Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“Oh no no no, you’re our guest. It’s only fitting that you get some of the best stuff,” Otto tells me with a wicked grin. He’s enjoying this, and as he drops the baggie after sprinkling some of the powder on his fingers, I’m tempted to tell him I did not expect him to be so eager to touch my lips. But that might have gone down badly.
I don’t even fight him when he grabs me by the jaw, because what chance do I have? If I bite him, he’ll just hit me until I comply.
To my terror, he’s not making me snort it. I hoped for that. Then I could have sneezed out some of it. No, he pushes two of his fat fingers under my lip and rubs the powder in without mercy, all over my gums.
I gag, but that won’t help.
I’m fucked.
The bitter taste makes me drool, and I spit some of it out, but Otto doubles over with laughter, and the slap I’ve been expecting doesn’t come. Neither does the instant high. Maybe it’s not really a drug but some counterfeit powder? How am I supposed to know when I’ve never taken any drugs?
“Oh, my God, you looked like a dog that licked shit instead of peanut butter,” Otto roars, sliding onto the sofa as fits of giggles shake his body.
Minutes pass, but as I wait, listening for signs of Saint’s presence, my pulse quickens, triggering a euphoric sensation. Oh no… Maybe it was cocaine after all because it’s hitting me, and I don’t think I like it.
It feels as if the synapses in my brain are snapping, and the world around me becomes unnaturally sharp in some places, while remaining blurry in others. Otto’s laughter is booming in my ears, but the sofa he’s sitting on along with Mothman becomes a blur.
I have a vague idea that coke sharpens the mind and gives you energy, but while I feel like doing jumping jacks, I’m also woozy as if I am about to float up to the ceiling, like a balloon filled with helium.
The smell of Beardy’s heat spray reaches my nose with new intensity, and the moth tattoo flutters its wings, about to fly off Mothman’s face. And then there’s Otto, whose eyes bulge out of their sockets. He’s simultaneously far from me, and all too close, which makes me want to throw up again. I don’t know what kind of unholy mix of drugs Otto’s rubbed into my gums, but I fucking hate the sensations it’s producing.
I’m stuck rolling my head from side to side, uselessly trying to get rid of it, but there’s nothing I can do.
Time passes differently now, and while I struggle to stay still while my mind races, leaping between the pain of my past and the fear of my life possibly coming to an end tonight, I don’t lose hope. Maybe that’s what ultimately drove me to crawl out of that burning building and how I survived years on my own? I somehow always believed there was a light at the end of the tunnel. Tonight, that light has a name and a face, and I focus on them, imagining Saint’s arms around me, his soft voice promising me this horror will be over soon.
I believe him.
I believe him so completely that I’m not even surprised by the shrill yet melodic whistle tearing through the air. He taught me the exact sound so I always know he’s coming.
He’s here.
He came for me.
“What was that?” Otto asks, putting down his beer, and Beardy dashes to the window. He leans against the wall next to it and peeps through the glass, as if he thinks he's a character in an action movie, but after a moment, he just spreads his arms. “I don’t see anyone.”
I don’t mean to laugh, but the chuckle still comes out of my lips. It seems the drugs fucked up my impulse control.
Oh well.
Otto looks back at me. “The fuck are you so happy about?”
I don’t even hold back my laughter anymore. “He’s here. My boyfriend is here, and you gave him the address. And now you’re all dead. You just don't know it yet.”
“Shut the fuck up!” Otto steps up to me and smacks me in the face so hard blood fills my mouth, but I can’t stop cackling even as it dribbles down my chin.
“You’re so fucking dumb! He’s gonna rip you into shreds and make ornaments out of your intestines.”
I don’t even know where those fantasies are coming from, but the moment I release them into the air, satisfaction blooms in my chest. Yes. That is exactly what I want. Their fucking bones and intestines decorating our mantelpiece at Christmas, gift stockings made out of their skin.
I’m sorry, Tamara, but your man chose the wrong crowd.