TRIGGER WARNING/STRONG CONTENT & LANGUAGE. FEAR is CONTAGIOUS: She loves herself. Yea. She has had to learn, you know, because there was so much hatred. Too much generated towards her. So she envisioned an aura of love until she fell in love with her very essence regardless of what anyone else said or felt. A lot of people think that makes her a whore. The fact that she is actually one is merely a coincidence. A whore. In the true sense of the word. A hooker. A call girl. A prostitute. A dominatrix, too, only instead of yelling at them she seduces them into having to do what she needs or wants them to do.
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. And she did not know what it all meant. Or what it would become. People know, and now, even though they know, they all say she is a lovely girl, even when they don’t mean it.
I 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. She is after all – grown up.
She is –
– so pretty
though thoroughly and entirely jaded from too many unforgettable days and nights.
Sometimes she has these crazy convulsions in her sleep. They come when her dreams bring her down too deep. Sometimes she seems to wake up, but I know she is actually far away in her sleep.
A friend in medicine told me it is like war veterans when they think they are back at the edge on front lines. It is alright. I watch over her. If they stick with her after she wakes up, she just gets some good medicine off the street. Everyone knows hers, so you know. It is all good it is.
I know when she gets high it seems real different than the kids these days. It seems to go so deep inside it all just absorbs like water into a sponge. Then she is fine. She is calm. She is at peace, you know. She laughs. She is fun. Was fun. Before she was like this. When she gets in a spin it scares people off so she stays home and watches a lot of television. I dont mind. I stay with her.
Yea. Sometimes she has these convulsions.I wonder what she sees, but it scares me to think about it. It’s contagious. That fear. A lot of people who know are afraid of her now. She doesn’t really care though, because she loves herself. She told me once her Guardian Angel said she had to 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 praying. She gets embarrassed and shit, but you know, it touches my spirit. It is pure.
She is beautiful in that moment talking to angels or God or something I don’t even know.
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 is it like this? Is there an actual reason? Something or someone we can blame. OR – 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. 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. Deep.
Based on real situation. Written in 1998. Published online in Canada in 2000. Published in the 2016 Noir Con album of venue writers. Thank Goodis!