Page 1 of Stalking in the Holidays

One

Bonnie

This isn't the way things are supposed to be. It's one week before Christmas and here I am out in the freezing cold in nothing but my skimpy little pajamas.

I’m fleeing my skeevy pervert of a stepdad. He got drunk again tonight and came into my room, giving me those leering eyes and making lewd comments about what he was going to give me for Christmas, and news flash: it wasn't a new car or sweater.

Yeah, talk about gross.

I should have already moved out, but I just turned eighteen a month ago. I was trying to stick it out as long as I could and save more money before I went on the run and ventured out on my own.

My mom died a year ago, leaving me completely alone with my piece-of-shit stepdad. I've always gotten creepy vibes from him, but my mother thought she was in love. She never really gave two shits what I thought.

I don't mean to speak ill of the dead, but she wasn't really the best mom. She was always more concerned with hooking up with guys—especially ones like my stepdad who had enough money to keep her in all of her finery and habits.

What all good it did her in the end, though. All the money in the world couldn't stop the cancer from riddling through her body.

Is it wrong that I don't feel too much grief that she's dead? I feel more guilt at the thought that I don't mourn her than I do over the fact that she’s gone. But how can I mourn a woman who left me in this kind of situation?

The snow is coming down in earnest now, and it's not like in the movies where the pretty snowflakes cling to your eyelashes in your hair and just sit there. No, they melt, and when they melt, they get you sopping wet. In no time, I’m shivering.

I wish I’d had the foresight to put on a winter coat before sneaking out the door and making a run for it, but, unfortunately, I'm out here in my threadbare tank top and flimsy little sleep shorts.

I try to look on the bright side, though. At least I have a pair of fur-lined boots on.

I probably look freaking ridiculous—not that there are many people out on the streets at this time of night—and the ones that I do see don't pay me any mind.

I suppose that's one good thing about the city. Everyone minds their own business. You can go outside dressed like a complete lunatic and nobody will say a word to you. At the same time, I can't help wishing that I was in some little whimsical little town like Mayberry where maybe somebody would lend a friendly hand to help a girl down on her luck out because even though I grabbed my debit card before I left and shoved it in my panties, I've got less than a thousand dollars to my name, and I know that's not even going to be enough to secure an apartment in this city, much less pay for more than a month of rent.

I am completely and royally fucked.

To make matters worse, I slip on a patch of ice that I don't see on the sidewalk and go smashing down onto my ass—hard. I wince at the pain and then grimace when I feel the wetness seeping through the back of my thin shorts.

My shivers double. Shit. I'm going to either go into hypothermia or catch pneumonia out here.

I wrap my arms around myself in an effort to get warm. I'm so cold that my nipples are painfully hard.

I glance left and right, looking for a light on in any building. I've got to get out of this cold—at least long enough to get my thoughts together and get warm so I can figure out just what the hell I'm going to do.

Maybe I can at least bum enough clothes off of somebody so I can sleep under a bridge with the hobos without dying.

I finally see a light on in a building up ahead and make a beeline for it, though I’m more careful this time to make sure I don't slip again and seriously bust my ass. I can already feel the pain shooting up where I fell the first time.

I'm so desperate for a bit of heat that I don't even stop to check the kind of business I'm bursting into. I just push on the door and breathe a sigh of relief when it opens and warmth immediately engulfs me.

I don't know if it's the rush of the adrenaline or what, but suddenly I feel woozy. My legs go numb, and I start to wobble. I feel panic pierce my chest as I see myself going down as if in slow motion.

The last thing I see before my eyes close is a pair of stormy gray eyes and dark hair falling over a strong forehead.

I vaguely wonder if I'm being dragged down to hell and am getting a glimpse of the devil. If so, he's handsome. Isn’t that what they always say? The devil comes in a pretty package—or something like that?

Oh well, maybe hell won't be as bad as everybody makes it out to be.

It can’t be any worse than what I just escaped from.

My harried thoughts are interrupted as darkness engulfs me.

---