Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 90769 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90769 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Except I never could navigate in cities, with their artificial grid of streets that all look the same. On the way out of Seattle, I’d gotten lost in an industrial area and then, while I was stuck at a stoplight, Rufus had seen a stray cat and scrambled out of the window to chase after it. Even after searching for him all night, I hadn’t been able to find him. I’d been worried sick.
But thanks to Bethany, we’d been reunited. Now we could go home and we never needed to come to the city again.
A guy in a suit appeared from around the corner and strolled towards us. He did a double-take at my size. Then he looked me in the eyes and—
I don’t mean to glare. It just sort of happens. I don’t want to talk to people, don’t want to be around people. People, and society: roads and cars and schools and adverts, normal life...all that stuff just reminds me of what I am. Reminds me that I don’t belong in that normal, polite world anymore...and why.
The guy’s eyes went wide with fear and he looked away, then crossed the street. Most people did the same.
But not Bethany. She hadn’t been scared of me. Even when I’d tried to scare her away.
Maybe because, deep down, I hadn’t wanted to.
I pushed the thought away as we reached the borrowed pickup. I climbed in and Rufus leapt into the passenger seat and put his head out of the window. I threw it into gear and we sped off towards the interstate.
But as I sped past the city limits sign, I felt that pull again, stronger than ever. I glanced at the glittering skyscrapers in the rearview mirror. Bethany….
I crushed the feelings down inside.
Monsters belong in the woods.
I’d never see Bethany again.
3
Bethany
Six Months Later
“Bethany,” whispered Rachel, “Will you take this one?”
I looked across and saw her eyes shining with tears. I nodded quickly. And then, before I’d even had time to mentally brace, he was in my ear in crystal-clear clarity. Male, forties, East Coast. I could almost feel the spittle hitting my cheek. “You make this fucking thing work, NOW! I’m losing money, standing here, don’t you understand? What the fuck are you people doing? Answer me, you bitch!”
The others know that I’m good at calming people. So when they get a really angry call and they just can’t deal with it, they pass it to me. And that’s okay. I’d rather take the call than see Rachel reduced to tears by the guy.
But it means that I spend my day as a verbal punching bag. And there’s only so many times you can be told you’re worthless before it begins to soak into your psyche, like rain leaching into concrete and weakening it. Weirdly, it wouldn’t be so bad if we were face-to-face with the customers. Then they’d have to look us in the eye as they yell and most people aren’t that brave. But when we’re just an anonymous voice at the end of the phone, they get to take all their frustrations out on us: their cheating wife, their money problems, their sports team losing.
And we can’t answer back. We can’t get mad. The callers hold our jobs in their hands because if our average customer satisfaction rating drops too low, we’re fired. So when they yell at us, or tell us they hope we die, or heavy-breathe and ask us what sort of panties we have on, we count to three and ask, “Is there anything else I can help you with, today?”
This is my life, for twelve hours each day. Two two minute bathroom breaks. A fifteen-minute lunch break. If you’re late back it’s a warning. A second offense and you’re fired. If I pull a double shift, it’s twenty-four hours straight. Sometimes, I stumble out into the parking lot and I’m not sure if it’s 8 am or 8 pm.
After ten minutes of soaking up his rage, I finally managed to get the caller to calm down enough to reset his system: a five-second process. As soon as it booted back up, he hung up on me. I let out a sigh of exhaustion and put my forehead in my hands. Ten seconds. I’d give myself ten seconds before I answered another call.
And I knew just how I wanted to spend those ten seconds. I inhaled slowly, imagining I could still smell the clean, outdoor scent of him. Six months on, I still couldn’t get Cal out of my mind. He was so different from any man I’d ever met. Wild, like a white-water river, ready to suck you in and carry you off, or a mountain so huge and steep it’s said to be unscalable, its peak disappearing into the clouds. That voice, the words heavy and solid as rocks, their edges rough and unpolished. But with that glorious country warmth, like the sun had been soaking into the stone all day and all you wanted to do was press up against them.