Page 3 of Fruitbat

I freeze, clenching my eyes and brace for impact but my body lifts off, and I tuck and roll into a somersault, crashing against the midway.

The beastly truck roars and its wheels sear the pavement with blood-curdling wails, reclaiming its speed, and races down the street.

“Asshole!” I scream at the taunting tail lights, trailing off into the night. My hands tremble and my head is spinning. I climb back to my feet and lean on my knees, trying to catch my breath and calm my pounding chest.

“Jeesh!” I wheeze, swallowing my guts back down until they settle where they belong.

I swipe a bead of sweat from my brow and carry on, shaking my head to reset, and whisk that terrifying moment away. My eyes might crawl out of my head, but I’m okay.

This half of the city smells different, bizarrely sweet. It reminds me of fried dough, from the carnivals that Grace used to take us to, coated with a generous dusting of confectioners sugar.

There aren’t any trees on this side of the city, just lots of concrete and brick. The buildings are decorated with graffiti and there are bits of trash scattered about.

That would never fly in my neighborhood. The privileged residents of Park Row would tear the mayor a new asshole over a candy wrapper on the street.

I giggle at the flash fantasy of my mother, arranging a brunch with all the stuffy socialites, passive-aggressively inciting a protest, while sipping mimosas and plotting the mayor’s political downfall.

Maybe they should get brighter traffic lights for that intersection before the bridge.

2

Danny

10:59 pm

That repulsive doorbell chimes, announcing my arrival and triggering the twitch in my left brow, as I push open the heavy steel-framed glass door. Its hydraulic hinge expels a peeved sigh, quitting mid-close and slamming shut behind me.Same, door—same.

The sour stench of ammoniated lemon stings my sinuses and the barely audible hum of harsh fluorescent light clenches my jaw.

This place makes my skin crawl.

I’ve worked the nightmare shift in this hellhole convenience store for four years now.Are food and shelter really necessities?My dreams of making it in the literary world have yet to manifest.Fuck these inhumane shackles of capitalism.

It might help if I write a new piece this decade.

The manuscripts in my tattered messenger bag—slung across my body—with my barely functioning laptop—have been rejected by every damned publisher who’s seen them, too many times now.

“Hey, Danny!” Delila is always so fucking perky.

It’s 11 o’clock at night for fucks sake.Her bubbly personality shouldn’t erk me the way it does. I remind myself.That’s on me.

She’s probably just happy I showed up again, relieving her from this hellish duty. I don’t know her well enough to be sure, we just pass in the night, as shifts change.

“Hey.” I pander half a pained smile.Is it possible to pull a muscle in your cheek?

“I like your shirt!” She beams with far too much enthusiasm.

“Thanks,” I respond, unable to keep the disbelief out of my tone.

My shirt is black—or used to be—with some old band logo, so shattered and faded it just looks like bits of paper went through the wash, and I couldn't be bothered to peel them off.But okay.

Delila always makes some sort of complimentary remark. I look like shit, but she still puts in the effort to be kind.Good for her.

She tears open a box of chocolate bars. “I’ll leave these for you. The shelf needs restocking.”

Great.

She slips two into her pocket, tilting a shoulder to block the security camera's view.

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