The Rabbit Hole

By Amiya Powell

The young and precocious Alexia has spent two years battling for survival on the streets of New York City. Dabbling in everything from drugs to prostitution, she is a lost soul wandering the urban wilderness. The only thing that can save her is to know someone cares. Anyone at all. Her fortunes seem to take a turn for the better when she meets the charming YiYi Cash, but the opportunity of a lifetime comes with a hefty price tag.

Ever since Ming was recruited by an underground organization that caters to the wealthy, her sister YiYi hasn't heard a word from her. The authorities have no interest in another missing hooker, so it is up to YiYi to find her. A savant with a gift for puzzles, YiYi is suddenly plagued by strange visions that put her skills and sanity to the ultimate test. In a scheme to rescue her sister, she takes advantage of the desperate and trusting Alexia, leading them both into a dark web of secrets more frightening than either could have imagined.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amiya Powell
• Release date: May 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370082575

Book preview

Prologue

MK Ultra was a top secret program developed by the CIA in the late 1940s to research methods of mind control on human beings. The experiments involved administering drugs, torture and psychological abuse on unwitting subjects. After coming under Congressional scrutiny in the 1970s, the program was terminated and most of the records were destroyed. Allegedly.

CHAPTER 1

March 14, 1999

Mr. Barret Groh, the acting liaison for the Society of Names, was a dashing sort, a throwback from an era where murder and politics were conducted with class. Whether he was coming to kiss you or kill you, he did so impeccably groomed and in an Armani suit. He wasn't a label whore by any means; it was just a damn good suit. He arrived at the office of Countess Veronique des Valentines to give her some particularly interesting news. He could have called, but he much preferred to handle such matters in person. Or perhaps it was just an excuse to see her.

I'm starting to believe you've made a deal with the devil, he remarked. You look younger every time I see you, skin like chocolate cream. What's that saying again? Black don't crack?

The Countess despised Mr. Groh, but her job required she tolerate him. She sat up stiffly in her chair, with her lips pursed so tightly, she was in grave danger of swallowing her cheeks. And what he'd come to tell her would not put her at ease. The Society of Names, the organization for which she'd served as chief operating officer for the past seven years, was in the process of adding a medical research division. It was slated to be run by Dr. Ider Bragg, the former head of Seventh Generation. When a scandal broke over its unethical medical practices, Seventh Generation vanished into obscurity. The company lost millions in private funding, and was ultimately bankrupted by a carousel of legal proceedings. The press compared Dr. Bragg to Josef Mengele, the infamous SS physician who performed horrifying medical experiments on concentration camp victims. Due in no small part to the CIA, Dr. Bragg was acquitted of all charges. All that was needed for him to continue his work, was someplace far from the prying eyes of the world. Where better than the Society's own hallowed halls? The CIA had been pumping information from it for years because of its easy access to high profile clientele. The clothes came off and the secrets came out.

Countess, you do understand you'll still be very much in charge here? We want you to continue running things just as you always have. What you've done here is remarkable. No one's denying that.

This much was true. Society girls were renowned as the finest in the world and always in high demand. This was because the Countess treated her work as an edict from God. She was not a pimp turning out whores; she was a master artisan creating modern day geishas. And she was protective of her girls, like a mother bear over her cubs. With the addition of the medical research division, all staff, excluding primary personnel, would be used as test subjects. The Countess could not in good conscience support subjecting her staff to being government guinea pigs, especially not at the hands of a madman like Dr. Bragg. That is why she had to inform Mr. Groh that she would be stepping down from her position. Mr. Groh balked at this. She was looking at it all wrong, he said. Governments had been experimenting on their own people for eons. America was no different. The Tuskegee Airmen study had become the most publicized incident, but it wasn't the first and it wouldn't be the last. In fact, it wasn’t even the worst.

You really need to think this through, Mr. Groh said, doing his best to make it sound like a suggestion. We need you on board Countess, not just for your skill as a leader and a teacher, but to serve as a sort of moral compass. You see, there's a lot of money at stake in the hopes Dr. Bragg can deliver great things, but what these investors don't want is to have their fingerprints anywhere near the atrocities that buried Seventh Generation. Now of course the good doctor is going to skate that line, but we need you to make sure he doesn't cross it. That isn't a job for me. I personally lack your humanitarian spirit and couldn’t care less what happens to those overindulged, painted gutter rats you treat like children. Without you, this place will descend into chaos, and down the rabbit hole we'll go.

