I own you

REVEAN

I put the plate of cookies and gravy in front of the customer and can't help but look up and notice that he's standing on the sidewalk again. He's been there for a week, in the same spot outside the supermarket every noon.

In his impeccable suit and tie, he looks out of place among the poor locals. The area of Pharr in which I live has a small-town, decaying feel to it; its hard-working residents occupy the highest number of mobile homes per capita in all of Texas.

I shrug my shoulders at his presence. Whatever he wants, it will have nothing to do with me. A handsome, rich man rescuing a poor city girl from hell only happens in fairy tales.

This is real life, and I have customers to serve.

"What can I serve you?" I ask a man and woman who appear to be a couple.

They are clearly tourists; the maps scattered around the table and the fanny pack give them away. I don't know why they've decided to eat at the ramshackle restaurant where I work. The red leather chairs are shabby and in desperate need of a new covering, and although the white plastic tables are clean, they have seen better days.

Why the fuck anyone would want to visit Pharr is beyond me.

"Could you recommend any local delicacies?" the man replies, his strong British accent sounding sympathetic. "My wife and I want to try as many new dishes as possible on this vacation."

"Well, we will. You're from England!" I exclaim. As if this is the first time I've met someone from there.

"We are. We're from Kent. Just outside London," the man replies with a smile.

I'm glad he added the latter. I have no idea where Kent is, but I've heard of London. Having never been out of Pharr, I don't know much about the rest of the world.

"What are you guys going to do after this?" I ask.

"We're going to drive from here to Los Angeles, hoping to see as much of the country as possible along the way. It's so vast and there's so much to see," the man replies.

"Well, you have to eat cookies and gravy," I recommend. "It's a favorite around here."

Actually, it's about the only edible thing on the menu. We're not exactly a five-star restaurant, but in a city where most people live below the poverty line, we offer food at cheap prices, along with a generous helping of fat. Let's face it: when you're hungry, you'll eat anything.

"Sounds perfect to me. Bring us two plates, please," the woman asks, and I scribble the order on my pad. "We'll have two cokes, too."

"What kind?" I ask. "Coke, for a Texan, is any carbonated beverage."

"Coke, please," she confirms.

"I'll take it out right now," I say, nodding to him.

As I walk away, I pass by the window of the coffee shop and notice that the man has disappeared. He has probably returned to his affluent and privileged life.

The rest of my shift goes smoothly. The friendly tourists leave me a nice tip, which I am very grateful for. Thanks to it, Mom and I won't have to rely solely on leftovers from the restaurant kitchen for the next few days. Maybe I can afford some fruit or vegetables that aren't fried. Even a fresh apple would be nice.

"See you later, Jacob." I take the bag of leftovers I've collected throughout the day and wave goodbye to my boss.

It's after ten o'clock at night, and when I step outside, the cool evening air hits me even though I'm still wearing my waitress uniform, which consists of black leggings and a red long-sleeved T-shirt. It's cold for this time of year. I inhale deeply, shaking off the stench of fries and burgers. The polluted city air fills my nose, but it's still fresher than the greasy smell I've been breathing for the past eight hours.

With the bag of leftovers in one hand, I make my way through the busy streets to my mobile home, located on the outskirts of town. The house I share with my mother is run-down and hasn't been decorated since the 1970s, but with my mother's problems after my father's death, it's all we have to live in.

The one-room mobile home is dark when I arrive, indicating that my mother has gone out. I'm thankful for that, as I don't want to have to deal with the crap that comes with it, tonight.

I didn't make any friends in high school. My last few years of high school, I didn't go much. I grew up early. I had to do it with a mother addicted to heroin and a father who died too young. I wish I could say I remember him. But he was only two years old when he was shot and died.

My mother doesn't talk about his death. I think it tore her apart, and that's why she lost herself in her addiction. I can't count how many times I tried to help her quit smoking. Now, I guess, I just wait for the day when I wake up and she has overdosed. It's a tragic loss of life.

A car's headlights flash in front of me. My heart deflates. I know instantly who it is. My mother is home and my worst fears are realized as she stumbles out of the passenger side.

"Revean." My mother waves at me.

The driver of the car gets out. He's one of Mom's regulars. I get goose bumps.

"Hi, Revean." He nods at me. "Is tonight going to be the night you join us? You know you want a piece of me."

My stomach churns and I hope I'm not about to bring up the contents of my salad and secondhand chicken.

"Leave her alone," my mother jokes and playfully pats her client's fat belly. "I'm woman enough for you."

"And I'm man enough to handle both of you. One day, you'll be desperate enough to spread your legs for me, Revean . Like father, like son. Your mother is a whore for her heroine, and no doubt, you'll follow her down that path eventually. After all, you don't know any different."

The man's smile is cruel and twisted, just like his words. But he's right. She may still be a virgin and determined to remain one for as long as possible, but prostitution is a way to make money. And it is the fate of many women, and even some men, in this city.

I turn my back to him and reply, "But today won't be that day. By the way, we don't have electricity inside, so you might want to go somewhere else. With or without my mother."

He laughs. "I just need your mother's between-legs to get my dick wet . I don't want to see her face drugged while I fuck her . I won't have to do her from behind if it's dark . It'll be a welcome change."

His words sting. He's talking about my mother. I've tried my best to help her, but her addiction has gone too far.

A lone tear falls down my cheek as I watch them enter my house, and not long after, the rhythmic sound of fucking begins. I don't want to be here. I don't want this life. But it's the one they chose for me. So I guess I have to suffer it. I'm only nineteen, and I keep hoping I can save up enough money to escape.

Who am I kidding? My life is a mess. And it's always going to be that way.

"You've got it all wrong." A deep male voice comes from behind me.

Startled, I twist around on the log I'm sitting on before standing up, and I'm stunned at what I see. The man in the designer suit is in front of me. The one who has been loitering outside the coffee shop every day this week.