Dysphoria and Grace: (NA Apocalypse Romance) (The Night Blind Saga Book 1) Read online

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  FORTY-ONE

  DYSPHORIA AND GRACE

  The Night Blind Saga, Book One

  by Christina Rozelle

  Quick Links

  Begin Reading

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Murray's Law

  Contact info

  Other Books by Christina

  Table of contents

  You can’t break someone

  who’s already broken

  For Jacki.

  I love you

  from the light

  to the darkness

  and back again.

  Always.

  ONE

  When I open my dresser drawer, the shattered world inside of me stirs, the shrapnel from its cyclone slicing another day’s scars. Though I’ll never be sure if my birth mother’s words were in English, they rise from every drawer I open: I don’t want her.

  I remove my tarot cards and my current read, New Age Zalaan Witchcraft, stuff them into my backpack, and check my hair and makeup in the mirror by my bed. Time to touch up the black; my brown roots are starting to show.

  I tuck Suki—my vintage black with purple accents Sig 9 mm—into her holster. The familiar weight against my hip brings me comfort, and has since Arms-Holder’s Education at sixteen. Best three months of my life.

  “Grace Anne?” My adoptive mom taps on my door. “You almost ready?”

  She thinks she can mother me because I still live here, regardless of my being nearly twenty-one.

  One last look in the mirror at my almond-shaped eyes that don’t quite match the mocha latte skin. But nothing a little black lipstick, eyeliner, and a half-bar of Xanax can’t help. Bombs away. Ready for another dark day in the land of the sheep, and home of the slaves.

  Come and get me, bitches.

  “Grace?” My adoptive mom taps again. “It’s almost nine o’clock, sweetheart.”

  “I’m an adult, remember?” I open my door. “I told you not to call me that, Eileen. It’s Ophelia.” I pass her and the sack lunch on the table on my way to the door. “It has been for years now.”

  She crosses herself, like she does every time she sees the silver, five-point star around my neck. “Have a good day, sweetheart. May the Lord bless you and keep you safe.”

  “Whatever.” I let the door slam shut behind me.

  The morning chill of early spring makes me shiver down the walkway to the garage. Our tiny backyard is filled with Eileen’s favorite pastime: plants. Big plants, little plants, plants with flowers and plants without. Some plants even have food on them. It’s a good thing Henry works his humble job as a plumber for modest wages so dear Eileen doesn’t have to lift a finger to make a decent living. She can always grow our food to compensate, right? Like that mushy fried garbage she tried feeding us last night. Mmm . . . No, thank you.

  One good kick to a nice, ripe tomato sends it flying into the garage wall, where it splats in a goopy mess that resembles my life since day one.

  My Chinese mother was either ashamed at having given birth to a girl, or I was born out of wedlock with a man that may have been half African-American and half Caucasian. Possible rape, they’d said. None of the medical staff at the foster home could pinpoint my exact mix of race, adding to the mystery around my father.

  At eleven, a year after my adoptive parents picked me up from the foster home, they told me another truth by accident, the product of one too many martinis: after I was born, my birth mother had hidden me in a dresser drawer for two days before handing me over to a stranger and muttering those magic words: I don’t want her.

  None of my pieces are familiar. Am I whole, or just separate, dangling parts?

  My phone buzzes with a message from Eve as I get into my car. Wanna hit Riverbend after? I need a new bra & some thongs

  Yeah, I need hair dye & eyeliner

  Kewl

  Come see me before u go 2 class

  Always xx

  It takes five minutes for my shitty, blue Ford Vandal to warm up before I reverse into the alley. The clanking and squealing beneath my hood is a stark reminder of why I have to get this degree. I don’t want to be a loser for the rest of my life. And I certainly don’t want to be stuck with this crappy car any longer than I have to be.

  I fumble with the radio dial, trying to get a clear satellite signal. Stupid old-ass car. Of course, when I find something clear, it’s people trying to sell me stuff I don’t want or need, or bullshit chit-chat about how screwed up the world is. As if we aren’t already aware there’s no reverse for this. All downhill from here. Who needs constant reminding?

  I switch off the radio and turn on Willow Trees on a Stormy Night in Space, my favorite downloaded playlist on my phone. The low frequency, core-thumping vibrations of bass, the sweet melody of a crystal voice against it, the visual of rage and beauty fucking and giving birth to Truth—this is my life’s soundtrack. I’m safe in my own, screwed-up little world with my music, Eve, and Suki at my side. All I need to survive.

  As the melody of Ra by Azedia—one of my favorite songs by one of my favorite artists—begins to play, the urge to sing along is there like it always is . . . But it’s smashed by years of stifling repetition. I don’t sing anymore. Singing is for people who are happy with themselves and their perfect little lives, and that’s not me. It could be why I’ve changed my major four times, finally ending up in Business Management, of all things. That right there is reason enough to never sing again. Instead, I let the emotion from her voice seep in through my pores, down to my soul and bones, where it resonates there, a dusty, unused harp.

