Separation
STYLO FANTÔME
Published by Battleaxe Productions
Editing Aides:
Barbara Shane Hoover
Leticia Sidon
First Edition
Copyright © 2014
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Table of Contents
Mission Statement 5
Dedication 6
~Sanders~ 8
~Right After~ 11
~1~ 22
~2~ 31
~3~ 42
~4~ 53
~5~ 65
~6~ 79
~7~ 87
~8~ 103
~9~ 114
~10~ 121
~11~ 129
~12~ 137
~13~ 139
~14~ 144
Acknowledgements 147
Soundtrack 148
To Be Released 149
Mission Statement
I not only write, I read. A lot. Probably more than is healthy. There are a lot of things I love about self-publishing/indie authors, and a lot of things I'm not a fan of. Just personal preferences, no disrespect meant. So when I decided to self-publish, I made some promises to myself to try my hardest to avoid doing those things I didn't like seeing/happening in other stories. Now I would like to make those promises to you, the reader:
I promise to never leave you hanging. If I write a story with a cliffhanger ending, I will only publish it when the second part is completely written.
I promise that all cliffhanger sequels will be published within 16 weeks – maximum – of the first part. You will never have to wait six months, or a year, or years, for a sequel to any cliffhangers that I might write.
I promise that, while I am an unsigned indie author, I will never raise the price of any part of a series above $2.99. I will not “hook you” with book one, two, and three at $1.99 and/or $2.99, and then suddenly book four is $4.99. I refuse to pay for series that are like that, so I will never do that to you.
I promise that if I am lucky enough and blessed enough to have fans, I will interact and communicate with them as much as possible – you are who this is all for, after all.
If at any point in time, I fail to live up to any of these promises, you have my permission to tar and feather me, beat me, leave me for dead, or worst of all – call me out.
No work is ever really completed, no story ever completely told, but I will always try my hardest to bring you my best.
Thank you for reading.
~Sanders~
People often thought “Sanders” was Sanders' last name; it wasn't – his last name was Dashkevich. Sanders was the name of some long forgotten relative. Kind of exotic, really. But he never explained this story, he just let people think what they wanted. That always seemed to work out best for him.
He was thirteen when Mr. Jameson Kane found him, starving on the streets of London. He had tried to steal from Jameson. He had been very bad at pickpocketing, and Jameson had grabbed him by the collar, held him against a wall. But then he'd looked at Sanders in the strangest way, and instead of getting angry, he had offered to buy Sanders lunch.
After the meal, Jameson informed him that if Sanders was at the same spot every day, he would continue buying meals for him. Sanders was sure to be there, every day. After two weeks, they finally got to talking. Jameson asked why he was starving, living on the streets.
“I ran away from home,” was Sanders' only explanation. Jameson had nodded.
“I know how you feel.”
“You ran away, too?
“Sort of. I did something very bad to someone back home.”
“And you felt bad, so you ran away?”
“No, I didn't feel bad, and that's why I ran away.”
They kept meeting for lunch. Jameson would have him run the odd errand, then pay him for it. Jameson would laugh - “you're my assistant now, Sanders, so we have to work out a salary.” Rented out a hotel room for Sanders to stay in, bought him new clothes.
Sanders couldn't figure it out. Who was this guy? What did he want? For a long time, Sanders thought it was sex. He kept waiting to hear his hotel room door open, see a silhouette in the light. It's what had always happened to him, in his old home. But it never happened with this man. It became very obvious, very quickly, that Jameson was not attracted to him, at all. Sure, Jameson was very adventurous, and Sanders could see that he lived by a “I'll try anything once” kind of creedo – but he wasn't gay. Jameson loved women.
“The perfect woman, Sanders. That's what I'm on a quest for - the perfect woman. Don't know if I'll ever find her,” he had slurred late one night, very drunk.
“Have you ever met a perfect woman?” Sanders asked. Jameson thought long and hard about it.
“I think I might have. But I didn't know it at the time. And she wasn't quite perfect yet.”
“Was it a long time ago?”
“Not long enough.”
Sanders wasn't gay either, but he didn't really have any interest in sex. He'd never done it. Well, at least not consensually; and never with a girl. He had always been too busy hiding his secret. Then after Jameson came along, Sanders had been too in awe of his new world, too in shock, to think about girls.
He told Jameson about the family he'd grown up with – his aunt's family, in South London. Sanders was originally from Belarus, but his parents moved to England when he was five. His family got deported, but they managed to leave him at his mother's sister's house. He never heard from his mother or father again. His aunt's husband was an Englishman, and not a very nice one. Sanders didn't want to tell Jameson that whole story.
So how could Jameson have known?
He had wanted to do something nice for Sanders. Wanted Sanders' family to see how well their nephew was doing, the kind of life he was now leading. Let Sanders show off a little. His family owned a small bed and breakfast, and Jameson surprised him by getting them rooms there for a night.
Something snapped in Sanders. When his uncle came to his room, tried to hold him down, tried to tell him that he would never be more than what he was in that moment, Sanders fought back – the first time he had ever done so. He was much smaller than his uncle, but rage completely overtook him. It wasn't until Jameson was standing over him, pulling him away, that Sanders even realized he had completely beaten his uncle's head in against a radiator.
His life would be over. He would at best be deported back to Belarus. At worst, and most likely, spend the rest of his life in prison. Sanders sat in the middle of the blood and gore, and just sobbed. Jameson knelt down and grabbed onto him, held him still against his chest. Told him everything would be okay, that he didn't have to worry, that Jameson would take care of everything. And when Sanders finally calmed down, Jameson kept his promise. He managed to magically have the body disposed of; cleaned up the room. Left a large sum of money with Sanders' aunt, who never even seemed to question her husband going missing. Apparently he wasn't a nice man to anyone else, either.