The Feeder

by Mandy White

  The Feeder

  Mandy White

  Second Edition

  Kindle Edition

  Published at Kindle Direct

  Copyright © 2013 Mandy White

  All Rights Reserved

  This work is not to be reproduced in any type of media, in whole or in part, without the expressed consent of the author, Mandy White.

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters and locations are products of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to persons alive or dead or actual locations is purely coincidental.

  Warning:

  This book is not for everyone. It contains profanity and scenes of graphic violence and mutilation. Readers who find such things disturbing are advised against reading any further.

  You’ve been warned!

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 ~ Happy Birthday

  Chapter 2 ~ Reunion at the White Surf

  Chapter 3 ~ The Odie-Hole

  Chapter 4 ~ The Journal

  Chapter 5 ~ A Tale of Decline

  Chapter 6 ~ Vigil at the Cobalt

  Chapter 7 ~ Marbles

  Chapter 8 ~ Red Room

  Chapter 9 ~ Losing my Marbles

  Chapter 10 ~ Safari

  Chapter 11 ~ Bluie Louie

  Chapter 12 ~ The White Rhino

  Chapter 13 ~ Hollywood’s Bad Boy

  Chapter 14 ~ Dead End

  Chapter 15 ~ Trolling for Trolls

  Chapter 16 ~ CLB

  Chapter 17 ~ Homeward

  Chapter 18 ~ The Perfect Twins

  Chapter 19 ~ The Intersex Condition

  Chapter 20 ~ Rita

  Chapter 21 ~ Polarity

  Chapter 22 ~ Solitude

  Chapter 23 ~ The Purging

  Chapter 24 ~ Creepy Pete

  Chapter 25 ~ Pine Point

  Chapter 26 ~ The Cabin

  Chapter 27 ~ Sewage is as sewage does…

  Chapter 28 ~ Finale

  Preview: Fed Up ~ Sequel to The Feeder

  Preview: Avenging Annabelle

  About the Author

  ~ Chapter 1 ~

  Happy Birthday

  “Hap-pee Birrrthdayyy!”

  The voice on the other end of the line sounded drunk. Not a big surprise, considering it was 3 am and it was her birthday.

  Our birthday.

  The fact that Camille had drunk-dialed me and woken me out of a deep sleep didn’t bother me. It was just so good to hear her voice.

  She had been in Los Angeles since before our last birthday, when she had promised we would spend the next one together. Clearly that wasn’t going to happen this year either, since we had already been twenty-nine for three hours and she was still in California while I was at home in Vancouver, Canada.

  My sister Camille had always been the party animal of the two of us. I was the nerdy one; the analytical thinker who preferred computers to people.

  In spite of our differences, my sister and I understood each other unlike anyone else because we were identical. We were part of each other.

  “Long time no hear. Happy Birthday, you sexy bitch.”

  “I’m sorry, Sammie… I’m so sorry.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I know I promised we’d spend this one together, but I’ve just been so busy. I can’t leave right now.” Camille sniffled loudly. Either she was crying or she’d just snorted a line of something. Knowing my sister, the odds were equally in favor of either one, or both.

  “Don’t sweat it babe, but I’m holding you to it next year. We will be spending our thirtieth together, even if I have to fly down there to do it.”

  There was a pause on the other end, followed by another sniff and a shaking breath. “I miss you so much,” she said softly.

  My heart ached, more than a little. I missed Camille too, more than anyone would ever know. She was the good half of me; the only one who truly understood me.

  “So, come home then.” It was a simple request, but a useless one. She wouldn’t.

  “I want to,” she whispered.

  “So, get on a fucking plane. You got a piano tied to your ass? I’ll send you a ticket if you need money.”

  “I can’t.” Her voice sounded constricted. “It’s too late.”

  “What the shit is that supposed to mean?”

  “I just want to come home!” she blurted, “I want to see you so bad, Sammie, but I can’t. I’m s-s-so scared.” Camille was crying for real now, sobbing loudly into the phone.