The Countess was speechless. Mr. Groh grabbed a handful of raspberries from a bowl of fresh fruit on the desk, and ate them one by one. Absolutely delicious, he said, letting his gaze settle at her décolletage. But I can’t deny, I’ve always preferred black. The Countess straightened her blazer and crossed her legs, which greatly amused Mr. Groh. He so enjoyed a game of cat and mouse.

Besides, he continued, "you'll never be able to just walk away from this place. You know too much. You’ve seen the best of it, haven’t you? I'll take Presidents Who Like it Up the Ass for $500, Alex. He laughed long and hard at his own joke, actually wiping away a tear. Oh God, remember that prime minister, the somnophiliac? Liked the girls to pretend they were sleeping while he felt them up? And the princess…My god, wasn’t she a magnificent mess. A smirk taunted the edge of his lips as he delighted in the memory of one of the Society’s most fascinating clients. The first time he’d read through her list of fetishes, he blushed like a schoolboy. He certainly wasn’t unaccustomed to such kink, but the source was more than a little surprising. She always looked so prim and proper in the tabloid photos. Remember, Countess? White gloves, curtsies, the whole bit. And who would’ve guessed she loved nothing more than a plump blonde with a hairy cunt to service all those perversions? Delectable really." The Countess remained stone- faced, her empty stare focusing on a point just beyond Mr. Groh’s shoulder. She would not engage him beyond what was necessary, and that did not include a trip down memory lane. Mr. Groh leaned back in his chair, surveying the room while his thoughts traveled to another time. He and the Countess had been friends once, before they’d been forced to choose sides. Now, it was her vs. everyone else. What was she trying to prove?

"Veronique, your clients would never feel safe knowing you were roaming free with that kind of information. You know that. You’ve always known that. You will be watched for the rest of your life. Then of course, there's the CIA's involvement in a place that's supposed to be neutral ground. Leaving isn’t an option for you. Even if we didn't kill you, I guarantee someone else would."

CHAPTER 2

Present Day

My Name is Alexia and I am Homeless…

Children can feel when something is not quite right. Once I'd figured out I didn't belong, I spent my childhood searching for clues to secure the belief. The evidence was everywhere: in the hushed tones that followed my name at family gatherings, in the odd looks from my aunt and uncle as though they expected I might turn into something right before their eyes, in the way my grandmother hovered over me when I was in her care, scarcely allowing me to be three feet out of sight. Don't get me wrong, my family had never shown me anything but love, but it wasn't enough to hide the distance between us.

The only person I felt really close to was my little sister Esmeralda, Esme for short. She was an old soul, wise beyond her years and capable of understanding me when others did not. When I was sad, she would have me draw to work through my feelings. The pictures, she said, could say what we could not. I have no idea where she picked this up. Afterward, she would interpret my drawings for answers about what was bothering me. Then she would hang my work on the fridge. I found the whole thing so entertaining, it usually snapped me out of whatever mood I was in. And honestly, her analyses were pretty spot on. It was weird. I was the second child of five. My older brother Liam and I had the same father, but mere mention of this sperm donor’s name was like a curse in our household. I'd seen a picture of him once. Liam was his spitting image. I didn't look anything like him, or my mother, or anyone else in my family for that matter. They were all hopelessly pale and blonde, and then there was me.

What a lovely tan she has, an elderly woman at church remarked once. And that beautiful, thick hair. I'm sure you have quite a time getting the knots out, quipped another. I was probably about four or five. I vividly remember my mother loudly and rudely telling them to go fuck themselves. I was so confused. I thought they were complimenting me. We didn't go back to church after that, but something strange happened. My grandmother started dyeing my hair. I was happy at the time. I wanted so badly to look like my mother and siblings. I remained a bottle blonde until I was seventeen, but I knew there was something incredibly fucked up going on. I often wondered if maybe I was the product of a rape. My mother was the type who would keep the baby. It made sense. Why else would they treat me the way they did? Always hiding me, hovering over me and making excuses for me. I was damaged in some way, but no one would tell me how.

