What the hell. I went and got a third piece of cheesecake.
•
Sometime between polishing off my latest round of dessert and watching some mindless TV, I fell asleep on the couch.
The dreams started soon after that.
My dreams were more than weird, random images strung together—they were memories of all the bad things I’d seen, done, and survived. Most nights, I dreamed of the jobs I’d gone on as the Spider, the people who’d tried to murder me, and all the ones I’d killed in return. But tonight was a real blast from my past, back before I’d met Fletcher, back when I’d just started living on the streets and didn’t know how I was going to make it from one day to the next . . .
I was so hungry.
Hungrier than I’d ever been before in my entire life. So hungry that I was actually considering eating the withered brown apple I’d plucked out of the Dumpster behind this dive bar in Southtown. I didn’t know why there was an apple in the trash outside a gin joint, but it was the only thing I’d been able to find today that was even remotely edible.
Despite the constant grumbles in my stomach urging me on, I still held the apple out with two fingers, as if it might bite me like the rats that lived in the alleys sometimes did. I turned the fruit this way and that, carefully scrutinizing every single part of it.
It only had two bites taken out of it. Most of it was still good. That’s what I told myself. And really, I was too hungry to care how long it had been rotting in the Dumpster, what kind of germs it had on it, or how sick it might make me. Most nights, I just wanted to go to sleep in some dark alley and never wake up. If the apple killed me, well, maybe that would be for the best.
So I sank my teeth deep into the fruit, trying to tell myself that the bitter, rotten taste was normal—natural, even. But it didn’t stop me from devouring the whole thing. All too soon, the apple was gone, and I was left with nothing but a rotten core.
And I was still hungry.
Sighing, I tossed the core behind some trash cans for the rats to fight over, then turned back to the Dumpster and stood on my tiptoes so I could peer over the side and see if there was anything else lurking in the dark, damp corners that I’d missed. And not just food. Even though it was September, the nights were getting colder and colder, and I’d quickly learned that wrapping a few newspapers around your body was better than letting the wind whistle down the alleys and sink into your clothes. But I’d lost my stash of papers to a bum a few alleys over. Apparently, I’d been sleeping in his spot, over this sewer grate that blew up warm air, and he didn’t like it. My ribs still ached from where he’d kicked me awake this morning, and I could still feel his dirty hands and sharp nails ripping the papers off my body so he could clutch them to his own sunken, shriveled chest. After that, I’d started running, and I hadn’t stopped until I couldn’t run anymore, which was how I’d wound up in this alley, scrounging for food yet again—
“What do you mean, you’re finished?” an angry male voice called out.
“I mean I’m finished. You got what you paid for. You want something else, you pay for it up front. Those are the rules, pal,” a younger, feminine voice snarked back.
I hunkered down beside the Dumpster and peered around the side. Two people stalked into the alley. One was a middle-aged man wearing a cheap suit, with a bad comb-over and a big, round belly that made it look like he’d swallowed a basketball. The other was a thin girl with teased bright crimson hair, a silver sequined tank top, and silver shorts that were way too short and tight, given the cool fall breeze. The girl wasn’t that much older than me, maybe fifteen or sixteen, despite the heavy makeup that rimmed her brown eyes.
“I told you that I’m good for the money,” the guy pleaded, scurrying along beside the girl, who was walking fast, despite the strappy silver stilettos on her feet.
“Sure you are, hon,” she snarked again. “Just like all my other special friends.”
“Well, if you won’t give it to me, then I’ll just take what I want,” he snarled.
He reached out and shoved her up against the wall.
“Hey!” the girl shouted, slapping her hands across his face and chest. “Let go, loser!”
But he was stronger than she was, and I knew what was going to happen next. I’d seen it happen before to other girls in other alleys. Guys too. I should have slipped away while I could, before the man spotted me, but I couldn’t ignore the way his hands tore at her skimpy clothes like the bum’s had done to mine this morning. And suddenly, I was more angry than scared.
Before I even really knew what I was doing, I grabbed an empty beer bottle from beside the Dumpster, darted across the alley, and smashed it down on top of the guy’s head. He growled as the glass shattered and sliced into his skull, but he whirled around to face me.
“You little bitch!” he yelled. “You’ll pay for that!”
He reached for me, but I lashed out with the broken end of the bottle. It was a wild swing, but I got lucky, and the glass cut through his jacket and shirt and sliced a jagged gash all the way up his forearm. Blood spewed everywhere, the coppery scent overpowering the stench of garbage in the alley, but strangely, I wasn’t afraid. It actually felt . . . good to do something other than run away.
“You little bitch!” the man hissed again. “You cut me!”
He staggered forward, but the other girl stuck her foot out, tripping him, and he fell onto his hands and knees.
“Run!” the girl yelled, grabbing my hand and pulling me along behind her. “Run!”
So we ran and ran and ran, ending up in another alley four blocks over before we collapsed on top of the steps that led up to the bright, glossy, crimson-painted back door of a ratty-looking apartment building. I put my hands on my knees, sucking down giant gulps of air, but the girl started pacing around me, grinning from ear to ear.
She laughed and threw her hands out wide. “That was awesome! I loved the look on that guy’s face when you cut him. Son of a bitch wasn’t even going to pay for it. He deserved that—and more.”
She spat onto the cracked asphalt before facing me again. “You know, you were pretty good with that bottle. You done that before?”
I glanced down and realized that I was still clutching the neck of the broken beer bottle—and that the man’s blood was all over my hand. I dropped the glass and kicked it away, sending it skittering down the alley. I grabbed the end of the red-and-black plaid flannel shirt I’d swiped off a Southtown clothesline a few days ago and used it to wipe the blood off my hand, wincing as I rubbed the raw, red skin of my palm.