The Hunted

T
he Hunted

Copyright © 2016 by HJ Bellus.

Edited by: Kathy Krick

Formatting: HJ Bellus

Cover Designer: Golden Czermak @FuriousFotog

Photographer: Golden Czermak @FuriousFotog

Cover Model: Adam Spahn

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of HJ Bellus.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

T
o my Uncle Harve
who is more like my older brother and my Aunt Becky. For always loving me and accepting me. From stealing mudballs to rocking out to AC/DC…love you guys!

H
ate
and discontent brew and simmer over the years. He was perfect and I was, well, just me. Always compared to perfection but never asked for the analysis. Family, neighbors, and teachers all gave their input but how do you ever measure up to perfection?

You don’t. You just survive. It may be dark and haunted, but it’s the only way you know. You taint your skin with ink to look different from the picture perfect child. Your skin sacrifices scars to set yourself apart. Survival has become the game, and you’re the victor.

But when the perfect beat to a song is your life, and you follow it because it’s the only thing that you’ve felt comfortable with … you fall to the dark side and feel at home.

Hostility. Anger. Rage. All storm within me as I’ve sat day after day in this hellhole for a crime I didn’t commit. I’m no fucking angel and have my fair share of blood on my hands, but I was clearly set up. I’m thirsty for revenge and to put some monsters to rest.

Prison has gifted me with even more scars, tarnished my spirit, and only fueled my fire to seek out the truth. I just hope whomever is on the other side of the truth is ready for hell to rain down on them.

The crunch of the gravel under my sole is my first taste of freedom as I raise both hands, raise my middle finger and walk down the long drive out of the state penitentiary.

And it’s the same dream that plays out every night when sleep comes. I’ll kill the fucker who set me up, and I’ll do it with a fucking grin on my face.

Blood is everywhere but mainly covering both of my hands. The final pulse of the man below beats for the last time. I quickly conceal the bag of meth, not worrying about the man. My vision darts around the dark alleyway. Sirens fill the night air while the overpowering stench of rotting garbage and the metallic smell from the blood overwhelms me, causing me to gag.

My head spins for a second before I realize I’m covered in blood, but I didn’t take his life. I’ve sliced skin before and bashed skulls in, but this is not on me. Common sense kicks in before I nab the man’s cell phone and take off down the alley.

My boss will want to know who the hell he was and who he was talking to. My feet pound the pavement of the alley as puddles of water splash up to my calves and the red and blue lights flash in my face, and I’m thrown down to the pavement.

M
usty air fills
the tiny apartment while the wooden floor creaks. I fear for my life every moment as I tentatively creep to my lonely and very dingy fridge. I’ve merely been surviving in this rat infested hellhole for a complete seven days. Yet, I know at any time I’ll fall straight through the floor into the depths of hell–alive–only to be discovered when my rotting corpse starts smelling and the neighbors reluctantly call the cops due to the scent of rotting flesh.

“Stop, Bay,” I scold myself, as I whip open the refrigerator. I mean, it’s a bit dramatic coming from an overly sheltered kid trying to be a real life adult. The majority of young adults my age are more than likely participating in a kegger or a rager or whatever it’s called at a frat. The girls with luscious tits doing headstands on the kegs while I’m afraid to fucking scurry to my damn fridge.

All I can say is thank God for modern television, my mother spotting the cable guy with his monthly pot, and romance novels. Without those pages flipped or scenes viewed in the dark within the confines of my room, I’d really be a real mother-fucking hermit. I never say the F bomb. I guess it only appears in my head when my mother-trucking fridge creeps me the F bomb out.

Courage built up, I tiptoe across the scummy, chilling tile floor only to view the contents of an empty fridge. My stomach growls, or rather howls in protest. The bitch is hungry and needs to be fed a meal. A full-blown dinner with piping hot food ranging from spuds to meatloaf. Even the shit tofu and mystery green shit spread across my plate as a child sounds appetizing right now and nearly causes me to salivate on the spot. I know it’s the big O everyone talks about, but in my state of mind and hunger, it’s as if the big O is about to visit, leaving me full and satisfied … of food that is.

A tipped over box of baking soda, half a bottle of flat Mountain Dew, and an old take out container holding moldy Chinese food stare back at me.

Flipping open the cupboard, I reach for the last mini bag of microwave popcorn and heat it up, feeling like a real fucking champ. I’m beginning to realize nothing makes you feel more like a complete loser than empty cupboards. Well, at least I never wanted for food while growing up. My phone rings before the microwave beeps at me.

“Hello,” I answer in my very best British accent, knowing it could only be one person, Ivy, my best and only friend.

“Good day, Cracker Jo.”

I bust out laughing at her greeting and adore hearing my nickname roll off her tongue.

“What do you want?” I plop down on the single piece of furniture in the living room, which happens to be an old and very loved rusty orange oversized chair.