When I was twelve, my mother met a successful entrepreneur named Ian Galloway when he was in Arizona on business. A broken foot landed him in the E.R. where a dedicated nurse caught his eye. At first my mother refused his advances. A single mother of four, she had little time for games. Ian however, was relentless in his affections. He convinced her that she was all he wanted. He soon became a common presence in our home, meddling in our lives with the tenacity of one who would stick around for the long haul. Four years later he still hadn’t gotten divorced from his wife. It was never the right time, you see. He convinced my mother that if we lived closer, things would be different. The next thing you know, we packed up and moved across the country. We were only thirty minutes away from Ian, but we saw him even less. My mother was heartbroken, starting over in a new city and pregnant by a married man who wanted nothing to do with her. And then came my own moment of truth. It solidified everything I'd always felt. She sat me down one day, and tearfully told me I would be going back to Arizona to live with my grandparents. She hadn't anticipated how expensive it would be to live in Manhattan, and could no longer afford to take care of all of us. My older brother and I worked to help out, but it just wasn't enough to make ends meet. It would only be temporary, she said. She never explained why I had to be the one to go, and I never asked. I was supposed to leave at the end of the week, but I went for a walk that night, and just never went back.

At nineteen, I'd been living on the street for almost two years. If you try, you can get used to anything. My current residence was an abandoned lot in Brooklyn, with a bunch of other homeless people. It was a popular destination for vagrants in-the-know, but far enough away from the subway that the riffraff were seldom willing to make the trek. Beneath a long, stone roof, a collection of metal stalls once home to a flea market, provided space and privacy to the forgotten. The gate still had a big wooden sign out front that read: International Bazaar! A few times a month, a guy named Dylan would show up with these spectacularly fancy meals. When he pulled up in his delivery truck, the camp would start buzzing like children at Christmas. We would line up at the entrance of the lot, and a chunky, cheerful fellow they called Tuba, would serve as Dylan’s helper. After setting up a plastic picnic table, Dylan and Tuba would serve everyone until all of the food was gone. The first time I laid eyes on Dylan, I was smitten. He was tall and muscular, with a dazzling smile. As I watched him today, setting up the food and chatting with the natives, I knew there was no way I was getting on that line. It would be too embarrassing. I looked like a ragdoll, and I hadn’t had a shower in two days. Wasn’t going to happen.

"Oh yes you is gettin’ on that line, threatened Myra, a sixty five year old woman with more moxie than teeth, and my only friend in this urban wilderness. I’m hungry and I’m not fixin’ to walk my old ass up there. I stood my ground, glaring at my makeshift parent with my arms folded. Go on Mrs. America," she chided, giving me a shove out of the stall.

Mrs. America was her nickname for me because she said I was as lovely as a pageant queen. Maybe to her, but I didn’t see myself as anything special. At just under 5’7, I was pretty slim, except for my boobs, which seemed to crop up out of nowhere. There must be a boob fairy ‘cause you did not get those from me, my mother used to tease, hunching her shoulders to emphasize her own flat chest. My hair was an untamable mess of curls that hung to my waist. It had grown out so much that the blonde I used to keep up religiously, was now only on the ends. The only thing I did like were my lips, full and pouty with a cupid’s bow. As a treat, I would go to the makeup counters in Macy’s and try on tons of different lipsticks. The women at the Clinique counter were always nicest. They knew I didn’t have any money, but they played along. Sometimes if they weren’t busy, they would even do my whole face. It was nice to have them all fawning over me and telling me how pretty I was, but I thought they were just being polite because they felt sorry for me. One time, the manager Kiki, who I'm pretty sure used to be a man, asked me if I was Black or Hispanic. It wasn't the first time someone asked that, just never so frankly. I usually answered with No, I’m German, Irish and Scottish, but that time I responded truthfully. I’m not sure.

