Page 2 of Crybaby

That’s how long the average human can survive without water.

However, food is an entirely different ball game.

One to three months is the ballpark figure, but as I stuff my cheeks full of this Reuben sandwich on rye, it’s evident whoever came up with this cookie-cutter number was never a thief.

I don’t know what it is about stolen goods, though. They just seem to feel, smell…taste better. This sandwich is no exception.However, I suppose, technically, I didn’t steal it.

I fucked Maree Vanderbilt six ways to Sunday and made her come, and in return, as she lies in her post-orgasmic bliss, chasing her Oxy with an expensive scotch, I’ll experience my own high as I help myself to the contents of her fridge…and the priceless artwork that hangs on Maree’s kitchen wall—the real reason I’m here.

Red.

Yellow.

Pink.

Green.

A kaleidoscope of colors is before me, but all I can focus on is black.

How the stroke of a single black line can transform something so picturesque, so colorful, into something else.

How, in the end, the darkness…it always wins.

As I appreciate the splashes of color, I wonder what Maree thinks when she looks at it. Will she, too, see that beauty can be found hidden amongst the darkness?

But women like Maree—bored socialites—don’t concern themselves with shit like this. I’m sure the only reason this Floyd Brassard—a local artist who made it big and moved to Germany before cutting off his cock to use as his favorite paintbrush—piece hangs in Maree’s mansion is because she thought it matched her feature wall.

We walk, talk, function like we’re alive, but the truth is, we’re all waiting…waiting for something more.

And when you have it all, you’re always chasing a bigger, better ending, never satisfied with the riches you possess, which is why I can do what I do…and not feel a fucking thing.

With elbows resting on the marbled counter, I chew my sandwich leisurely. I’m in no hurry. Ballsy, I know. Helping myself to Pierre Vanderbilt’s prized corned beef after desecrating his marital bed.

Looking at the stolen gold Rolex on my wrist, courtesy of Pierre, I see he’ll be home any second. Maree said he was working out at the gym, but I’m sure he didn’t break a sweat doing cardio. Doing a pretty blonde at the gym is the most probable scenario.

Most would make haste, but I’m not most.

I wipe the spilled sauerkraut from the corner of my mouth with my thumb, sucking it with a pop. The fridge door is ajar, and the light inside is the beacon I need. My scuffed black Converse squeak on the linoleum as I walk toward the painting.

I stand in front of it, my reflection staring back at me from the polished glass frame.

“You could be a model,”Maree said as she lay spread out on her king-sized bed, nestled in Persian silk.“With those piercing, come fuck me golden eyes, dark, tousled hair, and a jawline that goes on for days, you must have all the young girls wrapped around your little finger. Your mere presence commands attention, and you’re not even aware of it.”

I’ve heard this before, but I don’t really understand it. Sure, I fucking love being in control, but I don’t really look the part of Prince Charming. But it doesn’t seem to matter.

“Why would I waste my time with young girls when I can fuck a real woman?” I confessed, leisurely winding the silk tie—the one Maree insisted I use—around my wrist as I stood at the foot of the bed.“There was a reason we met at the farmers’ market.”

She didn’t know the real reason was because I scouted that farmers’ market for women like her—rich, powerful women who are my meal ticket—no pun intended—out of here.

Our meeting wasn’t fate. It was an opportunity, and I took it, just like I’ve done for a long time.

Pilfering has helped me survive. It gave life to the demons inside my head, but the demons, they linger, and sooner or later, they’ll consume me for good, which is why I need to get my mom and me out of here.

It’s just us. I don’t know who my father is. And I’m okay with that fact.

He promised her the world, but what he left her with was a void so big, she has tried to fill it with any booze or drugs she can find.

She dresses in her best clothes, looking out the window, believing today is the day he comes to save us from hell. But no one’s coming. There never will be. We can only save ourselves.

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