Page 3 of Cry, Little Dove

After I turn off the light on the nightstand, I hesitate by the bed. She’s so heart-achingly pretty bathed in the colorful neon lights from the sign outside.

My hand finds her flushed face. I brush the straight fringe from her forehead and trail along her temple to her ear. She’s got lots of piercings there, from the lobe to the top. Multiple rings, a tiny skull, a black butterfly, and a heart with a dark gem.Cute.

She can’t hear my promise, but the words come out like I’m gonna choke if I don’t say them.

“You’re already mine, darlin’, even if you don’t know it yet.” I kiss the spot between her brows. “I’ll see you again real soon, little dove. And next time, I’m taking you home.”

I wake up with a pounding headache and a single, painfully sharp thought piercing my brain like an ice pick lobotomy:

I’m going to die tonight.

A hoarse laugh wrenches from my throat. It’s true. Iamgoing to die, but when you hit rock bottom, all you can do is laugh or cry, and I pick the former.

I suck in a breath of tepid air, thick with the overnight smell of stale beer and half-eaten cup noodles. Nausea rises sour from my stomach, but I swallow the bile and my emotions.

I’m not the type to feel sorry for myself and weep. A childhood in the foster system and bouncing from family to family taught me that crying gets you nowhere. I learned to grit my teeth and get shit done. And I’ll get this done, too, even if it’s literally the last thing I’ll do. It’s better than the alternative.

Because I also learned that things can always,alwaysget worse, and I have no intention to stick around and find out how much worse. I did that the past months, held out hope and waited for better times, but with every day, I’m in deeper shit.

No, I’ve had enough.

Enough of trying. Enough of fighting.

I want to get off the ride, and the bottle of not-so-legally-obtained sleeping pills in my handbag is my peaceful ticket out of here.

My sore eyes open to a red glow from the massive neon sign right outside. It lights up the whole room and I watch the wordvacancyturn green, then blue, and red again.

Hold up, if I can see outside…

It takes a moment for me to register that the curtains are wide open. Again. It happened before, but usually during the day when I’m dressed, not—

Shit.

I’ve been passed out for God knows how long wearing nothing but my panties and a t-shirt. Anyone walking past the window could watch me sleep half naked… anyone like the sleazebag from the reception. I wouldn’t put it past him to spy on me. He’s the type.

I grimace, remembering his greasy hair, his ripe body odor, and that creepy smile missing a few teeth. The ones he has left are brown. While I checked in, he asked too many personal questions and tried to hold my hand when I gave him the money.

I’ve been here a few days and he seeks every opportunity to run into me, like when I go to the gas station for food. Once, he even knocked on my door to offer me a bucket of ice and a bottle of screw-top wine I didn’t ask for. I declined both.

A spring pokes my side as I turn over. The mattress shifts and empty bottles clink, one rolling off and falling onto the dark brown carpet. A strategic choice of color, probably to hide various bodily fluids splashed all over it. I try not to think about those shows where people search hotel rooms with UV blacklight, but I feel as filthy as the floor looks.

My belly and chest are covered in a mysterious dried substance, cracking like milky white paint on my skin. A shudder races through me.Fucking disgusting.

In my drunken stupor, I must have spilled something on myself. Given that I don’t remember when I stopped drinking and shout-singing to go to bed, I won’t try to figure out what the white stuff is. I need a shower anyway.

I grab my phone from the nightstand, pressing my thumb to the fingerprint scanner. The light of the screen has me hissing. My burning eyes adjust slowly.

9:03pm? I slept the whole day.

A pang of shame worms through me as I recognize the open notes app.

Apparently shitfaced Erica thought it was a fabulous idea to write a bucket list twenty-four hours before offing herself. A bit late. Asexbucket list, no less.

I squint until the small black shapes on the screen become actual letters, forming actual words. As I read about the depravity on my list, murky memories come back to me.

No, not memories. Fragments of a dream.

I recall a tall man, a cowboy hat drawn low into his face. Rolled up sleeves and strong, tattooed arms. Big, rough hands sliding along my body. Calloused fingers around my throat and in my—

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