Myra continued grumbling about how hungry she was, and how I didn't appreciate her. Fine Myra, I'll go, I muttered. I skulked up to the line, praying that Tuba would be the one to serve me so that I could at least pretend like I didn’t see Dylan. No such luck. When I got to the front of the line, Tuba was happily waiting on a family of four. Hey, Dylan said enthusiastically. He flashed that smile and I went mute. All I could manage was a wave. I grabbed two paper plates from the stack and held them out for the food, while trying to will my brain to work. Are you here a lot? he asked, wincing immediately after. It was a ridiculous question to ask a homeless person. Wow, sorry. That’s not what I meant. I mean… His voice trailed off and the color began rising to his cheeks. I couldn’t believe it! He was nervous about talking to me too. My stomach fluttered.

Alexia, I blurted out. With the full plates in hand, I turned on my heels and raced back to the stall, my face hot with embarrassment. Why did I shout out my name like that? I didn’t dare turn around. And thus began our courtship. A few awkward encounters later, and we could finally look each other in the eye and enjoy casual chat. Every time I spoke to Dylan, I was giddy. Sometimes he would stop by just to say hello. Other times he would bring me fruit and cake. He told me that if I was looking for a job he could use some help, but I was too embarrassed to take him up on it. I wasn't even sure what he did for a living and anyway, I was doing ok.

You need to get up wit’ that fine ass white boy an’ get off these streets baby girl, bellowed Myra, as we waited our turn at one of the city’s last communal showers. It was a hike, but it was worth it. He's crazy about you. Reel him in and you could be Mrs. Fine Ass White boy. A bystander nodded her head in agreement, and they began jabbering on about how different life would be if they were still young and pretty. I wasn't interested in any of that. I'd already been down that road with Henry Dufresne.

Henry Dufresne was a gorgeous Black man, with hazel eyes and a hard body. What made him stand out even more than his looks was his Australian accent. American women went nuts over it, and couldn’t keep their feet on the floor. Married to a wealthy older woman, he traded a few minutes of his time each day for access to her inheritance. Would you believe he hired me as a housekeeper? Under the disparaging eye of his prune-faced wife, I cooked and cleaned like Cinderella. Dame Dufresne was usually busy with charities, luncheons and the various other social gatherings of the privileged and powerless. I did my best to stay out of her way and make sure she had nothing to complain about. I was paid $35 a week. The rest they felt was supplemented by room and board. I know, criminal, but go without food for three days and then tell me what you will and will not do. Henry helped me get a P.O. Box so I’d have an address even if I moved around. Even though I wasn’t supposed to, I started keeping money in it. I figured I wouldn’t be getting any mail, at least not in the near future, so who would know I was using it as a bank? I was so happy to have a job and a place to live, nothing could shake me.

Before long, Henry made his real intentions clear. What he truly wanted was a live in mistress. It started innocently enough, but sideways glances and friendly pats quickly blossomed into much more. I would get out of the shower, and he would be there waiting, begging for just a taste. He wasn't a very good kisser, but my hormones didn't care. I need you, he would say, running his hands all over my wet body. I usually resisted his advances, making up one excuse or another. I don't have sex without condoms, was the last one. The next time he stormed in on me, he made sure to have one. Damn. I stood there in my towel, dripping in more ways than one. I couldn't hold out any longer and he knew it. He pushed me up against the wall and started kissing me and licking my breasts. I was feverish with lust, undoing his pants in a frenzy to get to what I'd been craving since we'd first locked eyes. He lifted my naked body onto the bathroom sink. He was rough, battering his thickness into me like a conqueror staking his claim. I was being much too loud for the clandestine affair, and a panicked hand rose to my mouth, his eyes pleading for my silence. I tried to be quiet, but each thrust penetrated to the end of me. I wrapped my legs around his waist to receive all of him, not wanting it to end. You're mine now, he whispered, pressing me tightly to him. And I was. Who else did I belong to?

After we'd had our fill, we laid down on a towel he'd spread out on the floor. I lay my head on his chest, listening to the sound of his heart beating, feeling in the contrived closeness much more than what it was. There we stayed until Dame Dufresne’s movement in the halls forced us to part. We crept back to our quarters separately so as not to rouse suspicion. Just a few hours later, it was time for me to begin my housework. I was completely exhausted, but it didn’t matter because my spirit was energized. That first tryst was the opening of Pandora’s Box, unleashing all kinds of devilish behavior in me. Henry and I simply couldn’t get enough of each other, stealing moments of passion whenever we could. When I wasn’t with him, all I could think about was seeing him again. When he would leave, I would stand at the window like a puppy unsure if its master would return.

