Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 106754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
I try to memorize her as best as I can to recreate the image of my little sis. I can't let it fade away now. I need to keep it. Keep her.
I remember her milky skin, her incredibly long hair with the little kinks and waves she gets when she doesn’t comb it out enough. I think of her sparkling eyes, the innocent curve of her lips. And I let the darkness take over. Imagining hurting her, slicing into her body as I did with her delectable little friend. The blade would slice through her skin like butter. The thought makes my dick hard.
But it doesn't take away from my reality. The fact that I don’t know where I’ll go or what I’m going to do. I have no money, no prospects, no future. Without my brother and my stepsister, I have no income.
But that doesn’t matter because I always get what I want. And what do I want?
My brother’s warm blood smeared on my hands. Tasting June’s tears as she cries over him. Fucking her as she begs for me to stop. Claiming her life after taking his.
I always get what I want.
I’ll roam the streets if I have to. I’ll sleep in this dark alleyway if it brings me closer to my goal. I’ll ignore the trash that litters it—be it people or garbage, it’s all the same to me. I pull my hoodie over my face, shielding it from the curious onlookers. I hide because I don’t want to be found.
Not just yet.
Not until I'm fucking ready...
3 months later
My life has changed and not for the better. I'm a man of the streets now, claiming one corner in particular as my own. I snarl at other homeless people who walk by, desperate to keep at least this small piece of the sidewalk as my only possession. Sometimes I'm full, but more often, I'm hungry. I eat when I have the money or when someone takes pity on me and gives me a sandwich. I don't beg. It's beneath me. But instead of feeling grateful, I'm consumed by the red mist, angered that someone would think I need help.
I'm not a man who can take care of himself. I was shielded by my father and stepmother, and later by my brother, so I've never had to work a day in my life. Now, I know going back to anywhere where Kade might find me is too risky. So I stay here. I make the streets my home.
At first, I tried to find a job, but it proved to be useless. No one is hiring, and since I don't even have a bathroom to make myself look presentable, they wouldn't take me as a bartender or waiter. So I've started doing the one thing I've always been good at. I'm selling my art. If you can call these diluted, boring, depersonalized pieces art.
I am good at this, and I know it. But if you want to sell, you have to suit the needs of your buyer. And my buyers, people on the street—tourists and moms with strollers—probably don't want to buy paintings of a ripped open, stripped naked June.
So I've settled for landscapes and even an odd portrait. But with every brushstroke, I have to stop myself from smearing red across the canvas. The color calls to me, begging to be used. The faces on the canvas are asking me to split their lip or gouge an eye out. I fight all of those instincts, and then some, because only one thing remains on my mind.
Revenge.
My first painting is created with things I find in an art supply store's garbage, and it sells the same day. Pretty soon, I have a reputation, and people gather around my corner to see my newest works. I don't ever tell them my real name. Never look them in the eye. I go by Nox. I let the darkness take over, the way it was always meant to.
I take their money until I have a small stash in my pocket, the wad of paper notes getting thicker each day. But it's still not enough because most of these people are just watchers. They don't buy shit, just stand around, admiring my shitty work. And as much as I want to smash their faces in, I prevent myself from doing so. Instead, I smile politely and inquire what they like, trying to get in their heads and convince them I'm the next big thing.
Maybe one of these days, one of them will actually fucking buy it.
I'm not selling today. Instead, I’m fighting a hangover from two bottles of cheap wine I had the previous night.
I am not an alcoholic, I tell myself. But there's a certain kind of calmness at the bottom of each bottle. And pretty soon, they are becoming the only way I can fight back the red mist that descends more and more often these days, threatening to take over my life like it did when I lost my little sis.