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Chapter 1
Astra
The orange cartoon cat claims to hate Mondays. He’s a cat. What can he possibly hate about Mondays?
It’s not like his alarm blares at 4:45 A.M. Nor does he have to take a cold shower because the landlord still hasn’t fixed the leaking hot water pipe. The same landlord who claims the dark stain on the bathroom ceiling is just peeling paint and not, in fact, toxic black mold. I might not have finished high school, but peeling paint stains rarely have something furry blooming in the middle.
Certain that breathing in mold spores isn’t good for people, I spend as little time in the bathroom as possible. The cold shower helps in that regard, making me dash in and out within two minutes.
I’m stuck with dry shampoo because I refuse to suffer brain damage from pouring icy cold water over my head. It’s bad enough that by the time I finish my shower, my teeth are chattering and my nipples are so hard they could pierce holes through my flimsy towel.
I scowl at the half-empty drawer that contains my entire wardrobe. I need a new shirt. A new towel. A new fucking toothbrush. One that doesn’t look like a dog chewed on it.
I need a new life.
Most of all, I need money. Something that is always in very short supply, which means that I can’t afford to be late for work.
I spend the next hour on a cramped bus, impersonating a sardine, just to arrive right on time for my shift. My first shift of the day, anyway.
Restocking supermarket shelves isn’t the most glorious job imaginable, but they pay decent money and are willing to overlook my not entirely clean record. It took a lot of convincing and a stellar blowjob performance on the manager, but I got the job. Totally worth it.
Even though my supermarket shifts leave me with aching muscles and a desire to sleep for a week, I still like them better than my other job. Waitressing at the Round Joint pays better, but it also means I have to endure a constant barrage of sleazy looks and indecent remarks.
The Joint has a strict “no touching” policy, but it also has a strict “large cleavage and tiny shorts” policy for the waitresses, which inevitably means someone is constantly trying to cop a feel of either my ass or my tits, or both. Don’t get me wrong, I’d endure it if they tipped well, but the tips suck. Just like the job.
If I didn’t need the money so badly, I would have given the manager my middle finger and high-tailed it out of there without ever looking back.
Speaking of money… My phone rings and I know, even without looking at the screen, who the caller is. I groan in dismay.
It’s after midnight and I’m heading home to get a few precious hours of shuteye before starting my Tuesday. Newsflash: Tuesdays suck just as much as Mondays. The last thing my poor, tired brain needs is my mother’s passive aggressive whining. But I can’t make myself reject the call. What if this time she really does need something important?
I haven’t been raised well. Hell, I practically raised myself, and it shows. But even I know you don’t hang up on your own mother.
I frown down at my cracked phone screen before tapping on it. “Yes, Mom?”
“Sweetheart!” a voice screeches from the other end, making me wince. I pull the phone further away from my ear as my mother blabbers on. “It’s sooo good to hear your voice! How’s my little girl doing?”
I roll my eyes at her cheerful tone. Weed, no doubt. My mother has a long history with all kinds of addictions. Weed is the least of it. It still irks me, though. “Heading home from work, Mom,” I answer, doing my best to keep the annoyance out of my voice. “It’s late and I’m tired.”
“Of course, of course. Work, hmm? Pays well? You’re such a good girl.”
“Hmm,” I hum, waiting for her to get to the point, even though I already know what that point is. It’s the same as always.
“So, listen, sweetheart… I’m a bit behind with rent. Just a little, but the manager said—”
The phone creaks as I grip it tighter. All thoughts of being respectful to one’s parents vanish from my head, replaced by anger. “Yeah, Mom, so what? I’m barely keeping up with my own rent. I don’t have any money for you. You’d blow it on drugs, anyway. Or give it to Richard.”
“Oh no, I don’t live with Richard anymore. The cops took him. He’s a criminal, can you imagine?!”
I can imagine. I could imagine that about Richard and much, much worse. I just don’t have the desire right now to waste any brain cells on doing so. “Mom, please. Get a job and pay your own bills. I have nothing to give you.”
“But sweetheart! You know how hard it is for me to find a job when you know I have a criminal record! Thanks to those stupid cops, I can’t even—”
“YES MOM! I know exactly how fucking hard it is to get a job with a record! I have one too, remember? All thanks to you, Mom. What a great start to life you’ve given me,” I snort. I’ve had enough. “I’m sorry, Mom, but you can’t keep leeching off me anymore. Get your life straight and then, maybe, we can talk again. Until then, don’t call me, I won’t call you.”
“But—”
I end the call before my mother can launch into one of her tearful tirades in order to gaslight me into giving her money. Been there, done that. Many, many times. Not this time.
