Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 43912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 220(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 220(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
My bed is a single mattress on the floor directly underneath the windows. Well, I say floor. I got an old door, raised it up on both sides with some milk crates and I use the underside of it for… you guessed it. More books.
The place smells like old paper, and I love it. When I am here, I am insulated from the outside world by several inches of paper and cardboard backing. These printed words are the armor of my life. Whatever happens out there, can’t happen in here. This is a world where I pick the story I want to read. I control what narrative unfolds, and if things get too sick or too scary, I can just close the cover.
I’m aware other people find this place somewhat disturbing because of the lack of stuff and things. It doesn’t matter. I don’t bring people to my apartment. I don’t want anybody touching anything. Everything here is mine, and nobody else should ever touch it.
I do have some furniture though — a chair. It is high backed and made of some kind of dark polished wood with a sort of velvet upholstery. It is old and large and big enough to curl up in while reading. Another heirloom of someone’s family, I imagine. It has a matching footrest. I also have an old wardrobe that someone tried to upcycle. That’s where I keep my clothes. I don’t have a lot of clothing. I wear black turtlenecks and black jeans with black boots most of the time. Occasionally, I’ll wear a coat. Not having to choose outfits is another life hack I highly recommend.
Everything here is cozy and slightly old. Everything was made by somebody, not a machine. I like that. It’s a quiet kind of snobbery, I suppose, but it suits me. The only modern tech I allow myself is my phone. I lose it frequently, because I do not like it very much.
Having righted myself from my fall, I crawl into bed just as dawn is breaking, and pass out for most of the day, waking around three pm.
When I open my eyes, my phone has a fuckload of missed calls and quite a few text messages.
Sitting up, I yawn and look through the messages. Annoyingly, they’re happy birthday messages. My social media is set a day late, because I forgot my birthday when I put it in. Specifics and dates are not my forte, unless they relate to murder.
2
Tessie isn’t in at the station when I get in. Neither is her dog. I guess she’s walking him. Or maybe she’s finally gone home for some sleep too. Between the two of us we are almost constantly on duty; we deserve a break.
“Holmes! Get in here!”
Or maybe not.
Chief Connor is sitting behind his desk with a death stare in his dark eyes. He’s not actually angry at me, most likely. He just has a bad case of resting murder face. It doesn’t help that he looks, well, almost wild. Even when he’s in his dress uniform there’s just something about him.
He has dark sideburns that sometimes join up with the permanent short beard he wears. My theory? He shaves in the morning, and by the time he comes in, it’s already a quarter inch long. The man is hairy. The hair on his head is similarly dark, streaked at the temples with gray in the way everyone wishes they’ll go gray, but hardly any of us actually do.
He’s about forty. Or fifty. Or hell, maybe thirty. Beards make it hard to tell a man’s age. I could probably find out if I was interested, but I’m not. I spend a lot of time avoiding the chief, almost as much time as I spend avoiding everybody else.
“Yes, sir?”
He emits a growl. There’s no other way to say it. He makes a sound like an annoyed wolf. He picks up the paper on his desk and throws it at me, more or less. I grab it, discover it’s a tabloid, and resist the urge to throw it back in his face.
“Look at the front of that.”
The front page has a clearly photoshopped picture of some kind of absolute monstrosity, big, bulging red eyes and slavering jaws, the body of a man but large wings. It looks cartoonish and ridiculous. The headline and caption are worse, though. THE BROOKLYN MOTHMAN, it says. CARNIVOROUS MONSTER STALKS CITY STREETS.
I don’t even need to look at the byline. I know who is responsible for this bullshit.
“Randy fucking Carrot.”
“There’s more detail in that article than in any of your reports.”
“That’s because she’ll take anything anyone says and print it, after adding a bunch of her own bullshit, sir. Would you like me to make up some lies and put them in my reports?”
He growls at me, and I kind of wish I hadn’t said that last sentence aloud. Chief Connor does not have time for sass or attitude. Then he says what’s really bothering him. “The FBI is coming to take your case.”