Blood to Dust by L.J. Shen Page A

fingers into my throat, his ski mask sending hot air from his mouth. The rotten scent of bacteria and plaque assaulted my nostrils.
    “Listen up, bitch. That was a mistake. Tell Beat I said his name, and you’re dead. Get it?”
    I nodded. He wouldn’t kill me. He was far too scared of Godfrey. And Beat. And everything else. A prime example of a beta-male. While Nate is everywhere, oozing quiet power, Ink can stand inches from me and I wouldn’t even notice. “Of course.”
    From the moment he left the basement, until the moment I heard Nate sinking into his bed, all I did was try to rip open the boarded windows with that small wire I stole from the bathroom. It got me nowhere other than bloody fingers and a cut wrist after my hand slipped against one of the rusty nails.
    I need to change tactics. I need to lure Nate faster.
    Considering the fact that talking my way out of this situation hasn’t helped me so far, I’ve decided to try the opposite approach—silence.
    NOVEMBER 18 TH , 2010
    “DEPRESSION IS THE INABILITY TO CONSTRUCT A FUTURE.” (ROLLO MAY)
    I get sick for the first time in my life.
    The Vela men don’t usually do weakness, unless it’s booze.
    I stay in my cell, nursing a fever and a bad case of the shits. Pedro and his pleas for methadone are pissing me off. The world is pissing me off. I’m not even twenty-two and my life is already over. The realization’s a hard pill to swallow.
    To make matters worse, Pedro’s constantly eyeing the toilet bowl, trying to fish my shit out, because he wants to throw it at the corrections officers to make a scene. A scene will land him in the hole. But he’ll get something to calm his raging withdrawal symptoms first.
    That’s what Pedro’s counting on. He’d kill us both to get that shot in the butt. Beth, a corrections officer who I befriended, allows Frank to drop by with canned soup.
    “Punk-ass kid.” He spits his words, as he does when he forgets to put in his artificial teeth. I grunt into the lukewarm liquid, taking slow sips.
    “You were less of a weirdo as a teenager, y’know?” He grabs on to my arm, yanking me upright. “That poetry messed with your head, Nathaniel.”
    “Name’s Nate,” I correct him. We’ve been hanging out every day since I arrived, but I never bothered to say something. Because I never bothered to talk. But today I’m angry at everything, Frank included.
    “Whatever,” he says, standing up and slapping the back of my neck. “What-fucking-ever.”
    DECEMBER 24 TH , 2010
    “THE FEAR OF DEATH FOLLOWS THE FEAR OF LIFE. A MAN WHO LIVES FULLY IS PREPARED TO DIE AT ANY TIME” (MARK TWAIN)
    Christmas Eve I get word that Mamá’s dead. One of the counselors calls me into his office and sits me down. He delivers the news in a hurry, eager to go home to his own functioning family, but uses the furrowed forehead expression, the one that’s supposed to show compassion.
    Is he sad for me? I don’t know.
    Who the fuck cares?
    I’m twenty-two and completely orphaned.
    I killed my dad and now my Mamá ’s gone, too. Hit by a plowed bus on her way back from sending me stamps. Lotta’ rain. Lotta’ fog. Bus driver was working overtime to make sure his kids would have presents under their Christmas tree. Got tired. Lost control.
    Anyway, you know the rest.
    The counselor asks me if I’d like to see a priest. Cry a little. Pray a lot. Pray. Hah! Pray to who? No one ever listens to me upstairs. My prayers fall on deaf ears no matter where they land. Heaven, hell, or the very earth I live upon.
    Fisting my hair from its base, I answer with a headshake.
    I spend the night in my bed, staring at the ceiling.
    Unblinking.
    Uncrying.
    Unable to join everyone downstairs for the Christmas Eve charade.
    And I’m all alone.

I drag my shades down and roll my lower lip between my fingers as I stare through the rear window.
    Yeah, it’s definitely them .
    Stella merges into the highway as I try to lose the 1970 Ford Econoline van.