“Jack” – short story pt. 2

author, bullying, character, characters, fiction, life, new, Short story, Uncategorized, Writing

Dad moved us into a cramped studio apartment on the fifth floor of the Cedar Dove apartment complex when he accepted his newest job opportunity. We’d made the drive, only two states over, packing our measly belongings into three suitcases before hitting the road. But that’s how we lived, out of suitcases, never putting down roots. Dad’s a rep for a pharmaceutical company. He trains hospital staff about new drugs and once he’s done, he’s stationed at a new hospital. He loves it, he calls our life an adventure. People must be jealous of all the places we’ve been, all the things we’ve seen, he’d tell me.
He comes home to find me sprawled on the couch that came with the apartment, flipping through channels on the small t.v. I watch his hands, he holds a small array of post cards. He’s always done this, collecting a post card from each place we visit and tucking it neatly in a small scrapbook. It’s always seemed like some sort of bread crumb trail to me. If we ever go missing, people will know the last place we were. I turn my attention glumly back to the t.v.
I hear the sound papers make when they brush together and know he’s flipping through the cards, picking the right one worthy enough for the scrapbook.
“How’d school go today?” Dad asks.
I shrug, though the movement is hidden by my loose fitting hoodie. “Fine.”
“Your tone says otherwise.” He sets the cards on the table near the door and crosses the room, taking a seat next to me. “Are you having trouble again?”
I chuckle at his phrasing, trouble. “Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”
Dad clasps his hands together in his lap. “I could make a call…”
I sit up quickly. “Don’t do that, please. I’m fine.” His expression is unappeased, so I continue. “We’ll be gone in a few weeks anyway.”
The concern flickering in his eyes fades before he nods his head. “Alright, then.”
“I’m gunna hit the hay, early day tomorrow,” I say, retreating hastily from the room.
He watches me go, closing my bedroom door and even then I still feel him staring. I pull a bottle off my dresser and shake a couple of pills into my palm before swallowing them down dry. The only good thing about my dad’s job is I get great drugs.
I’m out like a light in two minutes flat.
-Collins

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“Jack” – short story pt. 1

Blog, bullying, characters, fiction, life, Short story, writing

It had taken the footballers of Cedar High School just half a week to discover the new kid and about fifteen minutes to make him feel welcome. Unfortunately by welcome I mean upend in the nearest dumpster. Did I mention the new kid is me?
Dumpsters smell like sour milk and mothballs and battery acid. The smell mingles in your mouth and stays there, especially when it’s constantly reintroduced. The only way I’ve found to get rid of it is cigarettes. The taste of dirt does wonders.
To say that bullies’ tactics are cliché would be an understatement. At this point, I would find it refreshing for some dumb jock to steal my gym clothes or give me a swirly. But no. Dumpsters are all I get.
It’s usually the footballers who like to upend me, but depending on the school, it could be the lacrosse team, or the basketball team, even the theater kids. I’ll admit, that one was a surprise, but at a school for performing arts, someone’s got to be on top.
I find myself leaning against the cool stone façade of my current high school, popping a cigarette between my lips and lighting it. I blow the smoke out through my nostrils and shrug my satchel into a more comfortable position across my shoulder.
A group of footballers sashay across the front lawn, several of them looking familiar. Sniveling idiots with leather on their shoulders and rocks in their heads. They cast me wry glances before turning toe in my direction. Luckily, the first bell rings and they decide against whatever they were going to do, chuckling as they head inside.
I can’t help the eye roll that happens as I take one last puff and crush the butt beneath my shoe.
Week two has given me enough time to memorize my schedule, my teachers’ names, and my locker combination. I haven’t bothered to make any friends, there’s no point. I spend lunch roaming the hallways, turkey sandwich in hand. A display case catches my eye and I notice it celebrates the Cedar Baron’s winning streak. The football team’s trophies and awards dazzle under the small fluorescent lights above, but those aren’t what concern me. Mounted in the middle of the showcase is a team photo. The name plate beneath gives away my tormenters’ names. Tad Drake, quarterback, Dillion Powell, receiver, Franklin Weal, Line man. I narrow my eyes at Tad Drake’s glowing face in the photo.
A girl trips over my foot and curses at me as she hurries down the hall. I don’t even have time to apologize as she’s fifteen feet away by the time I register what happened. The bell rings and I throw the remaining half of my sandwich into the nearest trashcan before heading to science class.  
The remainder of the day goes by without incident. Kids swarm the hallways, slamming lockers and buzzing about homework. I shove textbooks into my satchel and retreat from the building, using the chaos as my own cloak of invisibility from Tad and company. Feeling safe only when I’ve slid into a seat on the bus, I let out a sigh and turn my head to the window.
-Collins

