Hot Revenge Box Set 4

Chapter 52

Klempner

What's the obsession with potatoes?

I called her Potato Face when she was a kid.

What does she look like now?

Jenny was no looker at that age…

… But she matured. Bloomed.

Juliana... Never the same twice.

I scratch at my beard. I’ve never liked facial hair in hot climates, but I don’t have a choice right now. Even so, the flourishing colony of lice that has stowed aboard adds an extra edge of irritation.

Lice…

Where the fuck did they come from?

Can rat lice live on humans?

Having a fucking good go at it…

I catch one, squeezing the revolting thing between my fingernails. It bursts with a Pop!

Only another 999 to go…

*****

The boredom’s the worst. Endless hours. Endless days and nights. I’ve no idea how long.

The only breaks in the monotony are Juliana’s visits: just long enough to sit, eat something at me, toss a potato at me.

No, not Juliana: Solana.

Why's she so obsessed with the name?

How many names have I used over the years? Worn like a suit of clothes to be discarded when the weather changes and something different is needed.

I’ve never been defined by my name.

But she sees it differently…

Something skritches and I jerk a look sidelong

It’s a rat…

Just a rat…

down

It’s just a rat…

dark openings, more scratching. And

you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back

Who said that?

Nietzsche?

Depressing bastard…

and whiskers. I come equipped with fists and feet. Between us, we settle an uneasy

*****

do you know what Stockholm syndrome

takes something from her lunchbox, unwrapping one of her usual dainties from

for a psychological condition where, in a kidnap or hostage situation, the prisoner forms an attachment to the

sniggers. “You saying you're getting attached to

pretending mockery, but I have her attention. “… But there's a reverse condition. It's called Lima syndrome, where

“So?”

your only

produces a brigadeiro. A flake of chocolate cracks off the small round cake, dropping back into the napkin

why do you keep

chewing, mouth hanging a little open.

all you wanted was to watch me rot,

you do want me to feed you? We can always change

come once a week. Or even, once a month.

simply regarding me. I continue. “Am I your only friend, Sola? Is that it? You've murdered everyone else that might get close

head, giggling. “So,

slated as a sex-slave when she was a kid? That middle-aged hooker? You've not changed,

sits back in her seat, arches her brows. “I

have changed. Who ever really

“Solana…” she hisses.

it dropping just this side of that painted line, now less than

her heel, she

takes no supernatural premonition to know what's coming. Launching myself at the fallen food, ignoring the jab of pain in my ankle as the chain snaps taut, I snatch up the discarded meal from the filthy concrete, scrabbling to grab broken fragments of meat in one hand, a cake with the other before, with a click, the light winks out and

of the camera. It hardly matters. My attention is on the wealth in my

single bite taken from

anything

For how long?

idea. Weeks? Months? My sense of time is out of the

I had a

then another, I ram the

Too soon. Half-chewed pulp goes down the wrong way and suddenly I’m

I barf it up, where it

The Novel will be updated daily. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!

Comments ()

0/255