Betas/Writing buddies for YA psych thriller

If I close my eyes real tight sometimes I can see myself.

​

The face I remember in the mirror, not the one I catch every now and then in this foggy bus window. He doesn't look like me. His face is all hard angles no round edges. He is older than I, but not by much.

​

I slump a little lower in my seat, and try to ignore the thick fumes of exhaust and urine. It's so strong the stench has probably permeated my clothes, my hair—fuck I'm going to need a shower when we get to wherever we're getting to. The doe-eyed kid beside me has pissed himself, his pants sag in a sad pissy mess over his bony legs. The shaggy mop of blond hair he's got on his head, dangles in front of his face. He's probably no more than fifteen. Probably was a decent kid at one time—some time, long ago.

​

We all were.

​

Till someone up and decided we weren't.

​

Not right. Not well. Not enough. I don't know everyone's story. Hell—I don't even know my own, but I can guess. Sixteen and covered in piss means one thing here: the bad touch, probably incestuous—probably started innocent enough, just a little game meant to be kept in the dark—probably fucked him right up enough. He shuffles two bright red sneakers together and folds his hands over his stain. I'd pity him, if I wasn't such a selfish prick.

​

Two rows down we got Viola. I only know her name because she purred it like a kitten the moment she strolled her made-for-sin body on in. Got just about everyone's attention, her little kitten tongue—I wonder if it's scratchy. Viola is classic case deviant. Not a big deal, unless you let that closet carnivorous appetite overtake your ability to function in the real world. She catches my stare and blows me a kiss.

​

Not today, pretty kitty.

​

I turn away and continue my assessment. First row, leaning his long legs over both seats and offering up a disconcerting, smug smile at anyone who dares challenge—he's big, steroid monkey big. Intimidating if only for his size. He's got those dainty, clean sort of hands, the ones that have never been (dirt) dirty before. Probably never will be.

​

He hunches forward studying our single attendant the way a predator watches easy prey.

​

“Is that a Claddagh ring?” He asks in a soft voice.

​

She reaches to cover it.

​

“I enjoy the symbolism,” he extends a long spotless finger, “right hand, heart pointed out means your heart's not captured.” His arctic eyes lift to hers lacking the emotional response that should be behind them. “I find that hard to believe.”

Click to expand...