Dead Daze – Pitch-Black Second Chance – Story Fodder Read Online J.A. Huss

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Dark, Insta-Love Tags Authors: J.A. Huss Advertisement

Advertisement

I pull out the laptop, open it, and stare at the blank document on the screen.

Cursor blinking.

Waiting.

I type: Ivy pressed her back against the wall as Logan⁠—

Delete.

The curtains at Velvet Underground were⁠—

Delete.

I close the document without saving and open a browser instead, scrolling aimlessly through social media I don't post to, articles I don't finish reading, anything that looks like productivity from a distance.

People come and go around me. I watch them all. I pretend to work.

I haven't written a single fucking word since I got home from Story Island.

When the tables start filling up around noon, I pack up my laptop, leave, and walk home.

Third outfit change. Athletic leggings, sports bra, oversized tee knotted at my hip.

Grab a second backpack already pre-loaded with gear. Shove a beef stick into my mouth, eat a second one on the drive. Guzzle some water.

The gym is six blocks away, but closer to the river. I've been coming every day since I moved in to the new apartment. The front desk staff know my name. The regulars nod when I walk past the free weights.

I smile back. Wave sometimes. Ask how their weekend was.

I'm outgoing here. Friendly, even.

I'm performing normal girl who goes to the gym.

None of them know I'm just killing time.

I claim a treadmill, plug in my earbuds, and run. Again. Miles I don't need, burning energy I don't have. When my legs start shaking, I switch to the stair climber and punish myself for another thirty minutes.

I'm not training for anything.

I'm not working toward a goal.

I'm just… here.

I shower. Fourth outfit change. Strappy-back jumpsuit in lavender made of organic cotton because that kind of shit matters in the next place.

Today's yoga studio is across town.

This is where I meet men.

Soy boy feminists who've never seen a pair of handcuffs outside a joke shop. Men who say things like "I really respect your boundaries" and "consent is so important to me" with the earnest intensity of someone who's never had a dark thought in their entire life.

I've been on twelve dates since Caleb.

Twelve different men from twelve different yoga classes scattered across many different studios. Each studio has dozens of classes. I almost never run into the same guy twice unless I want to.

I don't want to.

One date, maybe two if he's boring enough to be safe.

Never a third.

Today's class is at 4 PM in a studio I've only been to twice before. I recognize no one, which is perfect. I unroll my mat in the back corner and sink into child's pose while the instructor dims the lights and starts the playlist—something with chimes and a woman's voice humming.

I'm surprisingly flexible these days.

All that running. All that gym time. All those hours spent anywhere but in my own head.

I flow through the poses on autopilot. Downward dog. Warrior two. Triangle. My body bends and stretches and holds, and I feel absolutely nothing.

After class, I eat a take-out salad in my car, then drive to the community center on the east side.

Not to a "I'm a sick submissive who gets off on men coming on dead bodies" support group, because those don't exist.

To a divorced women's support group.

They don't check ID at the door, and no one asks follow-up questions when you say you're "going through something" so I sit in the circle of folding chairs and listen to the stories.

Margaret's ex-husband emptied their bank accounts and moved to Florida with his dental hygienist.

Sharon's fighting for custody of her kids even though she supports the family and her ex hasn't worked a job since he made sandwiches in college.

Linda just wants to know if it's normal to cry every time she sees a couple holding hands at the grocery store.

I like the stories.

I'm ashamed of this.

I'm ashamed that I sit here, pretending to belong, harvesting other people's pain like research notes for a book I'll never write.

But I come back anyway.

I have a whole list of them set up all across the city. This and the yoga was the whole reason I bought myself a new Jeep. Black, lifted, aggressive muddy tires the size of small planets. Something that screams "I belong here, I'm one of you, I've always been local"—which is technically true, but also the most pathetic kind of lie. Because I don't leave town. I don't venture into the Tetons for hikes or climbs.

I hoard support groups like they're gold and yoga classes like they might save me.

I've attended every 'Anonymous' group within twenty miles over the past six months. Depression groups. Illness support circles. Grief counseling. Addiction recovery. Trauma survivors. I don't discriminate.

If it eats hours in my day, I'm in.

When the session ends, I slip out before anyone can ask how I'm doing.

Home again. Third shower of the day.

I stand under the spray until the water runs cold, then wrap myself in a towel and crawl into bed.


Advertisement

Advertisement