Altered Genes: Genesis Read Online Free
Author: Mark Kelly
over the small wooden cross at the end of the string of beads and began.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth; and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord...”
After she had finished praying, she left the bedroom and found the children sitting at the kitchen table, drawing pictures on Alejandro's cast. Blanca used a red marker to fill in the outline of a dragon her brother had carefully drawn.
She stood quietly for a moment watching them as they played together, the troubles from earlier in the day long forgotten. They were her life, her reason for being. She wanted to stay and watch her children just be children, but couldn’t. She stepped from the doorway and interrupted them.
“Alejandro, there are Pupusas in the refrigerator. Please heat them for you and your sister.” She had made the cheese-filled tortillas earlier that day. They would fill the children’s stomach until the morning.
After lovingly kissing both of them on the top of their head, she whispered, “Be good...lock the door behind me. I won’t be back until late.”
A few minutes later, she stood in the graffiti filled lobby. A drunk lay curled up on the floor half blocking the door. His pants were wet and he smelled of urine. As she stepped over him, he grabbed at her leg, his leering eyes staring up her skirt.
“Pervertido!”
She kicked free and then gave him a second kick for good measure.
The jet black Chevy impala low-rider waited for her, its eight-cylinder engine rumbling with impatient anger. The driver was a bald Latino man with the number eighteen tattooed across his skull. He leaned across the seat and motioned her into the back of the car with a flick of his finger.
“Lo siento...I'm sorry—”
“Shut up and get in,” he snapped.
She opened the rear door and squeezed in next to the other women. The door had barely closed when the car sped away, its tires squealing as it rounded the corner. She was quiet. She knew she would pay in one way or another for her lateness.
They arrived at a semi-abandoned housing project. She and the other women climbed out of the car and entered the building.
Each had her own space in an apartment on the second floor. Privacy, or what passed for it, was afforded by a handful of ragged blankets that hung over ropes strung across the room. The soiled mattresses on the floor had no sheets.
Their customers, all men, would come in a steady stream and make payment to the Calle 18 gang members who stood watch by the door.
Her first client of the evening arrived. She turned to avoid his face. His breath smelled of cigarettes and rotten teeth, the stench so putrid she gagged. He slapped her and groped at her blouse before pulling down his pants. His meaty hands squeezed the flesh of her breasts, and she bit her lip to stop from crying out.
She knew if she made any noise, her keepers would stomp in, their tattooed faces tense with anger. They’d pull the man off, kicking and punching him before they emptied his wallet and sent him away. Then, they would do the same to her, but not as hard, she was property.
She closed her eyes and withdrew, letting the hours pass.
W hen she returned to the apartment, the children were asleep and she stood in the doorway quietly watching them as the tub filled with hot water.
After a few minutes, she returned to the bathroom and turned the water off. A single fluorescent bulb hung from the ceiling, casting its harsh light on her. She stared at herself in the cracked mirror, ashamed of what she had become.
She removed her blouse, only then noticing the small brown stain on the back of it. Curious, she raised the garment to her face and cautiously sniffed.
It smelled of shit. One of those dirty animals.
The anger welled up and she threw the blouse down in disgust before climbing into the tub. She would wash it later.
March 23rd, 04h50 GMT : Bellevue Hospital,
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth; and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord...”
After she had finished praying, she left the bedroom and found the children sitting at the kitchen table, drawing pictures on Alejandro's cast. Blanca used a red marker to fill in the outline of a dragon her brother had carefully drawn.
She stood quietly for a moment watching them as they played together, the troubles from earlier in the day long forgotten. They were her life, her reason for being. She wanted to stay and watch her children just be children, but couldn’t. She stepped from the doorway and interrupted them.
“Alejandro, there are Pupusas in the refrigerator. Please heat them for you and your sister.” She had made the cheese-filled tortillas earlier that day. They would fill the children’s stomach until the morning.
After lovingly kissing both of them on the top of their head, she whispered, “Be good...lock the door behind me. I won’t be back until late.”
A few minutes later, she stood in the graffiti filled lobby. A drunk lay curled up on the floor half blocking the door. His pants were wet and he smelled of urine. As she stepped over him, he grabbed at her leg, his leering eyes staring up her skirt.
“Pervertido!”
She kicked free and then gave him a second kick for good measure.
The jet black Chevy impala low-rider waited for her, its eight-cylinder engine rumbling with impatient anger. The driver was a bald Latino man with the number eighteen tattooed across his skull. He leaned across the seat and motioned her into the back of the car with a flick of his finger.
“Lo siento...I'm sorry—”
“Shut up and get in,” he snapped.
She opened the rear door and squeezed in next to the other women. The door had barely closed when the car sped away, its tires squealing as it rounded the corner. She was quiet. She knew she would pay in one way or another for her lateness.
They arrived at a semi-abandoned housing project. She and the other women climbed out of the car and entered the building.
Each had her own space in an apartment on the second floor. Privacy, or what passed for it, was afforded by a handful of ragged blankets that hung over ropes strung across the room. The soiled mattresses on the floor had no sheets.
Their customers, all men, would come in a steady stream and make payment to the Calle 18 gang members who stood watch by the door.
Her first client of the evening arrived. She turned to avoid his face. His breath smelled of cigarettes and rotten teeth, the stench so putrid she gagged. He slapped her and groped at her blouse before pulling down his pants. His meaty hands squeezed the flesh of her breasts, and she bit her lip to stop from crying out.
She knew if she made any noise, her keepers would stomp in, their tattooed faces tense with anger. They’d pull the man off, kicking and punching him before they emptied his wallet and sent him away. Then, they would do the same to her, but not as hard, she was property.
She closed her eyes and withdrew, letting the hours pass.
W hen she returned to the apartment, the children were asleep and she stood in the doorway quietly watching them as the tub filled with hot water.
After a few minutes, she returned to the bathroom and turned the water off. A single fluorescent bulb hung from the ceiling, casting its harsh light on her. She stared at herself in the cracked mirror, ashamed of what she had become.
She removed her blouse, only then noticing the small brown stain on the back of it. Curious, she raised the garment to her face and cautiously sniffed.
It smelled of shit. One of those dirty animals.
The anger welled up and she threw the blouse down in disgust before climbing into the tub. She would wash it later.
March 23rd, 04h50 GMT : Bellevue Hospital,
Readers choose
Malcolm Rose
T.M. Clark
Lisa Fox
Yvonne Georgina Puig
Julia Watts
R.A. Donnelly
Marie Maxwell
Joan Aiken