Pay Me, I'm Yours

Chapter 1 - The Hot Stuff Who Ended My Life

Chapter 1 - The Hot Stuff Who Ended My Life

Four years ago, I was working in a very boring job-the less you knew, the better so let's not talk about it-and living in my mother's house-pathetic I know, so let's not talk about it either. With that little description I've said, I'm sure you could imagine what a thrilling life I led. Boring town, boring people, and equally boring food? Hell, that was the best part of life.

But then again, that was just my sarcasm talking.

The truth was, I occupied myself with the stories I made to keep what little remained of my so called existence. At that time, I knew I was about to cross the thin line between sanity and having a split personality but given with the choices I had, it was either I dream myself away or lose my mind altogether. While that seemed to be pretty much the same thing, I chose the lesser evil of the two. I'm sure you'd make the same choice if you lived the same rough childhood that I had with my bully of a brother.

And just for the record, please don't get me started with my mother.

Going back to the unsavory memories of the past, the only thing I could remember (aside from a few happy moments which I could count on my own little two hands) was my brother having fun while he made my life a living hell. Since I can't fight back without my whole body being torn, bruised, and bloodied which for some instances and unknown reasons, my mother always failed to notice, I used my mind as a refuge.

With my disturbed child mind, I created a world where I could escape. A world where I could do anything I wanted and be the heroine who always saved the day.

Yes. As you could guess by now, I was graced with a very powerful, albeit unrealistic imagination.

But anyway, I'll fast forward a few years and spare you the not so happy details.

By the time I turned twenty-five, I was doing my best to scrape all the money I could get so I could buy myself a one-way ticket out of my personal hell-hole. I still don't know if it was really a bad case of boredom and vindictive frustrations or the milk I consumed that was already expired, but for some reason, I started to write my first story down on paper. It was a murder mystery and the killer was a young woman who wasted away her bully of a brother in the most gruesome fashion. Guess where I got the idea?

Well after I wrote it, I mailed it to a publishing house, a hundred percent sure that it would only flunk. I mean what kind of people would enjoy that kind of story? It would appeal to serial killers, I suppose. But normal people? No way in hell.

So, imagine my surprise when I found out I was utterly wrong. I guess a lot of people were secretly bloodthirsty because twenty-eight days later, I received a letter asking if they could publish my work and basically just give me lots and lots of money.

I thought, Wow, this is so cool! I could kill people off and get paid? BLISS!

And so, with the advance money they sent me, I made my dreams come true and moved my ass off to New York. I'd never been to a big city before but at that time, I thought it was the place where most of the famous writers went. Not to over-embellish my achievements, but I really was a big sensation back then.

Note the humility, people.

For the next three years, I hardly looked up from my second hand computer as I wrote one story after another. First, I killed off my ex-boyfriend (yes, I did have one) who turned out to be gay. Second, I killed off several co-workers who gave me the fish eye in my early days as a writer, and in my mega-seller, I killed off the entire cheerleading team of my high school. Why? Because they were such bitc- I meant, such witches.