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“I hate her. I hate her,” Zena said.
I hate you, too.
“Just three more years,” he said, his thrusts quickening in pace.
Three more years of this. I can’t.
“What if she goes to jail or something? What happens to me?” Zena asked.
Jail?
Fear flooded Desdemona. What lengths was Zena willing to go to keep the money without being bothered with caring for her stepchild?
“The stipend would be put on hold.”
Desdemona felt relief. Zena would not want that money to stop, not even to get rid of her. That she knew.
“And if she dies?”
That caused her heart to stop.
Would she? She wouldn’t. Right?
It didn’t matter.
She already killed my soul.
A tear rose and fell down her cheek. She didn’t bother to wipe it away as she turned. “I can’t do this no more,” she mouthed.
Being sure to avoid the squeaking floorboard, she walked to her room and quickly packed a bag. There wasn’t much to take that was meant for a teenager, but she was sure to jam her journals in with her things. With one last look back at the room, Desdemona closed the door and hitched her backpack up onto her shoulders.
Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud—
She looked down the length of the hall. For years there was so much she had wanted to say to the woman who made her life hell. She licked her lips, squared her shoulders, and gripped the straps of her book bag as she walked straight up the middle of the hall with quick and determined strides.
The floorboard squealed when she stepped on it.
Moments later she pushed the bedroom door open wide. It hit against the wall.
BAM!
Mr. Grantham stopped midstroke, and Zena looked at her with her eyes wide with shock.
“But my momma was the ho, right?” she asked with a sardonic shake of her head.
“Get out!” Zena roared, rising and pushing back against her lover.
“Hey!” he roared as he stumbled and fell backward onto the floor with his feet and moist erection pointed to the ceiling.
“You don’t have to tell me twice. I’m gone,” Desdemona said, turning to run down the length of the hall and across the living room to the front door.
An odd mix of fear and excitement were her adrenaline as she took off down the stairs and into the night.
* * *
Desdemona pulled her Maserati to a stop at the corner of depression and desperation. Once upon a time, the strip of three blocks had been her home. She released a heavy breath as she eyed the brightly lit liquor store on one corner with a long stretch of abandoned homes and vacant lots—dark and desolate—before a twenty-four-hour drive-through Chinese restaurant anchored it on the other end. For so many years her life had been walking the streets under the cover of darkness turning tricks to survive. Flashing fake smiles and far too youthful thighs in short skirts hoping to outshine her competitors—other lost souls—and draw the eyes and entice men driving by at a slow pace, choosing which of them they wanted to pay to please them.
She smiled, but it was sad, reflecting her heart. Those days, in cars or in the dark, abandoned halls inhabited by stray cats and rats, rain or shine, she had lost her innocence and her hope. Each stroke. Each grope. Each wet mouth on her privates. Each body’s stench that almost made her puke. Bad breath. Bad screws. Bad souls.