Alexis! I whirled around to see Madame red with rage, her chubby hands astride her hips. It definitely wasn’t the time to correct her on my name. Where is my dry cleaning? I have an engagement and I need my teal chiffon blouse! Oh shit. I'd definitely forgotten to drop it off. Spending so much time with Henry, I'd been forgetting to do a lot of things lately. Maybe I could just slip the blouse into some dry cleaning plastic and make her think it had been cleaned. I mean, she’d only worn it last time for a few hours and she was a smoker anyway.

I’m sorry. I just need to run out and grab it. Why don’t you hop in the shower and I’ll be back before you get out. Without waiting for a reply, I flew downstairs, slammed the door like I had left, and waited a few minutes. I couldn’t actually hear if Madame was in the shower from downstairs. If I ran into her, I’d make up something. When I reached the landing, I heard the water running. I snatched a dry cleaning cover off something else, and arranged the blouse in the plastic. It had no visible stains but reeked of cigarettes. Damn it! She would definitely notice but what could I do now? I hung it on her bedroom door, and hoped for the best. I hated that I'd messed up. I went to the kitchen and began scrubbing the floors, waiting for the fury of Madame’s disapproval. Nearly a half hour passed and finally, she walked down the stairs and left out the front door. I exhaled. The incident should have made me more careful, but it had the opposite effect. I'd gotten away with something I shouldn't have. Now I felt invincible.

One morning, I brought breakfast into the den where Madame was reading the newspaper. Although in her forties, just a decade beyond Henry, everything about her seemed much older. Her face was riddled with lines from an excess of cigarettes and sun, and her clothing had enough pomp and puff for the mother of the bride. Today she wore a flowery blouse with a ruffled collar that came up high around her pudgy face. With her large, popping eyes, she reminded me of a pug in a post-surgery cone. She watched me set the tray down, her eyes tracing my every move like a lizard preying on an insect. A sharp, tinny chime cut through the tension. I looked up to see Henry behind the piano. Our eyes met and I drank in the sweetness of the exchange. When I turned back to Madame, I found that cold, reptilian stare still upon me. As I poured the juice and prepared the tea, I was shaking.

When Henry requested my presence at the piano, I welcomed the escape from Madame’s relentless gaze. I sat down on the bench next to him, watching his fingers dance across the keys. He belted out the chorus to a rap song in a great operatic baritone, and we erupted into childish laughter. As we continued our haughty revelry, I noticed him growing harder by the second. I peeked above the piano. Madame was engrossed in the newspaper. Should I dare? Beneath my skirt, I was aching for him. I slowly unzipped his pants and with one swift motion, swallowed up his throbbing prick, squeezing my throat around it. Once it was nice and slippery, I teasingly ascended, sucking him in while swirling my tongue over every inch. Oh! he moaned, along with a string of sour notes from the piano. Realizing his error, he tried to incorporate the outburst into a song. Oh Danny Boy! The pipes… the pipes are… calling! he sang, as I stroked the yearning flesh. Having such power over his excitement was its own aphrodisiac. I was soaking wet. I began working faster, rhythmically, hand over hand, twisting and pumping at the solid staff, gently tugging the tightened pouch. Warbling an awful rendition of New York, New York, Henry shuddered to release. Pulling his shirt down over his slacks, he excused himself, giving Madame a kiss on the cheek as he departed.

Suddenly, I felt guilty and afraid. What should I do? I couldn’t just run right out after him, but I didn’t want to be alone with Madame for very long. I closed the piano, taking great care in putting away the bench and sheet music. Perhaps Madame would be done eating soon so I could take her dishes. My husband is such a kind man, came the stiff, gravelly voice. I was miles away, and it took me a second to realize she was talking to me. Oh God, why was she talking to me? Unsure of how to respond, I smiled and nodded in agreement. I would have preferred to hire professionals for the house, but Henry felt we had a unique opportunity to change the life of someone who was down and out. Such an idealist.

