out of control crime and violence, drugs and indecency.
As they came in closer they heard Martin moan softly with weakness and pain. Alex carried him to safety. Two days later, Martin’s partner was arrested for attempted murder. Martin had discovered that the man he had worked with for years was dealing crack and heroin, and had been doing so for nearly a decade.
“I remember now. The poor fool woke up on the stretcher with you standing over him.”
“He told you that?” Alex was surprised that he would admit to it.
“‘Don’t eat my face!’ I bet the paramedics thought he was going into a state of shock or something.”
“You don’t still have your eye on him, do you?”
“I should give up, really. He likes to look at me, but he thinks of me as poison.”
“So how about that girl who is lurking about the door?”
“I don’t really think she’s a cop. A cop would know enough not to be seen.”
“Well, we must watch out for her. Have someone watch the alley, maybe?” He rose and stood up. “I’ve got to go. Maybe I’ll trip over the poor child on my way out.” He really did not care. Probably she was a hooker looking for a john and did not realize whom she was dealing with. “Look, Martin does not deserve you. You’re much too good for him.”
He left.
She had been exhausted all day, and wished that she had called in ‘sick’ once again. A piece of chalk struck her head when she turned her back on the children; she spun around and the entire class erupted into laughter. She had no control over them; the students were bored by art class and took every opportunity to entertain themselves by playing with her weakened nerves.
She cried as she rode the bus home. She sat in the back, so no one would look at her moist face and reddened eyes.
She wanted to crawl into bed—or maybe even better, a dark hole—and not do anything for the rest of the day, but she forced herself to shower and put on clean clothes. A silk dress again. She had no blue jeans, no T-shirts, or sneakers. She had only the clothes she brought with her when she left her family’s opulent home, plus a few new things that she purchased when she moved into the apartment. She had not worn jeans or sneakers very often, and wondered if they were wrong for her, if they were for other people to wear? Or if she would be out of place in them? But then, she felt out of place no matter what she did.
She did not have the energy or will to attempt to cook again; she was not really very good at it, and in her old life she never really learned. In fact, in her old life, she never learned to do much for herself at all. There was really not much in her refrigerator. And she did not really want to eat. But she decided to go out and get something anyway. She had not really eaten anything except a donut yesterday. Food did not really interest her anymore. But she needed an excuse to go out.
She would buy a sandwich, wait for nightfall, and then maybe watch again. It was on a warm quiet evening like this when she saw what she saw in the alley…
It was light out yet getting dark swiftly. She had been sketching at the beach that afternoon, and was walking down the darkened twilight street to return to her apartment when she heard the glass shattering violently in the alley that she was passing.
Something had fallen off a truck—several bottles were broken, and thick red fluid was poured over the ground. Too thick to be red wine. And why all the ice?
Whatever it was had to be packed in ice.
“Leave it,” a voice whispered. “We’ll clean it up later.”
“No!” snapped another. “We’ve got to clean this up now! Someone will see this and know what the hell it is! We’ll get the bucket and the mop, come on.”
When the two had drifted down the darkened stairs into the lower level of the old brick building, she approached carefully, bent to put her fingers deep into it. It was blood.
She dropped her sketch pad and
As they came in closer they heard Martin moan softly with weakness and pain. Alex carried him to safety. Two days later, Martin’s partner was arrested for attempted murder. Martin had discovered that the man he had worked with for years was dealing crack and heroin, and had been doing so for nearly a decade.
“I remember now. The poor fool woke up on the stretcher with you standing over him.”
“He told you that?” Alex was surprised that he would admit to it.
“‘Don’t eat my face!’ I bet the paramedics thought he was going into a state of shock or something.”
“You don’t still have your eye on him, do you?”
“I should give up, really. He likes to look at me, but he thinks of me as poison.”
“So how about that girl who is lurking about the door?”
“I don’t really think she’s a cop. A cop would know enough not to be seen.”
“Well, we must watch out for her. Have someone watch the alley, maybe?” He rose and stood up. “I’ve got to go. Maybe I’ll trip over the poor child on my way out.” He really did not care. Probably she was a hooker looking for a john and did not realize whom she was dealing with. “Look, Martin does not deserve you. You’re much too good for him.”
He left.
She had been exhausted all day, and wished that she had called in ‘sick’ once again. A piece of chalk struck her head when she turned her back on the children; she spun around and the entire class erupted into laughter. She had no control over them; the students were bored by art class and took every opportunity to entertain themselves by playing with her weakened nerves.
She cried as she rode the bus home. She sat in the back, so no one would look at her moist face and reddened eyes.
She wanted to crawl into bed—or maybe even better, a dark hole—and not do anything for the rest of the day, but she forced herself to shower and put on clean clothes. A silk dress again. She had no blue jeans, no T-shirts, or sneakers. She had only the clothes she brought with her when she left her family’s opulent home, plus a few new things that she purchased when she moved into the apartment. She had not worn jeans or sneakers very often, and wondered if they were wrong for her, if they were for other people to wear? Or if she would be out of place in them? But then, she felt out of place no matter what she did.
She did not have the energy or will to attempt to cook again; she was not really very good at it, and in her old life she never really learned. In fact, in her old life, she never learned to do much for herself at all. There was really not much in her refrigerator. And she did not really want to eat. But she decided to go out and get something anyway. She had not really eaten anything except a donut yesterday. Food did not really interest her anymore. But she needed an excuse to go out.
She would buy a sandwich, wait for nightfall, and then maybe watch again. It was on a warm quiet evening like this when she saw what she saw in the alley…
It was light out yet getting dark swiftly. She had been sketching at the beach that afternoon, and was walking down the darkened twilight street to return to her apartment when she heard the glass shattering violently in the alley that she was passing.
Something had fallen off a truck—several bottles were broken, and thick red fluid was poured over the ground. Too thick to be red wine. And why all the ice?
Whatever it was had to be packed in ice.
“Leave it,” a voice whispered. “We’ll clean it up later.”
“No!” snapped another. “We’ve got to clean this up now! Someone will see this and know what the hell it is! We’ll get the bucket and the mop, come on.”
When the two had drifted down the darkened stairs into the lower level of the old brick building, she approached carefully, bent to put her fingers deep into it. It was blood.
She dropped her sketch pad and
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