“A dinner date. I’m on my way to pick your sweet little ass up.”

“No deal. I’m broke, remember. I just moved into the city.”

“You can wash dishes or give the cook a blowjob. You’ll probably have to swallow though if you want dessert.”

“Ivy, that’s gross.” I wrinkle my nose, knowing she’d know what it was like to swallow.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes and it’s my treat. I’m worried about you becoming a goddamn hobo in that apartment of yours. You’ll be on the streets turning tricks before you know it.”

I try to explain to her that a hobo would be on the sidewalks and not in this mansion of mine, but she hangs up on me. Another thing I’m used to with Ivy is that she marches to the beat of her own drum, never allowing anyone to change her plans. She’s a force to be reckoned with, and I’m thankful she’s on my side.

I try my best to seal the cooked bag of popcorn using a thin line of water on the top the bag, squeezing it shut and folding over the top. Nothing is worse than stale popcorn, and nothing makes you feel poorer than trying to reseal a bag of microwave popcorn. Selling blowjobs on the corner would probably double my account, but do women sell blowjobs? Would I need to get business cards? I crack up at my joke, letting my laughter echo around the empty apartment.

A rust stained bathroom sink and cracked vanity mirror may rival saving popcorn on the poor factor, but at least it’s fresh water flowing from the faucet. My exhausted reflection stares back at me in the mirror. Puffy eyes with the blue pupils barely peering back, flushed cheeks, and a mop of raven black curls almost force me to look away until I realize it’s me staring back in the reflection.

I’ve never wanted a handout and by God, we all know my own mother has her own way of living, but student loans right about now sound perfect. I’d never let Ivy know this. She would sing her version of the told you so game all the way to my grave.

The city air definitely doesn’t play nice with my curls. The humidity loves fucking them up, sending frizz and volume to all new levels. Within fifteen minutes of stepping out into Mother Nature, it’s as if I’ve stuck a piece of wire into an electrical outlet.

Quickly, I pull it all back, slicking it down with serum and rub some moisturizer on my face. Ivy will show up with perfect manufactured curls, lashes for days, and flawless makeup, but she’ll love me the same in my organic state. I’ve never been much of the makeup girly frilly type. A little bronzer and mascara were the extent of my makeup collection.

I riffle through my clothes trying to find pants with the least amount of holes and a top that doesn’t scream flower child. When I get my first paycheck, I’ll definitely be stocking my fridge and buying some new clothes.

With five minutes to spare, I hear a loud knock on the door and a crazy lady screaming. Given the environment of my new pad, I might have shit and died of a heart attack on the spot, but I recognize Ivy’s voice on the other side of my paper-thin door.

“Welcome.” I throw open the door and my free arm showcases off my castle.

I stand back and watch as she takes in the place. I have to give it to her and the perfect poker face she holds the entire time. She roams into the bathroom and the one tiny bedroom and does a final twirl in the living room.

“I still don’t understand why you won’t just move in with me, Bay.” She flops down on the rusty orange chair.

“I want my own place.”

“You,” she steps up to me, dusting off the invisible germs from my chair, and starts putting my curls into place, “should be living with me and attending college since you finally escaped the cult.”

“Shut up.” I swat her hand away from me. “That’s why I want to live alone for a while, experience life and save up money to start art school.”

“One, you’ll never save up enough money, so you might as well go into debt like the rest of us American age college students and two, you’re weird for wanting to live here.”

“And three.” I mimic her voice. “I’m hungry, let’s go.”

“Stubborn butt munch,” she mutters as she opens the door with a little too much gusto, sending the knob flying into the sheetrock.

“Holy shit, Ivy, you’re always destroying things.” My mouth drops as the dust from the crumbled sheetrock falters down to the wooden floor.

“I have a friend who can fix it.” She shrugs and skips down the sidewalk and right past the other rows of brick one-story crumbling apartments.

It’s always been like this since I can remember. She’s carefree, happy, and silly while I’m the odd one. I don’t even know how to begin explaining myself. Reaching for the rusted doorknob, I shake my head again at her and start locking the door. A loud clatter to the right of me goes off, followed by cursing.

A man wearing a hoodie struggles to unlock the apartment right next to mine, and he’s not shy about the words flying from his mouth. I stare unable to focus on anything else until he looks up at me with icy blue eyes and a stone-cold expression on his face. I force myself to nod politely but remain frozen with embarrassment bathing my cheeks. He’s fucking gorgeous and perfect like a Greek god, his strong jawline framing his perfect face. Some artist out there needs to paint him.

His jawline is prominent, but it’s his eyes I keep going back to. A blaring horn goes off behind me, causing me to jump and scream. My keys fly into the air, and I stumble back and that’s when I hear Ivy’s laughter. Scrambling to the ground, I grab my keys and jog off to her car, not looking back at the stranger.

My pounding heart drowns out any other noise. I wring my fingers out, trying to steady them long enough to open the car door.