Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
My second life started the moment I opened my eyes in that hotel room in San Francisco. That’s when I was born. In that fucking room.
A gorgeous place. Don’t recall the name, but it went out of business decades back.
I had no memories at all. Not a single one. I didn’t even know my name. Still don’t. He calls me Ryet. He insists my full name is Zecharyet, but it’s not. I don’t know who that guy is, but it’s not me. I feel that deep down in my demon bones.
I looked that name up online once the internet became prevalent, and many times since then, just in case it was an old record that took time to get entered into the databases. There is no such name as Zecharyet. It gets zero hits on Google.
How is that even possible? How has this combination of letters never come up before in the entire history of the world?
I don’t know, but it feels like a clue.
Or a lie.
Or a mistake.
Or maybe it was deliberate. So I would know he was lying to me. Because if I was the man he claims me to be, then there would be a birth certificate, wouldn’t there? A death certificate, maybe. That one depends on whether or not anyone was seriously looking for me after I disappeared from… wherever it was I came from.
The point is, if that name was real, was me—then there would be a history.
And there is no history.
Well, that’s not entirely true. I have one thing with this name on it. A deed to some land back east. But it was part of the waking up with Paul in San Francisco, so I’m not sure it’s an actual clue, or a planted one.
That day was pretty confusing. We were in bed together, both of us naked.
I don’t think I had feelings about that, which seems wrong, just like the name. Because I am not attracted to men. Paul doesn’t count. He’s not a man. He’s a monster.
It felt pretty natural, though. Like sleeping naked together is just something he and I occasionally do.
But that was wrong as well.
He was not my boyfriend.
Gross. Just that word and him in the same sentence repulses me. And I’m not even awake. I’m in the dreamwalk. There’s purple haze everywhere.
I’m on a beach. A nice, warm beach, which makes sense, because that’s where I left my physical body. But this isn’t the same beach. It’s much nicer. Like private island nicer.
I push my current surrounding aside and drift back to waking in San Francisco with Paul. It’s the only beginning I know. The rest of it is just a flicker of things that no longer matter.
I was starving when I woke up. But not for room service. Just the scent of him was driving me crazy. I wanted to devour him. I wanted to be inside him, actually.
Not sexually, but… just… like… become him.
Merge with him.
Be part of him.
I couldn’t get close enough. I couldn’t stop smelling him. I can’t even explain that scent. It’s so overpowering and seductive. And original. You can’t say, Oh, he smells like the woods, or the beach, or the lake. He just smells like Paul. It’s like a roast beef dinner, and a very well-groomed horse, and a… a… pit in the depths of Hell.
Savory, and sweet, and smoky.
I wake up in a hotel room that is definitely not the one in Miami where I fell asleep. It is old, and dingy, and smells like piss.
I sit up in bed, realize I’m naked, and then exhale a long breath as the memory of the blood lust comes back to me.
Then I look around for Paul, but I already know he’s not here.
Paul? In this place? Please.
But he was here. Because I can smell him.
Plus, there’s a folded piece of paper on the bedside table that says ‘Ryet’ in his stupid, lavish longhand. He loves to leave letters. That deed he left me in San Francisco on my first day was in one of those big yellow envelopes and came with a letter. It was like a welcome-to-my-cult kind of letter. Here is your ID, here is where you will find your money, here is where you can get clothes, here is a number where you can reach me, here is a deed for land with your name on it to prove who you are.
Since then, they’ve gotten more… personal. I’m not in the mood for that, so I sigh, ignore the letter, walk over to the bathroom, peek inside, and weigh my options.
Nnn-no. I’m not showering in this place. It’s the most disgusting room I’ve ever been in and that shower looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in decades.
I find my clothes scattered across the room and briefly pause to wonder what the fuck we were doing here. That’s when I realize the bed has one of those Magic Fingers things attached to it, the kind you put a quarter in and it will jiggle the bed for you.