Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 62497 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62497 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
As I said, no one really sees me.
At least they don’t see me for me.
To them, I am nothing. Ironic since I’m the one who’s partially blind.
Walking to my room, I go to my closet as I prepare my clothes for the next day. I like to be ready with what I’ll wear to the office. It’s better to be prepared.
I blend in with no bright colors, just plain black or white. I can’t tell if it’s out of habit or necessity.
In school, I had one friend, who died of an overdose not long after graduation.
My family, if you can call them that, is basically non-existent. I can’t recall the last time I spoke to my parents. And if I am being honest with myself, they’re probably too drunk to recall, either.
Both are alcoholics and have been for as long as I can remember. I’m amazed they still have functioning livers, let alone functioning lives.
The plus side is they don’t harass me for money.
Actually, I think they have forgotten they have a child.
Even in school, I was hardly home, always at Mischa’s, my high school best friend's, house watching her get high. At least there, she had food, though she hardly ever ate it. Mischa was always too busy shooting something up her arm or snorting something else to eat the food her mother bought for her, so I ate it.
A knock sounds on my door, and I jump.
No one should be knocking on my door this late.
I know one neighbor, and he’s a creepy old man. The asshole always stares when I walk past him, his brows wiggling with excitement.
Talk about disgusting.
I head to the kitchen, open the cutlery drawer, and pull out a knife. Since last week, my nerves have been shot, and I’ve been waiting for a visit from the mystery man or the police. One body was found near where I was that night, and it’s been all over the news.
I clutch the knife in my hand.
Better safe than sorry.
Not that I know how to use one, but I’m sure if I just swing it around or stab with it, it will catch something and hurt.
With shaky hands, I hold the knife handle, then creep over slowly until I reach the door and place my other hand on the doorknob.
Should I ask who is there?
Or leave it?
I don’t know the answer to those questions.
Counting to three in my head, I pull the door open, knife at the ready, and see…
Nothing.
No one is standing there.
It’s just the night sky staring back at me.
Hmm.
As I turn back around, I notice something on the ground at my door. It’s a carton of milk.
Did he? No, surely not.
So how on earth is this at my front door?
Stepping out of the door, the knife still in my hand, I move to the railing—my apartment is on the second floor. When I look down, I check around but don’t see anyone there.
“You carry knives with you all the time?” someone asks behind me. I jump and spin around toward the voice, and as I do, I thrust out with the knife. And then I watch in shocked horror as it makes contact with his arm, and blood blooms around the blade.
What have I done?
Oh my God, what have I done?
My hands fly to my mouth as I look at his arm in disbelief that I could do that.
“Fuck, you really did get me,” he grumbles as he lifts his arm with the knife still embedded in his flesh. “Do you plan to stand there covering your mouth, or…” He raises a brow, clearly annoyed with me. The thing is, though, he doesn’t seem affected that a kitchen knife is sticking out of his arm. Instead, he’s watching me intently. I look away because those eyes hold things in them I don’t want to know or be told.
I never want to know anyone’s stories.
It’s best that way.
“I didn’t mean to. You scared me,” I explain through my hands.
The man reaches up, the knife still sticking out of his arm, and pulls my hands away from my mouth.
“I figured you needed milk, but I didn’t think you would stab me for it,” he says.
I stare at him. It’s hard not to when he’s doing the exact same thing to me. I feel his eyes tracing over me, summing me up, checking me out.
“You wear men’s clothes often?” he asks, nodding to the basketball shorts and oversized shirt with Tupac’s face emblazoned on the front of the shirt I am wearing.
“Yes,” I reply.
He’s dressed similarly to when I saw him earlier, but I can tell he changed into fresh clothes. He is wearing a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He wore the same thing earlier today, but his arms weren’t exposed. And this shirt looks freshly laundered with no wrinkles and crisp, clean lines where an iron has been. His forearm, which I can see, is covered in ink, including where the knife is currently hanging from.