This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.

All artwork, on the cover and within this publication, was created by Haven Cage.

Photograph is courtesy of John Merwin.

ISBN:
978-0-9973811-1-5

Published by Haven Cage, LLC

United States

To the husband that stood by my side throughout my journey and still loves me, without you I’d have nothing,

To the son that inspires me to beat the resistance, may I teach you that it’s okay to think outside the box and struggle in life if it means you will achieve great things in the world,

To the mother that gave me strength and a mind of my own, I hope my perseverance shows you that your trials were worth it,

To the grandmother that watered my roots and nurtured my soul, may my spirit be as steady and faithful as yours one day.

In loving memory of the father that was never my own, but was me more than I could have ever asked for.

A
CKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Through the ups and downs of my journey, and the endless waiting to see if I actually got this thing launched, these wonderful people have supported, loved, encouraged, and advised me along the way. There are a ton of faithful friends and family who have stood behind me along with those listed below, who I owe thanks to as well. Without them, you would not be reading this massive jumble of words. There is not enough gratitude in the world that could ever repay those souls for what they have given.

R. Dixon

K. Mullins

B. Olson

C. Levesque

J. Hatten

P. Lucas

L. Grubbs

C. Gleave

C. Okey

J. Brown

A. Padgett

D. Slesinger

N. Bell

R. Lesslie

My lovely betas:

Diana Quiett

Ashley Bodette

Michelle Hughes

Dina Alexander

Tammy Bencraft

Kerri Meng

I want to give special thanks to authors
Renea Mason
and
Rissa Blakeley
. They answered an abundance of ridiculous questions through this process, taking some of my newbie anxiety away. Please look them up if you are looking for more great books to read.

In appreciation of the author photos on my website, this book, and my profiles, I want to thank John Merwin.

Lastly, I want to address my editor, Jaclyn Lee. Without you, this book would still be in an insufferably passive state. Thank you for making me a better writer and fueling my dreams of becoming an author. Your help has been invaluable.

In the love of others, I have found the freedom to love myself.

—Haven Cage—

CHAPTER ONE

A Brand New Day

I sucked in a sharp lungful of oxygen. My tongue was too dry to swallow, and my teeth ached from the cold air rushing over them. An overwhelming dread yanked me from sleep too soon.

My eyelids fluttered open, but snapped shut again. The tiny bit of light sifting through my lashes was more than my senses could handle right now. My fingers twitched next to my face, but that was the only movement I could muster. The residual heaviness of a dream weighed me down against the dank pavement and left me feeling like I was tied to a cinder block, plummeting to the base of a lake.

I clenched my eyes shut tighter, willing the dream to stay fresh in my mind, but the more I tried to hold on to the fleeting shadows of my slumber, the quicker they slipped through the cracks of my flimsy memory.

“Dammit,” I whispered in defeat, allowing my eyelids to relax.

The nightmarish visions were coming more often lately, yet none of them wanted to stick. My brain couldn’t commit a single horrid image of the animations to memory, but they sure left an impact on my emotions. I awoke feeling like a truck hit me and my heart had been dragged to the depths of Hell…every time.

I licked my dry, rubbery lips, chasing the taste of cat shit from my mouth, and lay motionless on the cold ground with my eyes closed, listening to the city awaken. It beat its eager rhythm into the new morning like a dying heart jolted back to life.

From somewhere down the street, the shouts of a paper man broadcasting the arrival of his fresh stack of newspapers resonated against the buildings.

“What the hell does he know? I run this company!”

I jerked, startled by the woman on the street corner yelling into her cell phone.

“Taxi, taxi,” she screamed while reprimanding the person on the other end of the call.

Drawing my legs closer against my chest, curling into a ball, I silently begged for just a few more moments of rest. The pungent odor of diesel, pastries, and coffee blowing down the narrow walls of my alley squashed my attempts to fall back asleep, though.

I covered my nose with the frayed sleeve of my shirt, hoping to lessen the strong mixture of aromas reminding me how hungry I was. My stomach growled and ached from the teasing undertones of food filling my nostrils. It had been two days since my last decent meal, and my body definitely felt the deprivation.

The constant patter of designer heels and children running to meet their busses drove away any chance of silence; however, it did help take my mind off my hunger—it was impossible to focus on anything but the noise.

So much noise
.

I lifted my hand and pressed it over the ear that wasn’t already smashed into the book bag under my head. I desperately tried to muffle the uproar, but failed. There was no getting away, considering every little sound echoed off the surfaces around me.

An obnoxious siren shrieked as it barreled past my block. My sore body cringed at the sound. It was my version of an alarm clock, and it insisted that I wake up—regardless of how hard I fought.

Releasing a frustrated growl, I slapped the pavement—because, naturally, it was the pavement’s fault I couldn’t sleep longer. I peeled myself off the cool, wet ground. Bits of grit abraded my skin as I rubbed the dampness from my face and yawned. I leaned back into the brick wall behind me, wincing at the stiffness in my joints, and stretched against tight muscles to massage a knot out of my left shoulder.

A cloud of smoke from last night’s fire wafted down the alley toward me. “Great,” I mumbled. Not only were my clothes damp, thanks to the evening drizzle, but I would smell like a campsite and the burnt steel of a fire barrel. I didn’t even get to enjoy the delicious heat that radiated from the barrel the night before—and not for lack of trying. The greedy beggars from the south side of town found their way to our alley yesterday and crowded the barrels as soon as Frannie lit the fire. From what I could tell this morning, the rain dwindled the flames down to nearly extinguished during the night.

Pouting about the newcomers that stole my chance to be warm, I tugged my tattered blanket closer to my body and attempted to ward off the breeze grazing my neck and arms. I peered out over the gathered fabric covering my nose and mouth, cautiously watching the old, hopeless drunks stumbling a little too near for my comfort. They grumbled about the chill and their sad lives as they slowed to circle around the cooling fire barrel a few feet away. Thankfully, they ignored me and, instead, tried to savor the last flickers of flames lapping through the rusted holes in the steel drum.

I peeked up at the sky from under the fire escape I used as shelter and tuned out the complaining, old men. The sun shined high against a clear blue background, but the tall buildings surrounding me stopped the light from touching this end of the alley so early in the morning.

Three brick buildings joined to create the thin rectangular corridor I called home. The west wall of a museum stood as one side of the long, narrow lane, and I was leaning against the east wall of the restaurant which formed the other side.

The restaurant wasn’t anything remarkable. It was a family owned business that served the usual southern fried foods. In reality, it was torture for people like us to be so close to the aroma of such comfort food, but this was the only alley that wasn’t riddled with gang kids, and it was fairly secluded.

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