I was worried. Madame was not a woman of idle chit chat. She went on to detail how the loving and philanthropic Henry had made it his mission to personally scout such persons for employ. There was Vanessa, whom he found crying on a curb outside of a strip club, Winter, a plump, cherub- faced girl who despised cleaning and seldom got up before two, Daniella, who did pretty well with the chores, but simply could not keep out of Madame’s clothing and jewelry, and then, there was me. Their home had been a revolving door for these young, useless beauties, who had no more desire to further themselves than a pig has to get out of the mud. The worse off they were, the harder Henry worked to reform them. Madame patted a spot on the couch right next to her. I could hear my heart beating in my ears. I walked over to her like a prisoner on a death march. The stench of cigarettes and alcohol was like a force field. I stared straight ahead, with my hands planted firmly in my lap. We used to pay very well, you know? She took a sip of her tea, and it seemed like an eternity passed before I heard the clink of the porcelain cup returning to the saucer. But then I realized I was actually paying these women to screw my husband? Can you imagine? Have you ever seen a bigger fool? She gave a rehearsed laugh, like one repeating a favorite anecdote for party guests. I suddenly felt ashamed at my behavior and pity for this woman. She handed me a tissue to wipe my tears and told me not to feel bad. She felt the same regard for Henry as one does a pet goldfish. Do whatever you want with my husband. I really don't care, but under no circumstances will you disrespect me. Do I need to explain what I mean? I shook my head. I knew precisely what she meant. Henry and I were carelessly flaunting our liaisons, having sex everywhere from the pool to Madame’s bedroom, not to mention this morning’s vulgar display right under her nose. And I'd become slack with my chores and other household duties. I'd never been irresponsible like that. What had gotten in to me? And how did I get involved with a married man? More than anyone, I knew better. I'd put myself in a terrible predicament. I assured Madame that I would give her no need for a conversation like this again. As soon as I left the den my mood shifted. I was so excited, I nearly dropped the tray of dishes. I'd just been given carte blanche to spend time with Henry, provided I did my work and kept our affair off of Madame’s radar. I cannot justify why I found such an arrangement acceptable. Even though Madame had become used to her station, I had no right to exploit it.

For the next few months, Henry and I cavorted around Manhattan like kids who had won the lottery. We ate at fine restaurants, did drugs until dawn, and fucked any place that provided even a moment of seclusion. One night as we strolled through Central Park, Henry insisted he had to have me that instant. I glanced down to see the best part of him vying for attention. As we sat down on a nearby bench, we scanned the area for particularly nosy passersby. The coast was clear. The towering greenery surrounded us in our own little world, and a street lamp played the part of romantic moonlight. After a passionate kiss, he stood me up and roughly spun me around so my ass was facing him. He slid his hand beneath my skirt and grunted when he felt I wasn’t wearing panties.

You're a naughty one aren't you? he asked, fingering the outside of my dripping slit. He grabbed me by the waist, and slid me down onto his eager prick, filling me to the brim. Yearning to feel the weight of my breasts, he pulled at my blouse. The fabric tore away like paper, and I felt the cool night air against my nipples. You're going to cum for me, he commanded, massaging a wet finger around my clit. Some people had stopped to gawk at us, a couple maybe. I could just make them out in the shadows. But it didn't matter to me. I was on such a high, and perhaps I liked the attention. Belle of the ball and all that. With my eyes closed and my head tossed back, I humped with abandon, taking him up again and again and again. The heat was rising rapidly, threatening to set my body on fire. As I strummed at my nipples, I pushed against his palm and came for him. Afterwards, we found a plush patch of grass to recline on. We held each other and stared up at the creeping night sky. The world was ours. Each day held the intensity of a year and in just a few months, we’d spent a lifetime together. Henry told me he loved me. I believed it, even though I knew it wasn't true. I knew he was not a man willing to deal with the responsibility such words required. They were more a token of appreciation, a bouquet of flowers bestowed upon an actor at the end of a performance. Madame’s words looped in my brain. She told me plainly that I was not the first, nor would I be the last, and in my heart I knew it was true.

