Page 65 of Ramsay

Of course, I would fall in a dress in the freezing ass dirt, because yes, this is my painful life.

Shivering at the chill, I brace to stand, with a helpless feeling in my heart only to pause when my fingers roll over something stiff on the ground. Absently, I move it around in my fingers before the significance hits me and I drop it back to the grass.

What the fuck?

It’s a rabbit's foot, on a keychain, the soft fake fur died crimson. For a moment, all I can do is gaze blindly at it before I snap out of my daze and glance around.

The pulse in my neck flutters wildly as I hesitate but grab the damn keychain with stiff fingers and stand. It’s still quiet and empty, but that doesn't stop my urgency as I push to my feet and pop over the hill.

With fear a sweaty slide down my spine, I pick my way through the gravestones on wobbly fucking heels, glancing up with relief when I reach my sister’s plot.

Except…where the fuck is everyone? I wasn’t gone but a few minutes.

Turning in a circle, I look around with confusion that slowly turns to complete fucking disbelief.

There’s no one here, not my parents, not the pastor, not even the fucking men who stood around waiting to bury my sister under piles of dirt.

Incredulous, I laugh out loud, the sound causing a murder of crows to race into the sky with flapping wings and rude caws.

They’re gone. The car we came in is gone. They fucking forgot me at her grave.

Batting at my tears, I pull out my phone but hesitate over the numbers. No, just no. I can’t believe it, but I can because this solidifies every bitter thought I’ve had about my oblivious parents for years.

“Whatever,” I mutter, pocketing my phone.

I find the path that leads toward the entrance, conjuring all the hurtful words I’m going to spew when they return. But they don’t come back, not after one mile, not after two, and when I finally give in and call, they don’t answer the phone.

To add to my frustration, I have another hundred fucking text messages from Jagger promising all kinds of retribution if I don’t respond.

“Fucker,” I say, tapping out a reply.

Leave me the fuck alone. It’s over.

This only rewards me with a half dozen more texts, each nastier than the last and absently I brush my hair from my face, cursing when the damn rabbit foot touches my temple.

“Fuck!” Completely skeeved out, I shove the damn thing in my pocket.

My parent’s vanishing act successfully turned my thoughts from the keychain, but now that I’m refocused, I glance around, uneasily. I’m walking alone in a sketchy neighborhood with a serial killer on the loose, and I can’t help but wonder if this little message wasn’t meant for me.

To add to my paranoia, a car pulls up beside me and slows but I can’t see inside because the tinted windows impede my view. In any case, it feels particularly ominous in my current state.

After a moment in which I swear I can feel the driver’s eyes on mine, the car passes me by and I slump, swaying under the residual adrenaline still playing havoc with my system.

This area, ironically close to where Carmen used to hook, is surrounded by industrial warehouses, two gas stations, and a wasteland of abandoned buildings, making the wretched helplessness I feel that much more unbearable.

Still, when the car rounds the corner, I chuff out a laugh, chastising myself for being paranoid and stupid, except the relief disappears when I find the same vehicle stopped at the curb several blocks down.

Fuck. Thankfully I’m close to one of the gas stations and scurrying across the street, I slip inside before staring out the window.

Please keep going.But no one emerges and the car just sits there.

I try calling my parents, Dixie, even Bone, but no one answers and in my fucking delirious paranoia, I even try Sabrina, who, of course, ignores me.

At this point, I’d take the damn Sinners, but I have no way of contacting them.

“Ma’am are you going to buy something?” a grumpy man behind the counter asks me with a suspicious stare.

“Um, okay,” I say, grabbing the first thing I see and slapping it down on the counter.

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