Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
A scratching sound at the window gives me a jolt. My spine jumps. I’m jarred awake just before my forehead meets the keyboard.
Feeling under my desk I wrap my fingers around the knife taped underneath.
A shadow crosses the window and I pull my hand away from the blade and blow out a breath.
It’s only Izzy, the fat white cat who visits me on a regular basis. She’s preening on the other side of the high basement window, her collar scratching against the glass. I don’t know who owns her. I only know her name is Izzy because it’s written in large lettering on her pink sparkling name tag adorning her equally pink and sparkling collar.
It’s just a fucking cat, Frankie.
I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. My eyelids feel as if they are being weighed down by padlocks. I shake off the tired and the sudden panic and turn back to my work.
The lack of Z’s isn’t ideal, but so far, it’s paid off. My latest project is worth every minute of sleeplessness and then some. If I were the bragging sort I’d call up everyone in my life and tell them about how I single-handedly…well, I guess it doesn’t really matter because I can’t tell anyone.
Plus, there’s the little fact that I don’t have anyone to tell.
“Izzy,” I shout to the cat’s shadow. “I’m doing a good thing. A really good thing.” The fat cat darts away from the window with an exaggerated leap, most likely startled by a lizard in the grass. “Dick.”
Great. Not only am I talking to a cat I don’t even own, I’m offended by the fur-ball.
I spend way too much time alone.
Today and yesterday have blended together. I’m not sure where one started and the other ended. The basement has such little light sometimes it’s hard to tell if it’s day or night.
My phone buzzes on my lap, and I jump like I’ve been kicked in the spine, knocking over a stack of paper coffee cups. “Fuck,” I swear, looking down at the phone now laying on the ground with a crack across the screen. It’s only the alarm.
I’m getting jumpier by the day, but it’s not without reason. My work has come with a sacrifice of sorts. I’ve pissed off a lot of people. The kind most sane people wouldn’t dare piss off. I’ve taken precautions but there might come a day when those precautions aren’t enough.
Maybe one day I’ll be finished with my work. Finished looking over my shoulder. Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll even stave off that heart attack threatening to take me under with every startled jump and jolt—well before I’ve hit the quarter century mark.
Probably not.
I pick my phone up off the floor and swipe my thumb across the screen to kill the alarm. The time can’t be right. Has it really been eight hours since I’ve so much as moved from my chair?
I push back the chair and stand, rolling my shoulders and neck. My back lets out a series of popping cracks that feel a lot better than they sound. My spine protests the shift in position, but I keep stretching, knowing the more I move the better it will feel. I bend at the waist and reach for the floor with my arms straight and my fingers out-stretched. Slowly I straighten, raising my arms, pointing my fingers toward the ceiling. I remain this way until my bones feel like they’ve shifted back to more of a normal position and aren’t all crunched together somewhere in my lower back. A tingling feeling of relief buzzes through my aching muscles.
My legs are buzzing with that pins-and-needles feeling. I make sure to use the handrail as I ascend the stairs so I don’t go flying backward since I can’t feel my feet. The torturous static feeling thankfully lets up by the time I’ve reached the door at the top.
I cross through the living room and head for the kitchen. On the way, I stop in the hallway. I kiss the tips of my fingers and reach up to press them against the only picture hanging in the house. A picture of my mother. “Hey Mama,” I say, smiling up at her. She had the same long dark hair as I do and the same unique yellow/orange eyes. The picture was taken around the time she died, when I was just a toddler. “I hope I’m making you proud, wherever you are.”
My stomach growls, reminding me of where I was heading and I pad into the kitchen. When was the last time I’d eaten? Breakfast? Dinner last night? No, it was definitely breakfast. Breakfast yesterday. My stomach growls, louder this time.
“Yeah, yeah. I hear ya,” I mutter.
The contents of the refrigerator are…well, there aren’t any contents. Unless Google can show me how to make a meal from a half jar of pickles, two slices of cheese, and a six-pack of beer.