Autobiography

creative, death, excerpt, Life, messed, self portrait, Short story, words to live by, writers, writing

Fence post. Barbed Wire. Fence post. Barbed wire.
Flashes, flashes, and more flashes. Nothing concrete but those two images. Blurring together, creating an old fashioned movie reel playing through my head.
Nothing-ness. Blackness, utter confusion.
Are those…what happened?
I bring my hand up to my face, my eyes barely able to focus. Blood is dripping down my arm, bright crimson against alabaster.
I look down. Slices. Slices upon more slices.Tattered fabric, tattered skin. The stark white of the dermis. I loved this shirt. This shirt held good memories…now it’s gone. Like the piece of flesh I left on the wire.
Wait…I wasn’t alone. I’m not alone. Where is she?
“ARE YOU OKAY?” I scream out, finding the huddled figure of my friend.
“Ow…errrg…I’m okay!”
Tunnel vision. Am I under water? I think I need a hospital.
Frantic eyes, darting every which way. How will I get out of here? Help…I need help.
“Help!” I scream out, praying the only other person in these acres of land can hear me. “Help, please!”
After what seems like ages, and more inspection of my battered body…they show up.
“Jesus, what the hell happened?”
I try to recall. I was driving the machine…up and up and up the hill. Turn, a sharp turn. I took the turn wrong? Giant rock, avoidance. Fence post. Barbed wire. Fence Post. Barbed Wire.
What happened? What the fuck happened? Am I dreaming? I have to be dreaming because I can see my own body jumping off the faulty equiptment and getting tangled in the thorny wires. Did I? I shake my head, clearing the memory, vision.
“Let’s get you guys out of here. I can take you home.”
Home…”Home? We need a hospital. I’m bleeding and I’m cold.”
They shake their head. “You’re right. Let’s go.”
I’m attempting to walk, but the ground is spinning.
This is the moment, I think. This is the moment that will impact every other moment from here until forever.
It did. It still does.

-Turner

“Jump” part 2

Blog, Short story, Uncategorized, writing

PART 2
– CASSIDY-
The hotel looks different in the daylight. Of course, that might also be because I get to see it from the street, not the roof. For some reason I still expected police to be here, considering they would have found Torres’ body last night, but there’s not an officer in sight.
Lionel and I walk around the side of the hotel to where the fire escape is. It turns out the blackness below it yesterday is the employee parking lot. Various shiny black and silver cars are lined up along the building. A couple of city dumpsters are huddled below the fire escape. Lionel looks to me dryly.
“So, are you going to check the dumpsters or am I?”
“I’m not dumpster diving for a secret book that you won’t tell me anything about.”
“I’ll take that as a no,” Lionel says, striding to the dumpster and hoping up swiftly, using the side as leverage to propel himself up and over.
I stare at him for minute. His white blonde hair drifts around his face like dandelions in the breeze. He’s the one that got us into this mess. I don’t know why I’m still helping him. Some small part of me hopes I can be the one to find the book, that way I can peek inside and see what the big secret is.
I leave Lionel to rummage through garbage and search through the shrubbery skirting the hotel. I crouch in the grass and survey beneath the bushes, pushing branches out of the way. Nothing. I walk a few feet down and try again. Still nothing. I check the whole perimeter and frown. Nothing.
Lionel is jumping down from the dumpster as I return. “Any luck?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. Maybe it landed on a lower level of the fire escape?”
“That’s possible. I guess we’ll have to check. Here stand on my back, you’ll have to jump to bring the ladder back down.”
“Okay.”
Lionel bends over so I can step up. Just then, voices sound nearby. The back door to the hotel begins to open.
“Quick,” Lionel grabs my sleeve and we scurry to crouch behind the nearest car. He peers through the windshield and his eyebrows knot together.
“Who is it?” I whisper.
“My buddy, Ashley and some other guy. He’s got Torres’ suitcases and he’s loading them into a car. What the hell is he doing?” Lionel wonders.
“Wouldn’t the police that those as evidence?”
“They should.”
“Can you hear what they’re saying?” I ask, craning my neck to get a look. Lionel pushes me back down gently by the shoulder.
“No, but I bet it’s fishy.” His gaze remains locked on his friend.
Something flashes under the car in the spot next to us. Beside the back wheel, the black book glints in the sun. You’ve got to be kidding me. Lionel remains oblivious, I can’t let him get the book just yet. I pull my ring off and drop it on the pavement.
A moment later Ashely and the guy head back inside the hotel.
We stand and Lionel looks pissed.
“Do you think we should come back later?”
“They probably won’t be coming back out for a while. Let’s check the fire escape.”
We start to head towards the escape when I pretend to realize I lost my ring.
“Oh shoot! I dropped my ring,” I say holding up my hand. “It’s probably by the car. I’ll be right back.”
Lionel tells me to hurry as I rush back to the car. I pretend to look around until I find the ring beside the book. I tuck the book into the waist of my jeans quickly, pulling my jacket down over it. Then I grab the ring and jog back over, slipping it onto my finger.
“Got it.”
He looks bored and motions for me get on his back. After a couple of attempts, I finally reach the ladder. I hang from it for a few seconds as Lionel grabs my legs and pulls. The ladder slides down and I land lightly.
Fifteen minutes later, after an unsuccessful search, Lionel huffs and calls off the dogs.
“I have no idea where that book could be. Maybe Ashley found it? He’s clearly being shady.”
I nod. “That’s possible.”
“I might have to pay him a visit.”
“Do you want me to tag along?”
Lionel shakes his head, starting down the ladder. “No, I don’t want him seeing you.”
“Alright. We’ll I’ll head home then?”
Lionel lands with a thud on the grass. “That would be best. I’ll meet up with you later.”
I follow down after him. My sneakers slips off the last rung and I let out a yelp. Lionel reaches up to steady my legs. I jump down. “Thanks.”
He grins. “Later.”
I watch as he disappears around the corner before touching the book through my jacket. When I get home I’ll finally be able to see what the secret is.
 
