Chapter 1. Los Angeles: the big city, where people with money don't have taste, and those with taste don't have money.

Three colors; six possibilities. Two shades; unlimited depths. Four white walls. Two large, wired windows on the wall opposite the door, cobwebs and filth invading the sills. In one corner stood a faded yellow dresser with three drawers and one handle hanging dolefully about. An itchy wool blanket neatly folded, and a stained pillow with not an ounce of comfort in its shape are all that crowded a short cot that stood alone in the other. An easel holding a 24" x 24" canvas stole the limelight in the center of the room. Two mason jars with paint-stained water stood on top of the dresser and a color palette, holding smudges of red, blue and yellow lay next to the jars. That was her life summarized in one room.

Jayden had started to think of her dad more and more these days, letting her mind travel to those forbidden parts of the mind. Hope, regret, nostalgia, a longing for belonging, that is why she had compartmentalized those memories into a dark deep corner of her mind. It hurt to much to think about how it was knowing it will never be. “Did it even happen? Who was that little girl, with such porcelain skin, and bright green eyes that shone when she laughed? Who was that man with fear in his glance yet so much love in his smile?” She saw her, recognizing herself. She saw him, remembering only one who once was. A life that felt like it was just yesterday. She had finally understood his lack of motivation for creating art having lived such a dull, mundane, yet anger filled life. People are enthused and are inspired by what drives their soul. Recently Jayden had been lost in wonder of what drove her soul. When did the passion of exploding her creativity die? It’s been three days since she'd last lifted the paint brush. The people, if that’s what you wanna call them, were now getting impatient. The memories that kept fogging up her mind had started to do that to her. She was lost all over again, it felt like when she first got there at 15.

The young girl of 19 had had a system down that with some misguided thoughts, let herself wander back into a life she had promised herself she would forget, causing her mind to mist over with all of those feelings she thought she was numb to. Now her back getting warm from the evening Los Angeles sun, she sat facing the white canvas. She had two jobs. Her day job, painting, that usually resulted in her handlers selling her work for dirt cheap to get another dosage of whatever their poison was; and then there was her night job…well that just speaks for itself. Life wasn't supposed to be like this. No one plans or dreams of a life that Jayden Marllow now lived daily.

* * * * *

Before her short lived life became an obscure mess and no longer a life considered her own, she knew what a full belly was. She knew what it was like to lean into the secure embrace of her daddy, and she never got tired of hearing his strong, assured voice tell her that no dream is too big to achieve. Tragedy strikes when it wants; Like a splat of red paint on a masterpiece in progress, changing the mood, the character, the emotion of the painting. So trauma, it comes uninvited and unexpected. At visitation, wiping all that was once close and dear. So there - over her daddy's lifeless body - emotionless, 9-year old Jayden, decided that dreams will always just remain dreams.

* * * * *

The alarming sound of a large fist banging, on her already beaten up door, popped Jayden's "day dream" bubble, forcing her back into reality. Nothing but a splat of red in the center and a thick blue, somewhat straight, line on the right, is all she could muster up in the 4 hours she had. "Was it already her turn to go down and 'pleasure'"? she thought as she used her skinny arms to bring herself up to her feet. She had been kneeling in front of the large window, staring at a robin; it was a lot more entertaining watching him flying back and forth picking something up off the ground and returning back to its branch, then staring at another failed attempt of creativity. Freedom. What she would trade to be a bird right at this moment, and squeeze through the wires to fly freely, away from what she thought would be a chance at life.
After a horrible five years of this, the numbness had completely settled back in as promised. Heavily sighing Jayd quickly glanced around her room, not knowing what to do. She missed not having the feeling of sweaty palms and rapid heartbeat from panic or being able to relax at night before dozing off into dreamland...Jayd knew that time was long gone and might never come again. Her life had become banal. "Melony said I'd get used to it. This was supposed to be only a temporary arrangement. How did a couple of months stretch out to a whole five years and three months." Frustrated and confused Jayden began to slowly apply her makeup, and fix her now tangled, three days unwashed, curly, red hair. Wild Flame. That’s what they called her. Her crazy curls and hair color, got her this nickname. Her personality gave her away too - untamed, unmanageable, rude, blunt, explosive - that is what they all used to describe her as. But she was their special girl for their special clients.

* * * * *

4:47 pm. They would be here in a little over an hour and if he had nothing to present, that would mean another day without a fix, or worse. All that he had tried had failed, and now he barely had an hour to put something together. Rage. Frustration. Agony. His paintings were always filled with those emotions. Samuel Marllow had been an emotional abstract painter that didn't even get close to lifting off. All that life promised him in this line of work was failure.

He sold to low income rich people. "I know a guy who would be interested in your kinda work Sammi," said one of his old buddies, one night at the Smiles Pool and Bar. "He offers more than just money." winking he added with a mischievous grin, sipping on watered down Captain Jack on the rocks. Desperation led him to the journey of living in the shadows, and giving no choice to his 9 year old daughter silently sucking her in with him.