  “Too late? What the fuck? Cammie, you’re not making sense. Please stop crying. It’s going to be okay.”

  “No,” she whispered, “it’s not okay. It’ll never be okay again. I’m his now, and he won’t ever let me leave.” Her voice was beginning to slur more than when she first called and her words were developing a singsong quality.

  My sister was definitely high on something.

  Camille laughed weakly. “But I got away from him and he won’t find me here, and if he does… fuck him.”

  My heart thudded in my chest.

  “Who? Who is he?” I demanded.

  She giggled. “Fuck him…fu-uck him, in his stupid ass…” she sang softly.

  “Cammie, listen to me. Where are you? I’m coming to get you.” As I spoke, I got out of bed and strode to the window, looking through the rain-spattered pane at nothing in particular. I needed to find out where the hell she was. My sister never gave me her address or phone number because she moved around a lot, mostly staying in hotels and friends’ apartments. Her elusive lifestyle drove me nuts, but that was her way. Camille preferred to be the one to make contact. It made her feel like she was in control, in a life so far out of control.

  “Talk to me, Cammie.” I was pacing now, my legs thrumming with nervous energy.

  Just when I thought she might have dropped the phone and fallen asleep, Camille seemed to wake up enough to register what I had just said.

  “No! You can’t. Please don’t come, Sammie,” she begged. “He’ll hurt you. This is my mess, not yours.” Camille’s heartbreaking sobs became louder and her voice hitched as she tried to speak. “If anything happens to me… please… know… that…” she was flat-out bawling now, “I love you Sammie… I’m so fuckin’ sorry. Please… just… forget about it.” In a barely audible whisper she added, “Forget about me.”

  “Cammie!” I shouted into the phone. There was no response. “CAMMIE!” I screamed, beginning to panic. “Talk to me! Please!”

  I listened to the living silence of the open connection, calling to her, pleading with her to pick the phone up until finally the line went dead. Camille may not have told me where she was, but it must have slipped her mind that I had caller ID. I hung up and hit ‘reply’.

  The phone rang a dozen or so times before a sleepy Hispanic sounding voice answered, “White Surf Motel.”

  “Camille Thompson’s room, please.” There was a brief pause.

  “No here. Not that name.”

  “How about Aurora Snow? You can’t miss her. She’s a blonde lady. White.”

  “Yeah, tha bloonde one. Jeest a meenute.” His slow, bored-sounding voice reminded me of Napoleon Dynamite’s Mexican friend, Pedro.

  The line was busy.

  “Fuck fucking fuck!” I cursed aloud, pacing anxiously back and forth. I called the hotel back. “The line is busy. Can you please go knock on her door and tell her to hang up the phone so I can call her?”

  “No… we no do that. You call her tomorrow.”

  “Wait!” I shouted, before the man had a chance to hang up. “Please!” I pleaded. “It’s important. Can you please at least check on her? I’m worried about her. She’s been sick.”

  The desk clerk sighed. “Jeest a one meenute. You hold.”


  I waited for the longest seven minutes of my life before the clerk came back on the line.

  “Okay, I check. Lady, she jeest fine. Jeesta lotta drunk. She say you no worry, you go to sleep. She call you tomorrow.”

  “Can you check on her again in a couple of hours?” I asked. The line went dead before I finished the sentence. Camille was alive. Just drunk.

  Not likely. I knew her better than that. She hadn’t let a birthday pass without the assistance of some sort of drug since we were teenagers.

  Maybe she was fine. Maybe not. I wasn’t taking any chances. One thing I did know for sure was my sister needed me. She was in some sort of trouble and as usual, it involved a man.

  I’m his now, and he won’t ever let me leave.

  Her words chilled my guts.

  Within hours I was at Vancouver International Airport, boarding an early flight bound for Los Angeles.

  ~ Chapter 2 ~

  Reunion at the White Surf

  The White Surf Motel was located in Malibu, according to the Google map I had printed out before I left.