-Collins

“Jump” part 1

Blog, Short story, Uncategorized, writing


-Cassidy-

I go over the plan in my head over and over again. It’s simple, run, jump, roll, and hide. That was as far and Lionel had explained before giving me a hard look and disappearing into the shadows. I grip the ledge of the roof tightly until my fingertips go numb as I glare at the gap between this building and the next one. It’s got to be at least an eight foot jump.

It’s simple.
I call Lionel every name I can think of under my breath as I back up from the ledge. It might be simple if I had any sort of practice with parkour or something. Hell, I did gymnastics when I was 6 and I got vertigo just standing on the balance beam. Lionel does this sort of thing all the time, he’s trained for it, but it’s ridiculous to think I can.
A quick whistle sounds from the other roof and I can make out Lionel’s waving hand. Show off.
I pace back a few more feet and rub my palms against my jeans. My heart races in my chest. I’ve got to be crazy to even think I can do this. I begin to regret my decision to help Lionel out.
A metallic clang sounds nearby and a half dozen men swarm out the roof entrance. They start shouting at me but I’m off before they get near me. My shoes slap off the cement and I pump my arms. The edge of the roof is coming up fast. The shouts get closer but I push harder. One last step on the ledge and I spring up and over. The alley below passes by in slow motion.
Everything speeds up again as the ledge of the neighbouring building rushes towards me. I realize I’m too low, I didn’t get enough height. I let out a scream as I reach out and collide with the brick. My hands clamp around the roof’s ledge. I dangle twenty stories above the ground.
My feet kick wildly, searching for a grove in the bricks, a window sill, something. The shouts behind me have quieted. Those guys on the other roof are waiting to see if I’m going to go splat.
My grip is slipping, the sweat on my hands making it hard to hold on. I jerk suddenly to the side as my grip fails and I hang by one hand, a yelp escaping my lips. The muscles in my arm are burning, I can’t hold on much longer. My fingers rake across the ledge as I fall.
Hands shoot down and wrap around my wrist before I even have time to register that I’m not plummeting to my death. A few grunts and I’m pulled over the ledge and onto the roof. I take raspy breaths.
“What part of roll and hide didn’t you get?”
I cast Lionel a dirty look. “Oh shut up.”
He grins before twisting to look over the ledge. The men are milling, their eyes fixed on where I disappeared. They probably can’t see us, it’s too dark.
“Who are they?”
I shrug. “Security maybe? People aren’t supposed to be on the roof.”
I can tell he isn’t entirely convinced, but he lets it go for now.
“Come on, we still have to figure out which room Torres is staying in.” He grabs my hand and we crouch down as we jog over to the fire escape on the opposite side of the building.
“My buddy said he was staying in one of the rooms accessible from the fire escape.”
“Well that’s vague.”
“It’s better than nothing.”
I let out a breath as Lionel creeps down the escape.
“You coming?” he asks, squinting up at me. His eyes flash in the light emanating from the hotel room window beside him.
“Why did I need to jump? Couldn’t we just have used this fire escape from the beginning?”
“Well yes, but I needed to make sure you were committed.”
“Committed?”
“Good news, you are.”
My eyebrows draw together. “I could have died.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. I knew you could make it.”
“But I didn’t. I almost became Cassidy the pancake.”
“Oh, right.” Lionel’s quiet for a moment. “Anyway, the fact remains you didn’t die. So let’s get a move on and do what we came to do.”
I follow sullenly behind him as we descend stair after stair pausing at each window to look for Torres. After six windows we finally find him. I make a mental note that he’s on the 24th floor. “What now?”
“Shhh!” Lionel says, using his arm to press me against the wall beside him. Slowly he peeks around the sill to get a better look. “He’s reading a script or something,” he whispers. “He’s pacing back and forth. Looks like he’s alone.”
“Now what?”
“We have to get him to leave the room long enough to get what we came for.”
“How do we do that?”
“Leave that to me.”
I watch as Lionel fishes his phone from his pocket. He dials a number and holds the phone to his ear. After a couple of rings someone picks up.
“Yes, this is Dal Torres’ publicist. Could you please put me through to his room?” A few seconds pass. When he speaks again his voice shifts down a few octaves. “Mr. Torres? This is the front desk. There was an accident in the parking lot. Your car has been damaged. If you would please be so kind as to come down to the lobby so we can sort out the situation?” Torres’ response is loud enough I can hear it through the window as well as the phone. He’s not happy. He hangs up quickly and leaves his room. The slam of the door is audible. Lionel shoves his phone back into his pocket, smirking as he does so. “That should give us about ten minutes. Let’s move.”
