FEAR IS CONTAGIOUS
Creative Non-Fiction M. Dante (c) 1996 Published (c) 2000 TAF Canada (c) 2016 Noir

Strong Language. Strong Content.

She envisioned an aura of love until she fell in love her very essence regardless of what anyone else said.  A lot of people may think that makes her a whore. The fact that she is one is merely coincidence. A whore. In the true sense of the word. Yo: Ho! Yea.  A hooker. A call girl. A prostitute. Sure. She did a lot of fucked up shit.

Nah – It’s not like that. It is not her fault. Ask anyone who knows her. They all know. And they will tell you, it isn’t her fault. It is not really anyone’s fault. Things were different then. She was really young.  People know, and now,  even though they know, they all say she is a lovely girl, you know.  Even when they don’t mean it people say nice shit, because they don’t want  to be rude , nah.  It is just the way it is. She was one of them girls.  Whatever. I hate that word. Hate  the way she is referred to a ‘girl’. Working Girl. Wild Girl. Party Girl. You Go Girl. Forever these fucked little girls without morals.

I watch over her when she sleeps because sometimes her dreams bring her down too deep. Sometimes she seems to wake up, you know,  but nah – she is actually far away somewhere else in her sleep. It is alright. I  watch over her. If they stick with her after she wakes up,  we get some good medicine off the street. Everyone knows hers, so you know, it is okay. It calms the fear. It is contagious. That fear. She told me once her Guardian Angel said she had to find the calm and feel the love so that she would always be safe. “Safe from what?” I joked once. “Sin?”

Yea. And? It is a sin, but so the fuck what? It could be fucking worse. Down in the southwest some crazy fucking guy locked this stupid ho in his closet. I mean literally stupid. Like slow. Or retarded or something. It was in the newspaper and shit, but word was already out  on the street. Mother fucker left her there for days with a can of piss to drink if she got thirsty. Right? What the fuck is that? After a bunch of ‘em beat her head all high with a cabbage or something, he told her to finish her pop like a good girl before locking her in tight.  When he finally let her out, the can was empty, and her ear was off. No one is sure if she bled out banging her head on something or if she died from fright.

Crazy shit, right?

“Now that truly is a sin, baby, isn’t?”

She couldn’t be too concerned. She was out of cash. Her wallet empty. In need of fresh linen. Some Benjamins, Bitch!  Get to it. Put the good  love on!

She wakes up whispering a prayer or something. She gets embarrassed and shit, but you know, it touches my spirit somehow. It is pure. She is beautiful in that moment talking to angels or God or whoever .Except she wakes up praying that no one will kill her. Like they told her they’d do. Like they joked they could do. Like they might still do. She believes an angel came to her rescue, telling her to fill herself with as much love as she could possible do, because love is a shield which delivers us from danger. She believes she is worthy enough for God to deliver her from her suffering, but I think she feels bad that other girl died after she was let out of the closet.

Why life is like THIS? Is there even an actual reason? Something or someone we can blame. Are we caught up in some sort of dystopic, post modern societal implosion? Transformational mutation from industrial to information with no clear outlet for our animalistic nature in the glistening cyber streams of naughty bits vs. data. Capitalism a global dream. Everything for sale. I am. You are. Our stories are. Our feelings are. Our genitals are. Our values are. Our dreams are. Our futures are.  Deep within the darkness behind that closed, locked door lays what we fabricate into scapegoats and martyrs. Corrupted. Contained. Compartmentalized. A sound bite or hashtag created to achieve some shared societal explanation.

Why did they lock that girl in the closet? Why do that?

“Money, baby.” Her answer comes at the perfect moment to answer a question that will never be asked. “Money make us all the fool for the fun of it. It ain’t that deep and shit. It just is what it is, and it’s stupid,  but you know that. It just is.” Yea. She knows how to make it all come together at the exact moment. All those half hour and hour long increments of time. Girl. Woman.  She is both. Organic and mechanical. Essence, yet devoid and empty. She is pure and infected all at the same time. She knows just when to come, and how to get them to go. See them off. Tell them off. Get them off. Yea. She always gets them off. Always will. “You know it, baby. They all love me for it!.” She laughs, fading into a nod of warmth and darkness. Safe. Final darkness.

Too Deep.