The Grey’s
Sleep eludes me, food tastes like ash, and every time I close my eyes, I'm haunted by the crushing guilt of considering selling my first child for money.
For the past hour, I've been sitting at the dining table, listlessly pushing food around my plate. I don't even know what I'm supposed to be eating; it all tastes equally revolting. Finally giving up, I scrape the leftovers into a container and shove it into the fridge, telling myself I'll eat later even though I know I won't.
As I'm about to retreat to my room, my phone starts vibrating. I fish it out of my pocket and glance at the caller ID. My stomach drops. It's her. Mrs. Grey. The devil herself.
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