I walk forward, peering into the room, my fingers cupped against the glass. “How do we get in?”
Lionel chuckles. “The window.” I watch as he crouches down and works the blade of a pocket knife between the sill and the pane, working to unlatch the lock. After a few seconds of shimming the blade, the window creaks up a fraction. “Bingo,” he says as he pushes the window up.
“Do you want me to be a look out or…?”
“Cass, there’s literally nothing to look out for on this fire escape. Come on,” he says, taking my hand and pulling me though the opening after him.
Torre’s room is warm, with a single lamp on near the bed. A couple of suitcases sit near the foot of the bed, and it’s there that Lionel heads.
I know I agreed to help but I’m having second thoughts. The act of breaking into someone’s room and stealing from them feels different in practice than in theory. I rub my arms and stride a few feet across the room. On the small desk there’s a script, tossed haphazardly there when Torres left. I go to pick it up, curious to see what it’s for, when Lionel’s voice sounds behind me.
“Don’t touch anything. Fingerprints, remember?”
I draw my hand back. “But you’re rummaging through his suitcase.”
Lionel lets out a laugh. “He’s going to know it was me, there’s no point in hiding it.”
A minute passes. Lionel searches through the second suitcase.
“He could come back… we should hurry.” I edge closer to look over Lionel’s shoulder. “What are you looking for anyway?”
“Got it,” he exclaims, pulling a small black book the size of his hand from the suitcase. He stands, tucking the book inside the breast pocket of his bomber jacket. “Easy. I told ya. Let’s get out of here.”
We’re turning to the window when the door to the room opens and Torres stands in the hallway. His dark hair is a wild mess down to his shoulders, a bandana tied above his brow. His eyes are dark and narrow, his lips pulled back over his teeth.
“Lionel.”
My mouth falls open. We’re screwed.
Lionel pushes my shoulders roughly. “Quick! Out the window!”
I run to the window, pulling myself through the opening, Lionel following behind. A howl rips from Torres’ throat as he streaks across the room and grips the back of Lionel’s jacket, jerking him backwards. He staggers towards the bed and trips over one of the open suitcases. Torres advances on him.
“Lionel!” I shout.
“Run, get away from here!” He demands as he regains his balance and pulls the switchblade from his pocket. I want to, I’m scared, but I’m paralyzed. I can’t leave him.
“You little punk,” Torres says, “You think you can steal from Dal Torres and get away with it?”
A cocky grin spreads over Lionel’s face. “Well I just did, and I’m pretty confident I will.”
Torres doesn’t like that and steps forward. “Give me the book back and maybe I’ll let you walk out of here.”
“No.”
“Little prick.” Torres launches himself at Lionel, striking out with a series of punches. Lionel dodges most of them, but one hits him in the jaw and he falls onto the bed. Torres is on him in an instant, he kicks out, his boot connecting with the lamp. It goes crashing to the floor, sending the room into blackness.
I can’t see them. I only hear grunts and cursing. What do I do? I should run, do like Lionel said, but I still can’t force myself to move. After a minute the room goes silent.
“Lionel?” I squeak.
A second later a figure emerges from the black, its hands gripping the sill. I jump back, afraid it’s Torres, but instead, Lionel appears. He shuts the window and turns to face me. His face is clouded.
I bite my lip hesitantly. “What happened?”
Lionel shrugs. “Torres won’t be making any more movies.”
“Did you… did you kill him? With that switchblade?” My voice rises. “Oh my god, you killed Torres!”
Lionel steps forward, gripping my arms. “It was either that or get killed. You heard him.”
I shake my head. “I didn’t agree to this.”
“You didn’t do anything. Your conscience is clear.”
I step back, my sneakers grating against the metal of the fire escape. “It doesn’t work that way.” Anger seeps through me, washing away my disbelief. “What was so important you killed for it, huh?” I reach into Lionel’s jacket and pull the book out. “What is this?”
Lionel tries to grab the book but I hold it up and away from me.
“Be careful with that,” he says.
“Answer my question. What is it? I swear I’ll drop it over this railing. Who knows where it’ll land down there.”
“I can’t tell you. Now give it back.”
I hold the book further over the railing. “Tell me!”
Lionel ignores my question and reaches over me, trying to grab the book. My back presses into the railing. “Stop playing around, Cass.”
A siren sounds below us and it startles me. The book falls from my hand and drops down into the darkness below.
“No! Dammit!” Lionel growls, pounding his fist off the railing.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to drop it.”
Lionel rolls his eyes and lets out a slow breath. “I know.” He steps past me and starts down the stairs. “Let’s go. That siren meant someone called the cops. They must have heard the scuffle. We’ll come back tomorrow and find the book.”
I nod and follow after him.
 
