Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94686 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94686 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
I opened the door. A cloud of dust whooshed by me. Coughing, I waved my hand, entered the dark room, and closed the door behind me. Someone had covered the windows to make sure no light came through. I flipped on the switch I found within seconds.
What the fuck?
Broken pieces of ceramic and other hard stones were all over the floor. His maid definitely doesn’t clean this room. Throughout the room sculptures stood. They were created from some dark stone, maybe onyx, and were erotic in a way. Naked black stone women stared back at me. Colorful stones served as their eyes and covered their breasts and the area between their thighs as the women smiled in seductive ways. Although regal, cracks marred most of their faces as if someone had taken a bat to their skulls. Others missed arms and legs which sat in front of them on the floor in pieces. The room held that artsy fragrance—the scent of paint mingling with other chemicals and dust.
Who made these and why are they hidden?
Footsteps sounded outside of the door. I flipped off the switch. Although it was daylight, I wasn’t sure if people could tell that the light was on or not from looking outside the door. Silence returned after a few minutes. I wish I had a flashlight. Turning the light back on, I snapped a bunch of pictures with my phone. There was nothing in here that could help Jazz figure whatever the hell she was searching for, but she would need proof or I’d be right back in here the next day with her.
It’s just a whole bunch of sculptures. This is somebody’s studio like what Viv has at their apartment. Why didn’t people just clean out these rooms and make them something else? What is Chase or whoever holding onto?
The two women rented a three-bedroom apartment where Viv used the extra room for her art. When she’d told me I could stay with them, she’d offered her studio as a place to sleep. I refused, knowing that space was sacred for her. I couldn’t mess it up with my negative energy and didn’t want her to get my bad luck. Besides, sleeping on the couch gave us both an excuse to hang out at night. It offered the ability for us to gaze at each other in the moments that we thought the other wasn’t paying attention.
Sister, man.
I finished up in there, I went to the door, listened for anybody, and then got on out of there with no problem. The next door opened like the one before. Within seconds. Yet when I turned on the light, this room caused my heart to stop and freeze right there in the doorway. It was a little girl’s bedroom, or really the twisted conception of a girl’s bedroom. The sound of women speaking in Italian came off in the distance of the kitchen. I rushed inside and closed the door.
This is creepy.
Pink coated the walls and saturated the carpet. Tons of pink—blushing dusty lampshades, worn fluffy comforters and blankets, tattered rosy curtains. Like the other room, someone had covered up the window to keep the light out. But on the walls hung the most morbid photography I’d ever seen, and having been in jail most of my life, I’d seen a lot of fucked-up shit. In one picture was a naked obese woman filling her mouth with honey. A black wall was behind her. An even darker floor lay under her big body. The frame was made of graying bones.
What little girl would want that on her wall? Back in the day, Jazz used to have those stupid boy bands on her wall and Mike and I would use their faces as spit ball target practice.
I checked the other photos. On the right a rotting dog rested on the grass while maggots ate away at its flesh.
This is some sick shit.
In another, a little girl licked an ice cream cone that was made of tongues and teeth. Bile rose in my throat. I turned away and checked another picture. A clown with bloody fangs and a soiled costume handed a pink balloon to a crying baby. Blood stained the clown’s pants and dried on the tip of his huge yellow shoes. Gray skies moved in the background.
Fear shivered up my body, and I couldn’t point to why, just that the kid who slept in this room had to be a pretty fucked-up-in-the-head adult. And I didn’t know if it was the images bringing down the whole feel of the room, but I could’ve sworn there was a rank, decaying sent that clung to the walls. I almost covered my nose and worried that the odor would stick to my clothes.
Whose room is this, and how the hell do I get this motherfucker away from my sister?