Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 156728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 522(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 522(@300wpm)
She shoved her face into the pillow and screamed again. If this was a dream, she never wanted to wake up.
Chapter Five
Vast Blue Nothingness
Three hundred sixty-eight pounds.
That was what remained of the thousand after Daisy cashed her paycheck, paid her rent, luxuriated in a proper coffee from the café on the corner, bought functional shoes that didn’t leak when it rained, and finally saw to the tooth that had been screaming at her for weeks.
The dental work alone cost over four hundred pounds. X-rays, extraction of what couldn’t be saved, and a filling. When she cried, the hygienist assumed it was pain. It wasn’t. It was relief. The overwhelming sensation of having the means for self-care tasted like theft, like borrowing someone else’s life. But she hadn’t stolen anything. This was, at the moment, her surreal life.
Maryanne noticed a change in her right away.
“You’re glowing, mija.” She’d cornered Daisy by the industrial pressers, dark eyes narrowed with suspicious delight. “You met a man, didn’t you?”
“No man.” Daisy laughed, the sound rare and unforced.
“What then? There’s something giving you that glow.”
The NDA worked like a gag, silencing every urge to share what had happened. Her lips sealed around a smile as she shrugged, wishing she could share her news with her friend. “I started taking a multi vitamin.” It wasn’t entirely a lie.
Every morning, Daisy willingly swallowed down that little promise of vitality with a sense of hope that hadn’t existed a week ago. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she felt almost human.
She couldn’t mess this up. If her life noticeably improved from one thousand pounds, she couldn’t imagine what it would look like after a million. Her mind was fully made up and mentally committed to The Feast. Her plan was simple—run, hide, evade, get paid.
When the second envelope arrived the same way as the first, a flash of emerald among the grey detritus of the mailbox alcove, her heart stuttered. Fingers trembling, she tore through the seal right there in the stairwell.
Your presence is confirmed.
A car will collect you on Friday at noon.
Be ready.
You may bring one small bag of personal belongings.
Leave all items of value at home.
Clothing will be provided.
Do not be late.
Do not contact anyone regarding your departure.
The Feast of the Fallen commences
Saturday evening at dusk.
Further instructions will be provided upon arrival.
* * *
May fortune forever favor you,
—J.T.
* * *
She was approved. This was really going to happen. She raced up the stairs, barely able to contain her squeak of joy.
Friday. That was five days away. So soon, yet it would take an eternity to get there. Her body was a jumble of nervous excitement and unanswered questions.
Who was J.T.? Were they a man or a woman—or an organization? Were they the founder of The Feast? Whoever they were, she was grateful to have found her way onto their mailing list.
The days that followed were the longest of her life. She walked to work, fed sheets through the press, smiled at Maryanne, deflected questions about her improving mood, and walked home. But Daisy’s perception of the world had changed. Everything seemed sharper, more vivid, as if she’d been awakened to possibilities she hadn’t known existed.
Lying in her narrow bed, too awake to sleep, she stared at the water-stained ceiling, repeating the safeword like a prayer.
“Timber. Timber. Timber…”
What if she forgot? What if, in a moment of fear, her mind went blank? She thought of every possible scenario her imagination could conjure. Mostly, she pictured herself pinned beneath a stranger’s weight, breath stolen by fear, hands trespassing like grabby thieves. She suffered the recurring thought so frequently, it inevitably became a dream. In her nightmare, her mind went blank, and the safeword dissolved like sugar in rain.
She’d read about that happening, people forgetting their own names under stress. Forgetting how to speak entirely. So she practiced the sign language version—thumb tucked between index and middle finger, fist closed, forming the signal for letter T.
She made the shape in the darkness, over and over, until her hand cramped and her eyes burned from exhaustion. When her worries screamed loudest, she got out of bed and did push-ups. The first night, she managed twelve before her arms gave out, her body collapsing onto the cold floor, chest heaving. She rolled to her back and stared at the ceiling. Twelve push-ups, and her body had already surrendered. How was she supposed to survive a hunt?
She rolled over. Pressed her palms to the floor and surged back into position on shaky arms. Every push carried more gravity as if the universe truly wanted to hold her down, but she refused to go into the unknown, weak and unprepared.
Little victories came when she pushed herself beyond her natural limits.
“Thirteen,” she ground out the number between clenched teeth, arms screaming as every muscle trembled in protest. “Four…teen.” She shut her eyes, ordering her body not to give out. “Fif…teen.”