-Collins

Jacob makes a choice

Blog, character, Short story, writing

Newest installment in the Jacob series. Read with caution as this is slightly  graphic.

-Turner
I see him before he sees me.

Little does he know I’m gunning straight for him. With my car. I know the moment Angel sees me, her eyes widening and glancing back at her would be stalker. As much as I want to ram this bastard with tons of steel, I’d rather get up close and personal. I slam on the brakes, putting it into park and heading straight for him, not bothering to turn off the car or close my door.

“Hey, you!” I yell at the stalker behind her. He stops in his tracks. His hands are twitching, pupils dilated. His hair is long and greasy, and the stench coming off him is atrocious.

“Angel…get in the car.” I say, not taking my eyes off the tweaker that dared follow my girl.

I can tell her body is tense, her arms wrapped around her waist, she does as I say, going to the passenger side and slamming the door.

“Hey man…I meant no harm, I’m just walking here.” The stalker says, his eyes flicking back over to Angel.

Oh no, he isn’t getting away with this. I slide my hand into the holster behind my back, hidden by my black sweatshirt. I grip the handle, releasing my breath on a sigh. I pull the serrated steel out of it’s resting place, and into it’s home. My palm.

His breathing accelerates when he sees my baby glinting in the moonlight.

I know I shouldn’t be doing this in an open area, with Angel just a few feet away. But I’m not sure I can contain my monster, not today. Not now.

I can tell this guy is about to run, his foot is tapping, turning to the right. He may just be some drug addict hoping to rob a young woman for another hit, but I can’t let this scum go. Not alive.

Just as I predicted, he bolts for it. Unfortunately for him, I’m faster. My blade flies from my hand, with no effort on my part at all. It sticks him in the side. He falls to the ground, howling in pain. My baby sticking out of his ribs. I know Angel just witnessed me in action, the real me. But I could care less at this moment. I know she won’t run.

Blood is pouring out of my latest victim, in an open street no less. There will be no clean up this time. No disposing of his body.

“Please…pl…I didn’t…I just…I wasn’t gonna hurt her!” He pleads. Oh, yes, the pleading. I only took a victim an hour ago and here I am relishing in my favorite pastime again. This time feels different though, better. Almost like the first time. Protecting Angel always gave me this feeling.