  Five minutes of traffic-full-of-morons later, I arrive at the slummiest community college around, to even more humans of the moronic variety. An orange-graffitied penis, complete with ball sack, adorns the outside wall by the front door, and has for a week now. Gotta love good old Selam County Community College. All the spells in the world couldn’t fix this place, these people. Believe me, I’ve tried. Although the girl’s bathroom isn’t the best place to perform cleansing spells—or any spells, really. Now, curses, on the other hand . . . There have been more than a few.

  “Ophelia!” Eve wa
ves at me from the front of the Artillery-Drop line. I swipe my student ID keycard, security gate C opens to let me in, and I make my way through the crowd toward my best friend of three years, and our favorite trans girl, Jade.

  “Where’s your broomstick, witchy?” Some bitch sneers from the Other-Weapons line as I pass her.

  “Lick it, little dagger.” I tease Suki’s grip from her holster beneath my shirt.

  “Ew, gross, you wish. And your toy doesn’t scare me!” She and her gaggle tease katanas, blades, and crossbows. “I bet you’ve got crappy aim.”

  My trigger finger itches to show her how “crappy” my aim is. Damn near sniper by the second month of Arms-Holders Ed. But getting expelled isn’t on the agenda for today. Though I hate this school with the burning fire of chlamydia, Eileen and Henry have promised to help me out with a new ride once I get my associate’s degree. And when I do, I’m out of here, as far away from Selam, Texas as possible, Evie in tow.

  Gunshots pierce the sky from a few blocks away, and flocks of birds eject to flight from the trees. Handfuls of students on either side of me duck down, mind-conditioned by our One Shot and Drop drills, practiced once a month since pre-K.

  Do I duck? No. Why? Because that is the biggest load of horse shit there is. You shoot back or seek cover, but you don’t drop to the ground like a sitting duck. And they’re miles away, for fuck’s sake, you brainwashed cowards.

  Up ahead, Jade twirls in an aqua tutu that matches her pigtails perfectly. Beside her, Eve spins a black lollipop around behind bright, red lips. Her sleek, blue-black hair accents her creamy pale skin and baby blues, and as usual, I’m in awe of her porcelain beauty. As if she were plucked from the shelf of a Gothic doll shop.

  “Hey.” I give her a hug. “You look rad.”

  “Rad? Who says that anymore?” She giggles. “You’re a goofball. But thanks.”

  “Hey, honey.” Jade blows me a kiss.

  “Hey, girl.”

  She spritzes herself with body spray before leaning over Juan’s shoulder to flirt. You’d never know she was born with the wrong plumbing.

  Pair-by-pair, the crouched students stand again, and soon, the sound of sirens fills the air, as the police make their way to the first of many shooting victims for the day. But that’s Selam for you. Number three in our nation’s yearly homicides, number four in suicides, number two in crimes against women. Oh, and number seven in overpopulation, which means more dumbasses per capita, so . . . why Eileen and Henry insist on living here is beyond me. But I assume it might be because the rest of New America isn’t much better.

  The line moves again, and we get to the gun drop counter. “How are we today, Miss Grace?” The Mexican cop who’s cuffed me twice taps his clipboard when he sees me.

  “It’s Ophelia. And just fine, Officer Martinez.”

  “Are we dropping Suki?” He rolls his eyes, but I could give two shits what this asshole thinks of me.

  I slip Suki from her holster and place her on the counter, fingering the purple accents. “Yes, sir.”

  “You gonna be a good girl today?”

  “What am I, five?”

  “Miss Vincent, there’s no need for attitude.”

  “Officer Martinez, there’s no need to treat me like a fucking five-year-old.”

  He stands, both hands on the counter, and leans closer. “You asking for trouble today?”

  “No, sir. I apologize. My bad.”

  “Hurry up, Vincent!” someone yells from down the line, and I show him my middle finger, topped with chipped, black nail polish.

  “Can I go now?” I ask Officer Martinez. “Promise I’ll be a ‘good girl.’”

  I tiptoe through the door without waiting for an answer. With a sigh, he sits down again to scribble Eve’s legal name onto his clipboard as she places Jesse—her .45 with metallic purple handgrip—on the counter before heading inside to join me in the hallway.

  “See you at lunch?” she says.

  “Yup. The usual spot.”

  “K, laters.”

  We hug and go our separate ways—me to Graphic Design and her to Spanish II. The semester is half over, and only one more to go, thank the Goddess. I can’t wait to be rid of this place, my “parents” and their annoying toddler, and be on my own.

  TWO

  I meet Eve at the side door at lunchtime, and we head toward Artillery Drop to collect Suki and Jesse. From there, we exit through Security Gate K and stroll to my ride.

  “Did you hear about the vaccine our new president has mandated?” Eve asks after I start the car. She’s always spewing news. If I didn’t love her, it would give me a rash.

  “You know I hate the news.” I turn on my phone’s playlist, and the pervie parking lot attendant waves from his booth as we pass.

