By Holly Cupala
Pleasure delamere is suffocating. From bronchial asthma, from her mom and dad, and from her boyfriend, Asher, who's smothering her from the interior out. she will take his merciless phrases, his delicate phrases . . . till the evening they cross too some distance. to flee, pleasure sacrifices her suburban existence to discover the one that provided his support, a homeless boy referred to as Creed. He introduces her to a global of fierce loyalty, to its ideas of survival, and to love—a international she won’t simply permit pass. Set opposed to the backdrop of the streets of Seattle, Holly Cupala’s powerful new novel explores the subtleties of abuse, the secrets and techniques we maintain, and the how you can redemption. yet specifically, it's an unflinching tale in regards to the striking lengths one woman will visit become aware of her personal energy.
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Extra info for Don't Breathe a Word
I set my Yellow Bird on one of the empty tables. We were about to head off when he appeared—crisp in his white shirt and linen pants but still looking somehow dark, like these clothes weren’t the real him any more than my silky red sari was the real me. He spoke to the zoo woman: Could he join our group? “Asher. Oh, yes. ” Asher. A fitting name. He stood close to me, like we were together. I could smell the faint scent of cigarettes on him. He was giving me that intense look again—palpable, as if his eyes were somehow capable of sending waves of adrenaline through my body.
My parents had nothing to keep them up at night. Even still, I held my breath against the earthy smell as I put on the work boots and dumped out the bag of dirt, smearing its contents from the window to the bed and wrestling with my pillows. Dirt could trigger an asthma attack, and that would bring my parents flying into the room. I stuffed the boots into the bag, then swiped my feet through the mud to give the illusion of a struggle. I would leave no other trace. Soon, police would be crawling this room for evidence.
Even in August, it was cold enough in the middle of the night to pull Asher’s flannel close, over the T-shirt and ragged grey PVC pants I found at the thrift store. His smell—hand sanitizer, cigarettes, clean custom scent—still permeated the fibers. I would leave everything else, but at least I’d get the flannel out of the deal. I ran a tissue across the sink to capture any lingering strands. Who knew what forensics team they might call out when they found me missing? It would be worse than when I’d almost died of pneumonia.
Don't Breathe a Word by Holly Cupala