Page 3 of Seeing Grayscale

This kind of thing might fly inhisworld—the one full of colors and soft, clean sheets. He might be able to buy anything and anyone with those pretty eyes and a full head of dark hair. But inmyworld, he’s a shark who just got a whiff of blood. I’m not letting him take a bite.

“I’ll just set it right here, then.” He squats, stuffing the wad underneath the dumpster and out of direct sight, and then stands. Another stare-down ensues between us while I chew obnoxiously loud. “You’re too…youngto have the world fail you this badly.”

My eyebrow cocks as he shakes his head and leaves.

I wait a few minutes, finish my hot dog, and swipe the drop of ketchup off my crotch before leaning forward. There’s no sign of him or anyone else. What I wouldn’t kill for a bed tonight—with a thick blanket.

I swallow hard, hoping this won’t come back to bite me in the ass and scramble to snatch up the cash.

TWO

Hotelsaren’talwaysaluxury.

After being turned away by the three nearest the gas station due to not having a debit or credit card, I walked another four miles to a dingy motel that I knew would take cash without any questions. It isn’t The Hilton, but it beats cold concrete any day. When I get the deadbolt slid into place, I press my head against the door and groan.

The pain in my left leg isunreal.

I don’t know the people who jumped and mugged me, but the bigger of the three stomped my leg real good. If the bruises areanything to go by, it’s at least fractured. I highly doubt you can sprain your femur.

Letting my backpack slide onto the floor, I push off the wood and take a few painful steps into the bathroom.

Mildew clings to the corners of the shower, dark water stains coat the showerhead, and I’m pretty sure that’s old piss in the toilet. I make quick work to flush it, then turn on the water. While the weak spray hits the tile floor, gurgling as it swirls in the drain, I work on getting undressed while ignoring the giant roach that crawls out of it.

As I lift my shirt over my head, my nose scrunches as I supress a gag. "Holy fuck."

The smell wafting off me must be nasty if I can detect it. Usually, you get nose-deaf to your own funk when you’ve been marinating in it long enough.

By the time my pants are off, I’m sweating and biting the inside of my cheek to distract myself from the pain. A constant throb coupled with inferno-strength heat licks up my shin and around my calf.

Fuck.

I glance down, gripping the sink counter for stability, and study the ugly purple bruises that are the size of footprints.

I can’t go to the hospital again. If I ever find myself in a place where I’m no longer cruising the boulevard, I’ll have a mountain of debt waiting to bury me.

Some people in my situation can get aid from the state—food stamps and free insurance—but since I have a felony for theft, I’m automatically disqualified from any of those programs—something about not being trustworthy enough to be honest on an application or other.

Thatpisses me off.

Stepping under the spray, I groan when the hot water hits my skin. It’s not the best pressure, but I’m not complaining. A slowtrickle with this kind of heat is fine by me. The knots in my neck and shoulders are already loosening.

Snatching the wrapped soap bar off the caddy, I peel the paper free and toss it on the floor. How many people takesoapfor granted? To think I used to be one of those idiots.

This stuff smells like Pinesol and feels like straight tar, but it suds up and might get me halfway clean if I scrub hard enough, which I do. I scrub until my skin is red and raised. The runoff is a gross, muddy color when I finally get to my hair.

The last time I was in asemi-bettersituation, I bleached my hair, but that was a few months ago, and my roots have grown out. Pushing the wet strands out of my eyes, I lather my hands and scrub my scalp just as thoroughly.

It’s just a shower, sure, but it’s the best damn thing to happen to me in a while.

That, and the four hundred and thirty-six bucks still in my backpack.

By the time I’m done, a towel wrapped around my hips, I limp over to the bed with a mysterious white stain on the duvet and collapse. My eyes flutter shut while I dream about a stranger with bright hazel eyes.

The first mistake was taking the cash. I know better.

Instead of picking the smart option—buying a few more nights and some food—I left the motel and went to the diner across the street.

When I woke up today, all I wanted wascannedcorned beef hash with sourdough toast—something hot and fresh, a taste of what life used to be all those years ago.

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