Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 48087 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48087 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
I put away the groceries I’d bought on the way home from work and then got ready for the diner. Once dressed, I looked around my small apartment.
It was nice. Nicer and cleaner than anything I’d ever lived in, not counting Matteo’s mansion, that was.
The apartment was modern and trendy. It had come fully furnished, so none of the stuff filling the space was mine. This entire area wasn’t even…me.
I felt like a stranger living amongst someone else’s possessions. I leaned against the kitchen island and closed my eyes, breathing out. It felt like another panic attack was welling up, one that came on as swiftly as it disappeared.
I thought moving out of Desolation would do me good. I’d be a new person. I’d have a new life. It’d be everything I ever wanted.
But it had taken me no time at all to realize that you could take the girl out of her dark world but couldn’t take that darkness out of her.
With one more last look around, I grabbed the keys and my bag and headed back out.
The walk to the diner was only a couple of blocks. I passed a bagel shop. A chic little smoothie kiosk. There was a small, handmade furniture store right down the street that specialized in handmade bowls and kitchenware.
The sidewalks were made of cobblestone, the streetlights antique bronze. I felt so out of fucking place that it made my stomach tighten slightly. There was also a bar on every damn street corner, the local college kids frequenting them every weekend.
The sun hadn’t even set, but said bars were already hopping, the young adults barely legal drinking age and already working on getting shitfaced.
I rounded the corner and walked another block before I got to work. It was a little fifties retro-style diner that served homemade pies and ice cream and was known for their over-the-top milkshakes and sandwiches.
It was a quick shift for me tonight. Just four hours, so I covered the dinner rush.
I was sure people thought I was a snooty bitch because I kept to myself. My coworkers hardly spoke to me, and I knew it was because I had a resting bitch face firmly in place. It was a defense mechanism for me.
Not making connections with other people and becoming invisible was how I’d stayed alive in Desolation.
And it worked. But I’d never make friends being so distant and coming across as standoffish. Did I really want these people to be part of my life? They wore polo shirts, penny loafers, and pressed khakis. The men looked like they went golfing on the weekends while their wives drank mimosas and gossiped.
And despite having more money than I could even count, I still shopped at local thrift stores, bought clearance items off the rack, and searched out sale items at the grocery store.
I didn’t think I’d ever change my mind and body, always in that survival mode.
For the next four hours, I focused on my job, plastering on that fake smile that would earn a few extra dollars in tip money I didn’t really need.
It was at the end of my shift that I grabbed a meal to go—discounted with my employee status—headed out, and made quick work back to my apartment.
A hot bath, cold beer with my dinner, and maybe even a movie I’d already seen ten times over was how I was going to spend my night.
It’s how I seemed to spend all my nights.
And it was perfect, if I were being honest. Being home and not being afraid was still such a foreign topic, something I hoped I could feel comfortable with one day.
I was adjusting my take-home bag when I rounded the corner and walked by one of the newer bars on the block.
It had an Irish pub feel to it, as if someone had taken every stereotypical thing they assumed an establishment like that had and slapped it in this place.
I walked by a group of guys who I could smell before I even passed them. The alcohol surrounded them strong enough I wondered if I could get drunk from the fumes alone.
“Hey, pretty girl.”
I didn’t look at them, didn’t even acknowledge their existence. After living in Desolation for my entire life, I knew when to be unnoticeable. Silent. It was a survival instinct, one that was ingrained in me.
The catcalls continued followed by whistling. They said rude and crude things, but compared to what I’d been called, their words were almost comical.
I was almost at the end of the block when I heard someone approaching, footsteps on pavement quicker as they tried to catch up with me. Everything in me tensed, and instinctively, I reached into my bag for the knife that Matteo had given me.
The handle was cold and hard in my palm, my grip sturdy. I still remembered the feeling that had consumed me when I opened up my bag and had seen it laying there, sheathed in leather, the blade so sharp when I pulled it out I’d cut myself.