I ungraciously pull my blade out of his prone body. “Tell me…why should I not gut you like the pig you are right here, right now?”

His eyes go wide as saucers. “I’m an addict man…I got a problem. I wasn’t gonna hurt her. I just needed some cash…I promise you! I PROMISE! Don’t kill me, please. I got a kid.”

Like that would change my mind. I drag the bloody edge of my weapon along this throat, down to his collarbones. Playing, teasing.

“That woman over there…” I use my blade to point at Angel, not meeting her gaze though, “that is my woman. Do you understand me? And you had the audacity to mess with her. To scare her. That is an unforgivable thing.”

He nods vigorously. “I won’t do it again, I’ll do anything…it’s…just let me go.”

I chuckle. It’s time to end this. He isn’t getting out of this alive. I’m too far gone for that. I can tell the moment he realizes what I mean to do, the light drains from his eyes, his grip on his wound loosens. I bring my blade up to his throat, pressing in, I’m about to sever his life from his body when an angelic voice sounds behind me.

“Don’t Jacob.”

I don’t turn, I keep my knife on his jugular, but lessen my pressure.

“Please…don’t make me witness anymore…let him go.”

My heart constricts in my chest. I want to make her happy, but I want to end this guy more. I need to kill this scum.

“Look at me!” She pleads, her voice breaking. I can’t help myself, I turn. Taking in her tear streaked cheeks and red eyes. “Let’s just go, please, Jacob…let’s go home.”

Home…she said home. With me? She wants to go home with me…It plays on my head on a loop. I can’t break her gaze.

But the monster is louder, beating inside me for release. I can’t deny it…my monster takes over.

I end the stalkers life, and shatter my Angel.

Prompted

author, canada, characters, controversial, creative, fiction, new, Short story, truth, Uncategorized

Hey, happy belated birthday to our blog, how exciting is that? Again, I’m late on the draw. But I will have you know I did a happy dance on the day.

So, just a few hours ago I asked a trusted friend for a writing prompt, help me get the juices flowing and all that, ya know? She gave me this:

“Explore the relationship between two people who are married or marrying but not for love.”

So I immediately put pen to paper…or fingers to keys, you get the drift. This is what came out. A little rough, but it felt good to be creative again! What do you guys think about writing prompts? I personally love them for times of writers block or to combat boredom. Let me know and enjoy.

-Turner

 

My future husband was as unfamiliar to me as a stranger on the street would be.
I didn’t know his likes, or dislikes. I didn’t know if he had a good childhood or about his college experiences. I’d never heard his voice nor felt his touch.
I did know that he was forty-seven, to my eighteen. I knew that his hair was only starting to turn gray. I did know that he was six feet one inch. He didn’t have any children and he had been married once previously, before she divorced him for a much younger man. I knew that he had at least fifty thousand dollars in his bank, seeing as that was how much it cost to buy my hand. But that was all his profile said. He wasn’t an unattractive man, which just confused me more. Why would a handsome, rich man need to utilize our services?
Not that I would complain, Andrew Marshall was rescuing me from my bleak existence in eastern Europe. In turn, he would be saving my little brother from a life of crime, and my mother from the tragedy of that. Not that she agreed with my choice, but she wasn’t against it anymore. Not once I pointed out all the things that would be better for it.
I on the other hand, was terrified. I’d never left my small home. I spoke English, but not very well. I was also a virgin, I’d never been in love. As a young girl I always hoped that a young, handsome man would ride up on his white horse and save me from my life. But that didn’t happen. Instead, my Papa had a heart attack, leaving my mother with a mountain of debt and a delinquent little brother who was lashing out. I had to do something. My friend Jasmine had done this exact same process and was now living in Los Angeles, she told me all about it. How much she enjoyed her older man and the life he could provide for her in America.
It was as if all the answers to my problems suddenly appeared in front of me, I didn’t hesitate. I set up a profile, using the same formula Jasmine did only a year before and within three months, I had an interested bidder. The company I signed up through takes a percentage of the price my suitor is required to pay. The rest goes to my family. After that, he purchases me a plane ticket and applies for all legal permits before I am whisked away from my home, bought, signed, and done. Within a few weeks, I will become Mrs. Tatianna Marshall.
Who she is, or who she will be…is a mystery to me.
I only hope she is someone her Papa would be proud of.
That’s the only thing I have to hold onto.
I’m about to be thrown to the wolves, god help me.