  As the taxi wound down the Pacific Coast Highway, I gazed out the window at the long stretch of coastline. I imagined most Canadians seeing the California coast for the first time would be ooh-ing and ahh-ing at the miles of sandy beaches and impressive houses.

  It was no big deal to me. I’d lived on the West Coast all my life. We had the exact same ocean in Canada. We had sandy beaches, million dollar homes and celebrities too, just fewer of them.

  I was too preoccupied with worrying about my sister to give a shit about the scenery.

  I tried to call Camille again from the taxi, but the line in her room was still busy. A new desk clerk was on duty, and she refused to indulge my request to check on my sister. El Bitcho.

  When I arrived at the motel, I met El Bitcho in person. A bug-eyed woman with overteased flaming red hair, she reminded me of one of those troll dolls kids used to play with.

  At first, she refused to tell me what room Camille was in, but when I gave my long blond hair a toss and batted my baby blues at her she softened enough to give me the room number. It was either that or go to the room herself and knock on the door and this woman was clearly much too lazy to bother.

  Room 102 was ground level, facing the beach. Nice view, but I didn’t give a shit. I pounded on the door.

  “Camille!”

  There was no answer. I pounded on the door again, open-palmed to make it louder. Still nothing.

  I weighed my options. I could probably have kicked the door in, but not without attracting unwanted attention. I could break the window without making too much noise, but it was the middle of the afternoon and somebody was bound to see, possibly that chambermaid…

  I had noticed a chambermaid’s cart a few doors down on my way to room 102.

  I took a deep breath and gave my hair another shake, trying to make myself appear calm and casual. I strolled down to the room that was currently being cleaned and rapped on the open door.

  “Hello?”

  I heard water running in the bathroom. I knocked a little harder and called again, in a louder voice. This time someone answered.

  “Si?”

  “Can I have some towels please?”

  The chambermaid, a rotund Hispanic woman, emerged from the bathroom, wiping her hands on a towel. She gave me a blank look.

  “Towels,” I said, pointing at the stack of clean towels stacked on the cart, then pointed at myself. “For me? Room 102.” I flashed her my best movie-star smile, cocking my head slightly, trying to look as cute and sweet as possible.

  The chambermaid’s humorless expression didn’t change but she seemed to be studying my face, as if trying to remember what the occupant of room 102 looked like.

  She nodded. “Towl. Si. You take.” She selected two of each size from the cart and handed them to me. “I cleen room today?”

  I shook my head. “No thank you, that will be fine.” I pretended to walk toward room 102 with my towels, then stopped and loudly said, “Oh! No!”

  I turned around with a horrified expression, catching the maid just before she went back into the room.

  “Can you help me?”

  “Si?” Again with the blank stare. I tried to read her face for clues to see if she understood me, but this woman either didn’t speak much English or she took the poker face to a whole new level.

  “I had my door propped open but it closed on me! I don’t have my key!” I made a key turning motion with my hand, and then patted my pockets to indicate they were empty. I wasn’t sure how much English this woman spoke and I hoped I wasn’t insulting her by assuming she didn’t.

  She hesitated for a moment, and then stepped around the cart, reaching for the passkey hanging at her hip as she moved toward Camille’s door. “Okay, I open. I open. You no need room cleen?”

  “No room cleaned. Thank you.”

  I prayed Camille hadn’t fastened the security chain on the other side. I stayed close to the door, hand on the knob as the maid inserted the key, ready to grab it as soon as it cleared the latch to prevent her from swinging it open. The door opened a few inches and I slipped my toe between the door and the jamb as soon as there was enough space. I quickly reached into my jacket pocket and found one of the twenty dollar bills I had hastily crammed in there after paying the cabbie. I pressed the bill into her hand, forcing her to take the money rather than swing the door open.

  “Gracias,” I said with a sweet smile and a flirty wink. “Muchas gracias.” I thought I detected a hint of a smile on her stone face this time.

  My sister and I had a look that disarmed even the most hard-boiled individuals, male or female, and we had both mastered the art of using our looks to our advantage. I waited until the maid had disappeared back into the room she was cleaning before I checked to see if the door was chained. It wasn’t. I slipped into Camille’s room with my armload of towels and closed the door behind me.

