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Back Black Ambrosia Save as PDF
Chapters (46)
  1. CoverImage
  2. Introduction by Grady Hendrix
  3. Acknowledgments
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. About the Author
  46. About the Cover

“Because I didn’t want school. And I didn’t want work. I didn’t want the same old friends and the same old place to live, right near my old man and Bill, anymore. I was hunting something new in my life. Angelina was just the symbol of that. I was ready for a change from Westwater and all it had to offer, which wasn’t much.

“No, this hunt had become something more to me. I was pursuing the bizarre, the strange, the threatening, the exciting. I was pursuing a quarry that was smart, through an element that was uncertain. It was the most exciting thing of my life.

“And I wasn’t about to ‘come back with nothin’.’ The next time I saw Westwater, I would be a different man.”

26

26

I awoke again at sundown. The bed was soaked with my bodily excretions; my skin was chapped and sore where the leather straps had held the acidic moisture to my skin. The room smelled of the things I imagined a well-­used prison cell to hold—urine, sweat, pain, and disgust.

I was alone.

Slowly, each minor movement a major difficulty, I slipped out of bed onto the floor. The gray-­brown carpet was worn through to its string weave in a path from the door to the bed, and from the bed around to the bathroom. Using the bed as support for my aching legs, I pulled myself to my feet and shakily walked to the bathroom, my entire being feeling violated and desecrated.

I showered until I felt dizzy, scrubbing every inch of my body, trying to scour away the feeling of the old woman’s probing fingers, but the memories clung too deeply. I scrubbed, opening the scabs on my arm, and blood mixed with soap and shampoo and water and swirled down the drain in the stained shower floor.

The tears came when I knew I couldn’t scrub deep enough, and I leaned against the cold shower stall, sliding soapily down as my poor knees gave way under the weight of my sobs. I sat in the bottom, hard spray pelting the top of my head and shoulders, and I cried with all the strength I had left. I knew I was paying for my sins, I knew that I had deserved everything Rosemary dished out, and probably more. I wailed and sobbed and shook my feeble fist at God, and finally I just cried.

Eventually, my strength for self-­pity was ex­hausted, and so was the hot water. I reached up and turned it off, then pulled the curtain aside and used it to help balance me as I straightened out my deterio­rating legs. A fresh towel was on the sink, and next to it stood all the necessary toiletries as well as some light makeup, lipstick, eyeshadow, mascara. I dried the shivers from my skin with the towel and wrapped it around me.