Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
I should be feeling grateful, but the only thing I want is to escape from his clutches and his uneasy eyes. His deep, imploring eyes that are decrypting my face, little by little.
Piece by each tiny piece.
“I’m okay,” I manage, twisting my elbow free.
His brow furrows, but it’s brief, almost unnoticeable, before he goes back to his previous expression, letting me go as gently as he was gripping me. I expect him to turn around and leave so that I can chalk up the entire experience to an unlucky winter afternoon.
But he just stands there, unmoving, unblinking, not making one single step in any direction. Instead, he chooses to watch me, his thick brows drawing over his eyes that I really don’t want to be staring into, but I find myself dragged into their savage gray anyway.
They’re like the harshness of the clouds above and the merciless gust of the wind from every direction. I can pretend they don’t exist, but they still make me lose the feeling of my limbs. They give me blisters and pain.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asks again, and for some reason, it feels like he wants me to tell him I’m not.
But why? And to what end?
I’m just one of thousands of homeless people in this city. A man like him, who’s surrounded by an impenetrable air of confidence, hinting that he’s in some prominent position, shouldn’t have even looked in my direction.
But he did.
And now, he’s asking if I’m okay. Being used to invisibility makes me feel fidgety when I’m suddenly visible.
Ever since this Russian stranger gripped me by the arm, there’s been an itch under my skin, urging me to jump back to the shadows.
Now.
“Yeah,” I blurt. “Thank you.”
I’m about to turn and leave when the authority in his voice stops me. “Wait.”
My big shoes make a squeaky sound on the concrete when I follow his command. I normally wouldn’t. I’m not good at listening to orders, which is why I’m in this state.
But something in his tone gets my attention.
He reaches into his coat and two scenarios burst through my head. The first is that he’ll pull out a gun and shoot me in the head for disrespecting him. The second is that he’ll treat me like many others and give me money.
That sense of inferiority hits again. While I usually accept change from people to buy my beer, I don’t beg for it. The idea of taking this stranger’s money makes me feel dirty, less than invisible and more like a speck of dust on his black leather shoes.
I intend to refuse his money, but he only retrieves a handkerchief and places it in my hand. “You have something on your face.”
His skin brushes against my gloves for a second, and though the contact is brief, I see it.
A wedding ring on his left finger.
I bunch the piece of cloth in my hand and nod in thanks. I don’t know why I expected him to smile or even offer a nod in return.
He doesn’t.
His eyes penetrate mine for a few seconds, then he turns around and leaves.
Just like that.
He’s erased me from his unlucky afternoon and is now going back to his wife.
Considering the extreme discomfort I felt in his presence, I figured I’d be relieved when he left.
On the contrary, it feels as if my breast bone is digging into the sensitive flesh of my heart.
What the hell?
I stare at the handkerchief he placed in my hand. It has the letters A.V. embroidered on it and appears to be handmade. Something of value.
Why would he even give me this?
Something on your face.
There’s a lot of shit on my face. A layer of dirt, actually. Since I haven’t been in a public restroom for some time. Did he really think a freaking handkerchief would be the solution?
Pissed off at him and at my reaction toward him, I toss the handkerchief in a trash can and storm in the opposite direction.
I need a hot meal and a bed tonight, and if it means meeting the devil again to have them, so be it.
3
Winter
I stop before rounding the corner toward the shelter.
Saying I’ll face the devil and actually doing so are two different things. After all, I clawed at his face, kicked him in the balls, then shoved him against his desk the last time I saw him.
He might really catch me and force me to spend a day in the police station.
A low growl escapes my stomach and I wince as it contracts against itself. I can almost feel it opening its mouth and when it finds nothing, makes this god-awful sound.
I wrap an arm around my middle as if that will magically appease the ache.
Okay, I’ll just try to sneak in some soup and leave. Many homeless people who don’t spend the night here come only for meals, so my plan shouldn’t be weird.