  Camille lay on the bed, motionless.

  I flung the towels off to one side and rushed to her, groping at her neck for a pulse.

  I found one. She wasn’t dead.

  Her face was a translucent bluish-white, which wasn’t far from her actual skin color. She had always shunned bright sunlight and tanning beds, favoring the frail waifish look to the golden tan of the native California blondes. She had sort of a Gwyneth Paltrow-gone-Goth look about her.

  She was alive; possibly passed out in a drunken stupor but not likely. If all she’d had was alcohol, she would probably be awake by now, nursing a hell of a hangover.

  The syringe and spoon on the bedside table next to an empty tequila bottle told the rest of the story. A tiny zip-lock bag containing a small amount of beige powder I assumed was heroin sat next to the spoon.

  “Camille!” I slapped her cheeks gently, then harder. No response. “CAMILLE!” I shouted into her face. Nothing. “Oh, fuck, oh fuck, c’mon!” I breathed. “Please!”

  I sat her up, draping her arms over my shoulders and hugging her around the waist. I carried her to the bathroom, where I dumped her as gently as possible into the bathtub before turning the shower on cold.

  It worked.

  She moaned and sputtered, turning her head to the side to avoid the icy spray. I shut off the water as she started to come around.

  Her eyelids fluttered open and I gazed into her gorgeous blue eyes, which were identical to my own aside from the dilated pupils and bloodshot appearance.

  Camille frowned when she saw me.

  “Whatthefuck…?” she mumbled.

  I didn’t know whether to hug her or slap the stupid out of her. I decided to hug her because she looked as if she’d had enough slapping for one lifetime. A huge bruise darkened one side of her face, from her eye down past her cheekbone. It looked like she had taken one hell of a punch there.

  She shoved me away and punched me on the shoulder, fully awake now.

  “Fuck!” she yelled. “Why’d you put me in the
fuckin’ shower, ass-nuts? A simple, ‘wake up’ woulda been fine.”

  I stammered, adrenaline still coursing through my system, “I-I thought you were… you were…”

  “OD’ing? Oh, for the love of Liza! Drama queen much?” Camille shook her head in disbelief. “In a dead sleep, yes, but not dead yet.”

  I sheepishly helped her out of the tub and handed her a towel. She glared at me as she wound it around her head in a turban, still ranting.

  “Ooh! You’re such a fucktard sometimes. You just going to stand there or do you have anything to say for yourself?”

  “Um… happy birthday?”

  Camille struggled out of her jeans, which she had been sleeping in. As I helped her pull her soggy t-shirt over her head, evidence of long-term violence became clear. Somebody had been using my sister for a punching bag for quite some time.

  I dashed into the other room to grab another towel, which she wrapped around herself. She slipped out of her panties, wrung them out and hung them over the edge of the sink to dry.

  Finally she turned to me and fell into my arms, burying her face in my chest.

  “Sammie,” she whispered.

  “Cammie.”

  “I told you not to come.”

  “Fuck that shit. I’m here.”

  “Why?”

  I shrugged. “I dunno. I didn’t feel like waiting another year to see you.”

  “I’m sorry. I never should have called you.”

  “I’m glad you did, since I can’t call you.”

  “I’m sorry.” Camille began to cry.

  I stroked her back. I hated it when she cried, but she had always been a crier.

  “It’s okay,” I whispered, kissing the bruised side of her face. “I’m here now.”

  Camille didn’t seem comforted by the fact that I was there. Instead, she began to cry harder. “I’m sorry, Sammie.”

  “Quit apologizing. I fuckin’ hate it when you do that.”

  “I didn’t want to get you mixed up in my shit. I just wanted to hear your voice.” Camille sniffled and wiped a smear of snot on my shirt.

  I didn’t care. I was just relieved she was alive and relatively well, considering the circumstances. I took her shoulders and held her at arm’s length so I could look at her face.