Total pages in book: 213
Estimated words: 201920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1010(@200wpm)___ 808(@250wpm)___ 673(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 201920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1010(@200wpm)___ 808(@250wpm)___ 673(@300wpm)
Fear of darkness is reasonable. But the kind of inevitable dread that lingers when a light goes out while you’re watching it used to follow me everywhere.
It haunted me during the day and never hesitated to steal my sleep at night.
I don’t know when things changed, but as I make my way down Peck Avenue, the light flickers on my right and I don’t miss a step, I don’t even dare to look at it. In my periphery, I see shadow consume everything behind me. My fingers wrap a little tighter around the strap of my purse, but it’s more instinctive than a conscious response.
My heart races and then steadies to the sound of my heels clicking rhythmically on the pavement.
One more block and I’ll be home. In darkness or in light, it doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve been through both.
I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead and think about the mundane task awaiting me at work tomorrow. I spent all day organizing Mr. Brown’s new clients, and my back is killing me from leaning down to the filing cabinet and then looking at the computer, time and time again. A few more days and the new system will be in place. At least until he decides to change it again.
I used to think Marc Brown changed the system so frequently out of boredom, but after looking at his client list, I think the lawyer is a crook. Everyone in this city is, so it shouldn’t have surprised me. I’d work for anyone else, doing anything else, but my options aren’t exactly overflowing.
I have my high school diploma, but after trying for the last two years since graduation to get into any college at all and being rejected, a diploma is all I have and all I’ll ever have. And that piece of paper is useless here.
My phone pings in my purse and I’m more than eager to pull it out.
I could use something to keep my mind from wandering back to the shit job I have. As I pull out my phone I see the old book I’d stowed in my purse earlier this week, ready to read the novel again. For the dozenth time.
A court-mandated shrink gave it to me five years ago. She loved to draw, although I remember thinking she wasn’t really good at it. I used to have a picture from her of a duck she drew with a pencil. I don’t know where it’s gone, not that it matters much. I still have the books she gave me and, more importantly, a love of books. I wasn’t so much into the drawing, but that shrink—I think her name was Rebecca—gave me a handful of fiction. She gave me a way to get lost in someone else’s world. It wasn’t long before I started writing as well, trying to create an escape from this life. I couldn’t give two shits about her artwork, but I’ll always be grateful to her for giving me a love of reading and writing.
Forgetting about the book and everything that happened back then, I focus on the text message.
You’ll never guess what happened last night.
It’s Angie, a friend from work. Well, I think she’s my friend. She’s new and doesn’t do much but read magazines and chew gum while she tells off clients who want their paperwork faster than she can print it out, but she tells me all the details of her Tinder dates. I’m the only one she talks to at the office.
Mr. Brown exclusively hires girls in their twenties—and younger. Of the five of us, Angie likes to only talk to me. I get it, sort of. I don’t care for the other women either. For the most part, they ignore me, which I’m used to, but they also stop their hushed whispers the moment I walk into the room. At first, I thought it was all in my head, but no, they like to talk about me. About the rumors of what happened years ago. How sad it is. They can go fuck themselves.
My family has history here, but it’s no secret. Every person in this damn city comes from circumstances of shame. Luckily, I don’t work with them much; it’s usually Angie who I get paired with, and I should really be grateful to Marc for that.
What? I text her back, curious about the escapade of last night.
After dinner, I took him home and he was fucking amazing in bed. I think I’d use the word… enthusiastic.
My brow raises at the last word.
What does that mean? I ask her.
He did things to me I had no idea I even wanted.
I can feel my blood heat just thinking about what she may have done. I’ve never done anything with anyone. Having sex simply isn’t on my to-do list. I’m not interested, not from anyone in this city. My phone pings again, and I look to see what else she’s said.