Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 149148 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 746(@200wpm)___ 597(@250wpm)___ 497(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149148 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 746(@200wpm)___ 597(@250wpm)___ 497(@300wpm)
Thud.
I landed awkwardly on my side. I checked myself for wounds and saw I had grazed my elbow. The tiny rip of skin started to bleed.
Money shot!
I lifted my camera and turned my elbow out even as I winced at the effort.
Click.
That should earn me another fifty.
I belatedly remembered the slap James gave me and, twisting my face to the side, I lifted my SLR in the air for several selfies. I hoped one of those got a good shot of the discoloration on my cheek. You wouldn’t believe how much money gore shots made me on the Internet. You just needed to find out where to sell them.
I checked my camera after. The shots were great. Like I said, I liked gashes. These little wounds got me my camera. One day, hopefully before my dad killed me, they could earn me my freedom.
IT WAS VERY EASY TO think the world was a piece of shit when you had a life like mine. My mom did her best to protect me from James. He hated me for not being the son he had always wanted. When she gave birth to me, Madeline told James he had a baby boy. Since he was drunk that time and the blanket I was bundled up in hid the fact that I didn’t have a weenie, James swallowed it.
By the time he realized he had been fooled, I was already home and Madeline threatened to kill herself if something happened to me. Since that meant there would be no one to look after him, James held off from killing me. But he made sure I paid for being a girl the moment I was old enough to understand his orders. By age seven, I was an expert pickpocket and by age ten, I could pretty much copy anyone’s signature. No surprise there since he told me he’d pull my nails out if he ever got caught for forgery.
But then Madeline died three years ago and everything changed.
I was scared he’d make me his personal punching bag, but that was apparently too easy. You could anticipate a punch, and you’d know which punches would kill you.
James wanted me terrified. He wanted me not knowing whether I’d live or die the next second. That was when the stunts started. We’d practice a few times a week and then make a presentation for his biker pals. He always earned a couple of hundreds from those stunts. Good for him. Even at the risk of having myself punched, I’d always remind James of how much money he’d make from the stunts, just so he’d be sober while doing it. I never asked for a share. I just wanted to live another day.
So yeah, life was pretty shitty. But I liked to pretend it wasn’t. Every time we finished with a stunt, I’d slip out of the house the first chance I got. Then I’d go around our equally shitty small town. I’d look for something pretty, something happy, or something good to take pictures of. Something to remind me that life wasn’t so shitty after all.
AN HOUR HAD PASSED before I heard it, a sound that I almost wanted to pretend I didn’t hear. Someone crying like he was about to die. I knew that sound. I used to cry like that, too.
I hurried towards the sound. Darkness surrounded me, but I had no problems finding my way. I knew every inch of my town and the empty land that surrounded it.
My heart beat faster even as I struggled not to make a noise. The crying sound came from the ghost town near our place, a 19th century sugar plantation that once belonged to a slave master. The slave quarters were gone now, but the dead spirits?
I crossed myself as I got nearer. Dear God. If this is the day I’m destined to see a ghost – please make it quick, too. So quick I wouldn’t even know I had seen one. That quick. I know you can do it. You’re GOD. And yes, God, I’m flattering you. It’s working, isn’t it?
I liked babbling to God in my mind. It kept me sane, especially in those seconds when I didn’t really know if I would live. When I talked to God, everything would be silent, so silent even the sound of a big badass bike flying an inch over my sadly high-bridged nose would be muted.
The man was crying more loudly now, more desperately. It was the only sound that penetrated the night’s stillness. I wondered absently if James had already woken from his drunken stupor. If he did, was he looking for me? If he realized I was gone, would he be so pissed we’d have to do another round of practice when I got back home?
The crying was even worse now. I quickened my steps, one hand on my camera, another on my pepper spray. If he died before I got to him, I could take a photo of his killer. If he was still alive, then I’d...try to save him. It was a funny thought that didn’t really make me laugh. But it was a joke. I couldn’t even save myself and yet here I was, contemplating saving another person’s life. What a joke.