Once she was lifted from the abyss and kissed by God. . or that's how she remembers it.
Mary picks the scabs that litter her forearms like tiny mites.
Popping makes the brown last longer by injecting just under the skin. Precious cargo this smack and needs to be strung out in order to string out. It's a quick fix when her veins collapse but these days, only profers a lift, no longer a high. It's been a long time since she was brushed by the lips of God . . . a very long time. There's no more buzz, just craving, needing, a hankering she can't deny, can't live without. It has its mistress and is an unforgiving master. She is enslaved, entrapped, endangered.
Lank hair, unkempt and unwashed, has replaced her toussled locks. Her ample mouth, long since indulged in tender kisses is cracked, parched and sore. Her bright and optimistic eyes are empty and forlorn. There is no beauty for them to scope round here. Her words are slurred and slow, even when she isn't using. Her friends long gone, her family cautious. She can't remember when she last ate but whatever she eats only has flavour when she's high.
Her lovers have given way to paying punters. No difference, pay them no mind. It's a commodity like any other cool and calculated but it pays the rent, feeds the beast, and she feels no sensation anyway. There's no pleasure, no pain except at the end of a needle. Today, that's only little prick that satisfies.
The sub oozed its first dull thuds from under the gap in the doorway above the stairwell then exploded into a technoswirl of light and a cacophany of sweet sound. The bass vibrations swept through her body accelerating every particle, providing its own kind of rush.
She strolled into the mele, her arm entwined in his. Breathing in his intoxicating scent and idolising his every move. He was self-assured, handsome, talkative, persuasive. What he saw in a plain girl like her amazed and flattered her but he saw something. He loved her . . . or so he said. He'd take care of her . . or so he said . . .she was his life . . or so he said. She'd do anything for him, with him, to him. Besotted didn't cut it, she was in love, deeply, permanently irrevocably.
The bourbon and cokes she’d imbibed earlier were warming her skin, loosening her tendons, relaxing her form. She was woozy and euphoric rather than inebriated but in that place between suggestion and sleep, hypnotic and happy.
She didn't know anyone there other than him and clung like a limpit waiting for introductions. The introduction she received was not one she expected.
A rapid and secretive exchange for a small foil pack and 'gear'. A dark corner and a tiny table. A candle, a spoon, a rubber tourniquet. "C'mon baby, you'll love it . . " he cajoled. She resisted, just slightly. Sure she'd dropped the odd pill, snorted the odd line but never envisaged more than a short dance with the devil. Her perfect unpierced, body was unaccustomed to external abuse. She found it hard to contemplate the violation of a needle let alone its insidious contents but the bourbon worked its wicked way and made her swoon and submit to suggestion.
She had become compliant and soft and easy. "Just once . . " he whispered. His warm sweet breath covering her in lust and longing, " . . live like there's no tomorrow!"
. . and now she does.
This month's entry in the 10th Daughter of Memory
Please take a look, have a crack! Oops, no pun intended.