Blood to Dust
Whatever wicked plans he has, I’m sure my spilled blood will be a part of them. I’m a pawn, a soldier, a slave at his mercy. If I don’t comply, he’ll unleash the Aryan Brotherhood and let them feast on me alive.
For now, I obey, bow down and submit to living under the same roof as Irvin the tattooist. As I wait for my fate to be sealed, I know one thing for sure—whatever mess I landed myself in, in prison, it’s about to get a whole lot messier in the real world.
Nate hasn’t come down in three days, and fear’s most loyal companion, panic, oozes into me. Getting into Irv’s good graces is a task that’s as equally impossible as sneezing with eyes wide open. Scientifically, it’s bound to fail. He is about as compassionate as a brick wall and holds the exact same amount of brain cells.
Godfrey was right. Time is precious. Yet, I spend my days doing nothing. I’ve already read Dreams from Bunker Hill a thousand times. My stress ball is all torn, most of it scattered on the floor like sad snowflakes. I have no fingernails left, they’ve all snapped out of my skin during my attempts to try and peel off the wood on the boarded windows.
My future depends on Nate’s goodwill, and even if under the rough interior and cheap ink hides a compassionate soul, he is a man first. A man who proved to be just like the others. He took, then he left.
If Nate won’t come to his senses, I will lose mine. What will happen then? I’ll attack Irvin with my bare hands and try to make a run for it.
I could get killed.
But at least it won’t be them who kill me.
“Come on, Nate. Come back to me,” I murmur as I hug my knees to my chest.
No, he is not like those men who took. Because he also gives.
Nate gave me the one thing I almost forgot how to feel.
He gave me hope.
Turn around and walk away.
That’s what I’ve been telling myself for the past ten minutes. I’m standing in the middle of Draeger’s, a preppy, uppity, expensive-as-f*ck supermarket in Blackhawk Plaza. I’ve been here twice before. Mrs. Hathaway sent me to buy her groceries while she was hiding at home after a neck-lifting surgery, and both times, I wanted to crawl out of my body and run for my life, leaving a crust of epidermis on the floor, like a snake who molted its own skin.
I stand out here like a good idea in congress.
I’m surprised I haven’t been arrested merely for walking in here yet.
Towering at least ten inches above everyone else, my full sleeve of black, morbid ink sticks out of my black tank top just as much as my unconventional haircut and muddy leather boots. Everybody around me is wearing pastel cardigans and sharp suits. There’s even an elderly man with suspenders and a bowtie.
But I don’t need to make friends with these *s. I just need to use the ATM here, withdraw some money, go back home, give Prescott a ride and take off.
No. I can withdraw money somewhere else. Doesn’t have to be here, where I’m looked at like a circus freak.
I turn around and walk toward the automatic doors, my legs trying to buckle under the strain of working under the sun all day in Mrs. H’s garden.
My foot already touching the sidewalk, I hear the old man with the suspenders behind me, saying, “Why, look who it is! Howard Burlington-Smyth. Haven’t seen you here in a while.”
I spin back on instinct. I see the * approaching Bowtie gingerly, a small green basket tucked under his arm, looking sheepishly in all directions.
Hate. It froths within me, consuming every cell in my body. I hate him so much, it takes me long seconds to register what he looks like through the mist of disgust.
Howard Burlington-Smyth looks nothing like his daughter. She has blonde hair, pouty lips and a curvy body that was designed to be played with. Her father, on the other hand, is tall, fat and has dark brown hair, speckled with patches of silver.
I look down to his basket and see a simple loaf of bread, butter and some canned food. Then I remember what Mrs. Hathaway told me about him. Broke. Pea’s family is considered virtually penniless in these parts.
“How’ve you been?” Bowtie asks my captive’s father. But Howard continues wiping his sweaty forehead, looking left and right. His shapeless figure is clad in a cheap suite. He looks like a waiter at Olive Garden who just pissed into someone’s dish and is afraid to get caught. What the f*ck is he so scared about? Maybe he senses the presence of someone who’d gladly nail his head to one of the decorative spikes in his iron gate.
“It’s going great.” Howard clears his throat. “My wife and I are looking into buying somewhere in the Hamptons. Get away from all the hustle and bustle around here.”
Liar. Prescott’s mom’s gone.
“Is that right? But aren’t your kids living around here?”
I watch Howard, maybe too intently. He waves his hand, his face plastered with an insincere grin.
“Preston is studying in Boston. . .”
Preston is f*cking missing.
“And Prescott. . .well, God knows where that wild-child is these days. She never picks up the phone, you know. Kids.”
This much is true. God does know where she is. But in about an hour and a half, he’ll have no f*cking clue.
A shot of fury runs from my throat down my arm, making my fist choke the wallet in my hand.
“She has always been a bit of a free spirit. Shame about her,” Bowtie tsks. Fuck you, old man.