Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 62056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
Someone else behind me clears her throat, and the man in front of the desk suddenly seems in a hurry. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I can’t help you.” He waves at the other customer and turns his head away from me. “Hello, may I help you?”
“Please …” I mutter, but he completely ignores me.
I close my eyes and take a short breath before turning around and walking out of the building, forcing the tears to stay at bay. I will find a hotel. There must be someone who’ll take me in for the night.
Continuing my search, I try one hotel after the next. Even the bed and breakfasts all show me the door. Not even offering some work like washing the dishes or cleaning the rooms convinces them to offer me a place to stay. And after walking all over the city to about sixty plus different establishments with blistering feet stuck in sky-high heels, I’m about to break.
By the time I’ve given up, it’s already past nighttime. Barely anyone is left on the street, and half of those are probably dangerous. I’m too afraid to talk to anyone and ask for help. Everyone seems suspicious even though that might only be my terrified brain talking. Someone who grew up distrusting the world doesn’t easily shake that feeling.
I resent the person I’ve become thanks to my family, but I can’t easily overcome my fears either, so there’s nothing left to do but move on.
But I have no energy left to fight with, no more strength in my legs to walk another step. I succumb to the very first empty-looking shack I can find; a long-abandoned basement dwelling beneath one of the city’s many bridges.
I open the busted, creaky door and make my way into a small room to find an old, metallic bed with a stained mattress on top. It looks like a crack house, a place where fellow drug addicts gather to shoot up, but it’s the only place I can go when no one else will take me in. The only place no one will ask questions about who I am and where I came from or judge me for who I am.
But I’m the only one here for now, so I lie there on that filthy mattress and stare at the graffiti-covered walls until the tears begin to roll. And they don’t stop … not for several hours.
A sudden cough wakes me up from a nightmare-fueled sleep. My eyes pop open from the sound, and I immediately sit up in bed the moment a face appears in front of me.
“Hey, man,” he says in a weird, nasally way. “Gaat het?”
My head is woozy, and everything’s so blurry. What’s going on?
“Zal ik een ambulance bellen, of zo?” the guy says.
“Wha-what?” I mumble. Shit, I realize he’s trying to speak Dutch to me. “Ah, sorry, I don’t speak—”
“Oh, an American … Nice,” he says, with an exaggerated voice. He sits down on the bed, so I pull up my legs and wrap my arms around them. “Are you okay? Should I call an ambulance?”
I look around for a second, trying to get my bearings in the middle of the night. “No, no, I’m fine,” I mumble.
There’s a ton of smoke in the room, and I almost jump up and sprint out of the room. But then my eyes catch sight of the cause … a pipe filled with marijuana.
No wonder I’m so dizzy. He’s been smoking in here … and for how long?
“Want some?” He picks up the bong and holds it out to me.
I make a face and hold my breath to keep from smelling the stench. “No, thanks,” I say. I hate drugs. Always have.
“Don’t say I didn’t offer,” he says with a laugh, and then he takes a whiff.
I get off the bed and pat myself down. I must’ve been beyond exhausted for me to be able to crash in a place like this. Geez.
“Whoa … nice dress. Where’d you get it?” he asks, eyeing me up.
“Um, none of your business,” I reply.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to be rude,” he says. “You sure you don’t want some?” He holds it up again. “Might relax you a little.”
“No, thanks. I have to go,” I say, and I hurry out the door.
Coming here was a mistake. It’s dangerous, not to mention unhealthy. I’m covered in germs and dirt and God knows what else, considering what usually goes on in a place like that. I should be happy there was only one druggie in there, and that he wasn’t doing any of the hard stuff. There was a tiny plastic bag filled with white powder sitting on the table, though, and I don’t even wanna know what was inside that. Shit … I should be more careful.
I tiptoe up the stairs, still wearing my high heels. I could try to take them off, but I’m not sure walking barefoot would be any better than this. However, my feet are killing me, and I barely had a few hours of rest. But I have no place to go … except maybe the park.