Peaking around the corner Jayden looked at her father splatter reds, oranges, blues, and grays, wildly all over the large canvas. She closed her eyes and took in the raw smell of wet paint, that filled the room. She heard him mumbling something under his breath harshly, breathing heavily. He was mad - again. Mad at himself. Mad at, now appearing only in his dreams, his passed away wife, for leaving them. Mad at the paintings that they weren't turning out, as if they had something to do with his inability to sell them. The emotion of anger had always driven him to his best paintings though, or so she thought. He threw out a vulgar word scooping more red paint onto his paint brush.

"Daddy..."

Stopping mid air, the red paint landed with a "splat" off the brush and onto the already paint stained tarp. Slowly turning around his anger disintegrated, leaving no trace. Seeing her calm complexion, in that little red and white polka dotted dress, her fire red curly hair, those big green eyes with never ending curiosity shining from them - had always had a way to his heart. He was scared. If she was, she never showed it. Her mother's stubborn, confident personality was developing in her more every day. It's what kept his head above water all these years. Perspiration beaded his forehead making its way into his brows. He was beginning to shake.

"I'm sorry pumpkin, I didn’t mean for you to hear that." Slowly coming to his knees he opened up his arms, waiting for her to run into his cover. She smiled, revealing two missing teeth, and bounced into his safe, strong embrace. That smell. Wet paint, sweat, and his sweet cologne gave her comfort as she buried her freckled face into his neck.

"Jaydy you know what?"

"What?" she questioned with a giggle, knowing all too well what he was going to say.

"I love you." He said holding her tighter.

"Daddy no...I love YOU!!" she replied beginning to laugh harder knowing that he was going to tickle her next. It’s been their game since she can remember. This time it was different though. He didn't let her go giving her the chance to escape. She felt his arms get tighter around her frail body, and his breathing get heavier. Looking up she saw tears slowly making their way down his face.

Getting up abruptly, wiping the tears off, and digging in his pocket for change, he handed her a wrinkled twenty, a ten and a five. "Run and grab groceries sweetie. Remember don't talk to anyone, and don't forget to buy yourself something." She never did, she only bought what was needed and always snuck the rest into his jean pockets, knowing they will need it later.

Before walking out of the room she turned to look at her best friend, her daddy, her protector one more time.

She always hated walking up that three flight of stairs by herself. It was always so dark, so crowded with disgusting garbage, homeless people somehow making it into the entryway, couples doing things they should do in the cover of their own rooms, and fat, half-dressed men smoking cigarettes - it was something different every time. This time it was strangely empty. Jayd slowly made her way up the stairs, her arms now feeling the weight of the groceries her dad asked her to buy from the Quick-mart that was on the first floor of their apartment building. That was nothing new, she shopped and he cooked. That's the way it was since she remembers. Reaching the second floor she noticed the deafening silence that had slowly settled in. The small knot in her stomach grew with every step up the last flight of stairs and fear struck without mercy. Stopping at the top of the stairs and staring down the hall at the last door, she already knew something was wrong. Dropping the groceries she ran across the hall and through the door that was left ajar. The darkness in the apartment blinded her making her stumble and fall over something that lay across the entryway.

"Daddy wake up! Wake up!" Thoughts of unbelief shot inside of little Jayd's red head as she stared at her father's now stiffened, slightly warm body. Where a smile used to linger, now barely two lines of colorless lips took place. Film-covered eyes just stared straight ahead, not a blink of life in either eye.

Glancing up at the clock that hung lopsided over a two person wooden dining table, she read 12:47 am, realizing that it'd been nearly four hours since she found her daddy's body. Not wanting to leave his side she forced herself to get up and walk over to the wired phone hanging on the wall opposite the kitchen. Dialing in the only number she had memorized "9-1-1" without waiting a complete full ring, a confident female voice answered, "Los Angeles Police Department! What is your emergency?"

"He's dead. My daddy is dead." Jayd let the words roll off her tongue in a barely audible voice. A tear matched her voice, silently making its way down her cheek. Truth was hitting her slowly but forcefully. Hearing the sound of sirens in the distance, she let the phone hang loose as the woman on the opposite line kept asking questions. Her back to the wall she slid down to the floor, and hugged her knees, beginning to shake with terror thinking of what might happen to her next.

* * * * *

"Five minutes, Wild Flame! You got five minutes!!" elled Sebastiano from the bottom of the stairs that led to more than just her every day horror story. Panic struck like the summer thunder. Today would be a long shift, she knew. Quickly glancing at herself in the mirror, the feeling of disgust slowly made its way into the pit of her stomach and crawled up into her throat. Her now somewhat pinned back mess of a head, slightly exotic makeup, and clothes that barely covered her tiny body, all began to scream of desperation and help. But no one could or would hear; all they would see is what she could never label herself as - prostitute.

As she made her way up the well-aged, dimly lit, wooden staircase she began to tremble. As she came up to the door that held no secret of its age and no secret of what was behind it, her trembling quickly changed into shaking! What was wrong with her? Memories of the horrible day she lost her best friend, her hero, her strong hold, flooded her already frantic mind. Hot tears pooled in her eyes, spilling over the edge. No! This was not the time or the place, she drowned her breaking heart yet again. It's game time. It's time to "please." Quickly wiping the one tear that managed to escape onto her cheek, she took a step toward the door. Gently taking hold of the cold metal door handle, she turned it and pushed it forward - coming face to face with what the pit of hell might look like.