When I met my replacement, a tow-headed, cotton- brained sweetheart named of all things, Lolita, I felt sick to my stomach. Why are women cursed with such foresight? Henry did not know the street urchin he'd just given a light to would be his next charity case, but I did. Not wanting to seem jealous, I responded enthusiastically when he asked if we should let her accompany us for a night of partying. She looks like she could use a good time, he said, as we watched Lolita flutter about the street, begging the nightclub patrons for cigarettes and cash. You want me to hang out with you? Hell yeah! she hollered, lifting her top and jiggling her tits. She smelled musty and hadn’t shaved in awhile, but there was no denying her beauty. Her eyes were full of fire, and she wore the suicide scars on her wrists like badges of honor. I thought I knew how to have a good time, but this girl was a pro. The alcohol couldn't handle her, and she consumed every drug shoved in her face. Anyone could see Lolita was a fucking train wreck, but I watched Henry fall in love with her. And why not? Here was a girl who would always need saving. He would always be the hero.

At the next club, she disappeared into the crowd, shoeless, shirtless and impossibly jaded. Henry decided we needed to look for her. I saw the worry in his eyes. He would never feel that kind of concern for me. When we found her, she was blowing some rando on a couch near the DJ booth. Henry raced to rescue his princess, shoving people out of the way and hurdling furniture. I watched from afar. I couldn't hear them, but the scene played out with the visual flair of a telenovela. He got her up off her knees, and they started arguing. Mr. I'm-just-getting-my-dick-sucked tried to intervene, but Henry pushed him out of the way. Lolita started crying and fell into Henry's arms. I'd seen enough. I turned around and let myself be consumed by the swarm of people. The bass thumped beneath my feet as ghostly bodies rose and fell all around me. I clutched at the P.O. Box key hanging from a chain around my neck. There was no need for me to return to the house. I didn't really own anything of value, and I always had my trusty backpack with me. A smarter girl would have squeezed Henry for money, stolen from the home, and clung to that life raft until she could swim on her own. But I was too much of a fool to succeed at such games. Madame's revenge. She knew this would happen. Perhaps it was what she lived for, to see these women who came in and trampled on her life be humiliated and tossed out like garbage. I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of watching Henry take a shit on me. Once again, I was out on the street with no place to go and no one to turn to. At least I'd managed to save some more money. I had enough to rent a room, or spend a few weeks at a hostel. But right then, I didn’t give a fuck what happened to me. I'd never had my heart broken before. I just wanted to stop feeling. I left the club and walked until my legs wouldn’t go anymore.

The soup kitchen on 9th Avenue had decent food and kind volunteers, but I still hated going. As soon as you walked through the doors, you were hit with the stink of poverty, the empty stares, the hopelessness that spread like cholera. Every time I took a seat in the dining area, I felt my place amongst the have-nots being solidified, my fire to fight for something more being quelled by hot stew and bread. But for the feeble, feisty Myra, my company was requested at least twice a week. She was a handful. She couldn't bite her tongue to save her life, but I liked that about her. I tried to keep from laughing when she fussed at a server to put some more food on her plate because she ‘wasn’t no damn cat.’ You can have mine Myra, I said, winking at the frightened young man.

On his chest was a big green button that read: Sunlight Christian Evangelical Church. The poor thing had probably been forced into this gig by well-meaning parents who wanted him to learn the value of charitable works. Yeah, slap some food on a few trays once a month and all your sins will be forgiven. Myra used my arm to steady herself as she sat down to one of the cafeteria-style tables. I slid both trays in front of her and grabbed the chocolate milks for myself. I'd never liked chocolate milk as a kid, but now I loved it. Probably the sugar. I shook up one of the tiny government cartons

Reviews for The Rabbit Hole

[Mary Higgins · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

absolutely brilliant could not put it down , so many twists and turns . and so very close to the truth about what is actually happening right under the American's peoples noses

[Adriana · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

An incredibly unique read, difficult to describe because it's such a mash-up of genres but WHAT A RIDE! If Stephen King was a female millennial... This should be a movie or TV show.