Prologue

Sometimes, the best way to resolve a conflict is to just not get involved in the first place. It was a concept that I had been taught time and time again. Though, I can't remember much about my past, I remembered that specific piece of advice. Did I ever choose to follow it? No, definitely not. I think that conflict had a way of always finding me anyway and it pissed me off to no avail.

Yet here it is, staring me right in the face: This idiotic book. I hate it. It was given to me by a friend, an acquaintance, really. She said I needed something to " spice up my dull life."

Yeah, thanks, like I needed some crack addict landlady telling me that my life needs some spices. The only reason why I had to talk to the red toothed wretch - her lipstick was always unattractively smeared on her teeth- was because she was MY landlady of whom, always, always, ALWAYS got all up into my business.

Normally, people would give a nice, " Oh, hello, – insert name here-, how are you?" and just shuffle off like crabs to do whatever bidding that their spouses tell them to after they'd gotten a suitable answer. But not my landlady, oh no, that would make life too easy if there wasn't someone like her.

She was Hispanic, I wasn't sure of what kind. Not that I have anything against Hispanic people, don't get me wrong, but she was the worse kind of Hispanic, not that " Hey, come into my home and eat a burrito" type. That would've been cool if she was. I like burrito's. Anyway, back on topic here, she's nosey. She's so nosey, that even her big Hispanic nose still has traces of knocked- off cocaine rimmed around her nostrils. I also think she takes our rent money to buy her drugs... that shit doesn't sell cheap. My suspicions for this may be right, because last week I swear I put in fifty bucks into my water meter, which would've given me at least five months worth of hot water. I only got two months, for fucks sake.

The day I got the book was an unfortunate day to be apart of the human race. When I was heading towards my apartment after work, I saw her. I tried to discretely pass by her without her noticing, for she was fiddling with a cleaning cart that was positioned exactly across from my door. Her rather tight clothing could simply not shield the world from her enormous, saggy breasts , which wasn't surprising- she dressed like that every single day. I shivered visibly as I thought of whatever poor soul would have to encounter those monsters someday.

Luckily, I managed to sneak by her with quick stealth. As I got my keys out from my pocket, I carefully and quietly selected my desired key: a simple silver toothed apartment key. I placed the key at the lock, ready to inject it with it's mate when it happened. The key hit the lock wrong, and it was a miss.

I watched in horror as my keys slipped from my fingers and slow- mo'ed it down to the floor. They made the most god damn loudest jingle that keys could possibly make, and it seemed to last for eternity. When they finally settled down on the tile, I let go of the breath that I was holding, and immediately prepared myself for impact.

"Oh, Señorita, cómo estás?" She exclaimed, her voice laced full with fake kindness.

I grimaced and turned around, an equally fake smile plastered on my face, "Hey Maria. I just got off work, so I'm a bit tired. Maybe talk another time, yeah?"

She smiled back, cheap red lipstick bleed onto her teeth, "sí, sí, I 'ave something for you, though. I put it through your mail slot. Also, I know you broke up with that Chico from the market, verdad? Well, this book will help you get over it!"

It took a lot of control not to break her teeth in and shove them down her throat. It was no mystery as to who it was that opened my letter from my ex- boyfriend the other day, probably in pursuit of drug money.

"Ah, yeeeeah, we didn't work out too well," I said quietly, bending down to retrieve my keys quickly, " But I don't feel like talking about it, sorry. Thanks for your concern, though," I shoved the key into the lock and gave it a swift turn, finally unlocking my door and opening it. Closing the door behind me, I sighed deeply. I hated how she would confront me about my problems. It wasn't her business to be in mine.

Just as I was about to step further inside, my foot hit something hard and I tripped forward, slamming my chest hard into the ground. I probably said every curse word that I knew as I picked myself up, glaring beneath me to see what I tripped on.

A book with black bindings and a cover that was adorned with a picture of handcuffs was lying a few feet from my right foot. Riiiight, this must be what Maria had said she slid through my mail slot. Forgot about that. I bent down and picked up the book; attached to it was a sticky note that read, Heard about your problems, thought this would help! - Maria.

I scoffed, crumpling the yellow note in my fist and threw it into a waste bin as soon as I walked into my kitchen. Sitting down at a stool, I turned the book over in my hands and read the back. This book will have you both loving it and hating it –says Homoeuphoric magazine,Critically acclaimed best romance novel since the Twilight Series –review from Luffington Post.

Is this a joke? I thought bitterly, setting the book down on the kitchen counter. Upon first looks, handcuffs to me would've indicated some type of cool crime novel, but now I knew this book was on a whole other level of a hideous crime. Bondage?The fuck was the crack addict thinking? Oh, right, she probably felt bad for robbing me of my hot water and sneaking through my mail. As if a crap novel will smooth things over.

My fingers traced over the fine silver letters: 50 Shades of Shame. Huh, weird title for a romance novel. I then decided that I had nothing else to do. It's not like I actually did much for fun except watch HD rips of movies from the internet. Which I wasn't interested in doing at the moment. I opened the book and read:

Chapter 1: Junk Mail