Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 154525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 773(@200wpm)___ 618(@250wpm)___ 515(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 773(@200wpm)___ 618(@250wpm)___ 515(@300wpm)
Hell, she tried the meds. Not even that helped like running did.
“Where are Sassy and Stella?” she asked of her pets. A tiny mixed breed dog and a white Maine Coon that liked the outdoors more than the inside.
“Somewhere. I’m sure they’ll find you. The fruit will still be here,” Sissy said at Frankie’s retreating back, “after you run it out.”
That was their deal. A secret between them, too. Sissy wouldn’t count the minutes, or hours, that it took Frankie to come back. Frankie had to eat when it was all said and done, whether she wanted to or not.
•••
The nice thing about having what felt like unlimited property—it wasn’t—in her backyard meant she finally had space to breathe while her legs took her down gently rolling hills of manicured grass. She could be alone but didn’t feel alone the same way she did inside the massive house that echoed with emptiness.
Cobblestone pathways weaved throughout flower gardens that Sissy had taken to maintaining alongside the landscaper hired by her father. A few paths veered off into tree-covered canopies that gave the sense of more privacy. Various sitting areas allowed someone perusing the property to take a rest if needed in private sunrooms, under gazeboes with firepits, or on stone benches that faced small fishponds.
Someone else might get scared the darker it became with cloud cover hiding stars, and few lights on the property the further away from the main house that a person traveled. Not Frankie. The twelve-foot stone fence that encompassed the entire estate, including a guest home at the rear of the property, and the cameras and security meant no one would get in. Sometimes she wondered how much of their wealth got tied up in ensuring the safety of their lives, but it probably didn’t add up to a single drop in the bucket.
She rarely noticed the cameras or patrolling men, now. Once in a blue moon, Larkin, the man heading it all, visited Sal’s study.
Frankie didn’t run the back property to think about all that shit, though. She didn’t run it out to admire the time and work that went into the property she called home. She ran until her legs burned, lungs ached with panted breaths, and her stomach started to roll from every slam of her running shoes into the ground. She ran so that she didn’t have to think about it because the only thing on her mind became the mantra of another lap; just one more lap even when it hurt.
It was hard to think about the kinds of things that caused emotional pain when the physical overtook it all and purged what she couldn’t. Her father didn’t like that she did it.
All of five-foot-four-inches, and a hundred-fifteen pounds soaking wet, she didn’t need the exercise. She could easily run ten miles on the soccer field and then come home, scream it out with Sal or Carina about something or other, and double her distance before exhaustion found her sleeping somewhere other than her bed.
Her dad had a right to be concerned but he just didn’t get it. She could control the running, the anger...and all the rest. It felt like winning something even if her body paid the price when she finished. Lucky for her, in an ironically sad way, he wasn’t there to prevent the inevitable.
She ran until she puked. Nothing new to see here.
Everything swinging like a wrecking ball inside of Frankie came to a head at the farthest end of the property. A few feet away from the stone wall that separated the rear of the estate from the guest side, the cookies and cream didn’t taste nearly the same coming back out as it had going in. Maybe that was part of the punishment she forced upon herself, too.
The last bit of vomit fell to the ground, and she kept an unsteady hand on her bent knee while using the other to wipe away what remained of the proof as to what she’d done yet again. It took a bit longer before she could stumble the few steps needed to reach the nearby water hose set up along the pathway leading to the gate doors made of thick wood, and just as high as the stone fence, separating the rear of the guest property.
Frankie made quick work of washing away the evidence of her sins on the grass. The last bits of vomit and saliva disappeared into the darkness as an unfamiliar voice resounded from somewhere up above.
“Jesus Christ, are you okay?”
She spun around so fast, the surroundings blurred even after she’d come to a stop. Aiming the nozzle of the water hose in the direction of the new voice, it took her a moment to discern the sardonic chuckle coming from the figure overhead.
There he sat, back against a pillar, legs stretched out across the top of the stone fence, ankles hooked. A lit cigarette played between two fingers, and he flicked the ash in her direction, unbothered.