like how I know he turned to hugs after he lost his job and the house we used to share.
I picked the bathtub because that’s where you’re supposed to go when things go very wrong. Now that I’m here, I’m remembering that’s a rule for tornadoes and not addict exes. In fact, all I’m doing here is making for easier clean up when he inevitably kills me.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
The door starts to cave in. I make a break for the window and the fire escape. He gives chase. He’s faster and stronger than I am, and he is very angry as well as suffering severe withdrawals. It’s all I can do to reach the roof of the building before he grabs me. There are people all around on the streets and stuff, but they don’t seem to notice the crazy shit going down above their heads. Sadly, even if they did notice there’s every chance nothing would be done. People in this city mind their own business religiously.
“I fuckin’ told you, Jessica. You shouldn’t fuck with me. Where’s the stuff?”
I sold the stuff already, trying to get enough money to fund a deposit for a new apartment, because I am fucking sick of being homeless.
“Okay, listen,” I say. “It’s not on me, but I can get it back.”
It’s a lie, but I just need him to be appeased enough for him to leave me alone. This is fucking terrifying. I know I’m truly scared because time is slowing down and I’m taking in every detail of his desperate, feral face. His cheeks are hollowed out, his eyes have a yellowed hue to what should be the whites, and his hair is not only messy, but suddenly graying from the last time I saw him. He’s got a knife in his hand. I knew he was lying about not hurting me. That’s all he wants to do.
Rick used to sell insurance, but people stopped buying insurance once the disasters started to pile up and the payouts stopped coming. He’s still wearing a suit, though the tie is loose and actually cut short, like he got it caught in a grinder or a mincer or maybe some kind of sink disposal. There’s mustard on his shirt, and stains of other kinds on his pants. He’s a real fucking mess, and that’s coming from me.
“You’re better than this,” I remind him. “You’re a professional man. You can’t stab your ex on a roof over drugs.”