I have already published this book but then I stopped writing it and so now I'm reviving it. Show full author's note »
I've walked down this street a million times, I've seen the familiar slums sitting on the same dirty corners a million times. I have smelled the stench of alcohol, drugs, filth, and sex a million times before. I'm living in a petri dish, and this is one sick science experiment. I walk to the same corner store and jump over the rain puddle that never seems to dry up. Pushing open the door blows a gust of corn smelling air in my face, I've learned to hold my breath when I walk in here.
That same old man that has been here probably since World War II is still sitting at the counter, this time handing over a bottle of gin and a lollipop. The gin goes to the young woman that isn't young anymore, drugs drained her dry. And the lollipop goes to her little girl standing next to her, she probably wishes that her mother would overdose so her life could get better. I know I used to. The two customers pay for their treats and brush past me, the mother having to drag her daughter by the hand to get her out. My mother has been dragging me for years.
I ignore a conversation with the check-out man because he'll say anything to anyone who is standing awkwardly in the middle of his store. I rush down the aisles, rows of food and drink and toys and their plastic colors blurring together. I walk to the end of the drink aisle where I find the alcohol. The tall black bottles, and the short fat green bottles, and the skinny brown bottles, they all hold the same thing...freedom. If I drink enough, I'm not me anymore I can be anyone I want to be. I can be a sexy 21 year old, or a sophisticated 19 year old with a dark desire, or just a girl with a higher confidence level than I do. I brush my fingers against the cold doors, my fingers carving into the soft ice fogging the door. I open the window door and feel the familiar chill stabbing my skin, I reach in and grab a bottle of whiskey. When I let the door escape my grip, I linger for a moment and let the door gently find itself in it's familiar spot, then I take my fingers and carve a familiar word into the glass. B****.
This time I have no choice but to face the check-out man, he gives me that same creepy grin as I place my bottle on the counter. He looks as it as if this is the first time that I've ever tried to buy alcohol, believe me it's not.
"Don't you think you're a little young to be buying whiskey darling?" he asks still wearing that creepy ass grin as he rings it up.
"I know how old I am, and I'm old enough to drink whiskey." he asks me this question every other time I come here.
"Well if you're old enough for whiskey...then aren't you old enough for other things?" he hints as his over aged wrinkly eyes glance down my figure, stopping at my chest.
"Yes." I reply, his eyes light up and his grin gets bigger. "I'm old enough to tell you to f*** off." he looks humiliated, mission accomplished. He puts the whiskey in a bag and I hand him my money, after getting my change I rush out of there. I know that he's still looking at me.
The narrow little streets that lead to my dank house are their own entertainment. There's drug deals happening in the alleys you pass, there's the occasional mother beating her kid because they did something silly like spill their drink. And my favorite, the sight of an elderly man who has a clear gold band on his hand walking out the strip club, making sure he checks out the world before exiting the club, just knowing that he's going to get caught. I think how it's ironic how women can b**** about how dirty and insensitive men can be about letting total stangers get them off, but then again it's women who are leading them astray. Men are just the world's puppets who are just along for the ride.
A few moments later and I've standing outside my sad, tired house. The front stairs scream underneath my feet, begging me to put them out of their misery. I don't oblige as I walk into the house and hear the living room TV blaring, I don't feel like talking so I rush up to my room and lock the door. I sit on my floral bed and pull the whiskey out of it's bag; opening the bottle, I'm not worried about my mother catching me, she would probably just ask if she could have some of it. I tip the bottle back and feel the familiar sting of the drink sliding down the throat, I feel the familiar nausea and know that I'm well on my way to being that sexy 20 year old. Just a few more swigs later, and my room is spinning. The poster hanging on my wall of some lake with the sun shining on the green waves is sloshing off the paper and onto my floor. I feel so hot.
I walk to my full length mirror and gaze at the reflection, my long brown hair matted and almost greasy. But right now it looks sexy, I strip off my jeans and my sneakers, and rip off my tank top. Now only my bra and underwear remain, my bare skin is crawling. I lean over and squeeze my arms on my small breasts, they're nearly spilling out of their cage. Isn't this what sexy is? Clothes are just a cage and my body is desperatley trying to escape. My head is still spinning and it's getting faster and faster, I raise up too quick and before I know it I'm on the floor. But I don't try to get up, I don't fight the sleep.
I welcome the dreams...