  “It’s some kinda crime control thing.” Eve lights a roach and takes a few puffs, then passes it to me. I inhale until the orange cherry burns my lips, then I flick it out the window, followed by an exhale of today’s perfect storm cloud from my lungs.

  “Sounds intense.” The light ahead blinks red, and I slow to a stop.

  Eve takes her daily bag of Flamin’ Hot Funyuns from her backpack and begins to eat them as she talks. “They say it’s going to eradicate crime.” She scoffs. “Can you imagine? A world without crime? This is gonna be a disaster.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  She raises an eyebrow at me, chewing, the sunlight making blue sparkles on her shoe polish hair. “Have you watched any horror or sci-fi lately, Phelia?” She purses her plump, red lips at me, then sucks the red off of her fingers. I love it when she does that.

  “The shit always hits the fan when they think they’ve found this magic thing that’s gonna cure the world.” She settles back in her seat and adjusts her push-up bra, and there’s a slight jiggle in her perky C cups. “You watch. It’ll happen.”

  “Hmm, okay. Guess we need to get together and do a protection spell. Wanna stay at my place on Friday?”

  “I want to, but I’ll have to check with Mom. Think she has something planned.”

  “Can I come?”

  “Ugh, probably not.” She gives me that you know they hate you look.

  “Does it make it better if I hate them, too? Fuckers.”

  We laugh as I pull into the Riverbend Shopping Center parking lot, with the only skyscraper around right at its center. At thirty-five stories, it’s hardly a skyscraper, but with no other tall buildings in this area, it makes it seem taller.

  I kill the ignition in our usual easy-out spot facing the exit drive, which makes for a quick getaway if we get busted. After a check to make sure my eyeliner isn’t smudged, we hide Suki and Jesse beneath the seats, and hop out of my car. If we were to get caught, we wouldn’t want them confiscated and our licenses revoked.

  We link arms and head to our first score: Connie’s Boutique.

  Two reasons I love this place: one, it’s run by idiots; and two, they have tons of rad shit. Them being idiots means I rarely pay for said rad shit. After lifting a couple of new liquid eyeliners, some Spider Eyes mascara, and a bottle of Raging Midnight hair dye, I grab a ninety-nine cent lip gloss and we head to the cashier. The old woman hardly glimpses at us as we pay the dollar and bolt. On to the next.

  If I could manage to hold a job for more than two weeks, it might be possible to buy my shit, get my own place, etcetera. But in my defense, being robbed at gunpoint at the drive-thru window of Burg’s Burgers doesn’t make me want to run out and get another job any time soon.

  After hitting the clothing store a few doors down for Eve’s undies, we leave, passing the office building, which looms over us like it’s about to fall.

  “Would you ladies come with us, please?”

  We turn, and my heart’s in my throat. Two officers in grey uniforms, guns holstered, eyeing the pockets and purse where our stolen goods reside.

  “Um, can we say no?” I offer.

  “That probably wouldn’t be the best idea,” o
ne of them says. “You’re in enough trouble as it is.”

  Damn. Should’ve lit some sage beforehand.

  The policemen escort us to an office on the ground floor. I scan the place for somewhere to toss my stash, but there’s no way in hell that’s happening. Basically, I’m screwed. Eve gives me that there’s a reason my parents hate you look, and I shrug. Not my fault we bring out the utter disregard in each other. We won’t go into the sweet little flower she was three years ago when she met me. She may have been a sweet ray of sunshine, but she was begging for night to fall.

  The officers take us into separate rooms, and mine closes the door behind me and locks it. A typical office room with white, acoustical ceiling tiles, dingy white walls, and no windows.

  “What’s your name?” the officer asks me, adjusting his belt.

  “Ophelia. What’s yours? I don’t see a badge.”

  “I’ll ask the questions. Why don’t you show me what you took from those two stores.”

  “Is that a question?”

  “Oh, we’re playing games now, are we?” He moves closer to me. “Face the wall.”

  There’s a chill inside me as he spins me around, pressing me against the wall with one hand. He uses the other to check my pockets, emptying them of my day’s scores. But he doesn’t stop there.

  His cold, callused hands invade every inch of me, and when I object, he cups my mouth, digging cold fingers beneath my pants, inside my warmth until my feet rise off the floor. “Gotta make sure there’s nothing else hidden there,” he whispers, pressing his erect dick against my ass.

  I’ve been here before.

  After a couple more hard finger jabs, he leans in close, slips his fingers into his mouth, then grips my neck, cutting off my oxygen. “If you tell anyone about this, it’ll be a lot worse next time, I promise you.”

  He pushes me toward the door, opens it to shove me out. “Go home. And don’t let me see you over here again.”

  “Where’s my friend? I’m not leaving without her.”

  “I said go home.” He palms his pistol.

  I leave the room, numb, and pass the closed door to my left, where Eve is, and head to the end of the hallway to find a place to hide until she gets out. A door clicks open behind me, and I look back to catch the fucking pervert disappear inside the room where Eve is. Now, she’s in there with both of them, and there’s nothing I can do. Because they’re the law, and I’m just a broken girl who no one will believe.