Her fingers danced between one string to the next making no sound as she gracefully pulled up her black fishnet stockings. It wasn’t the first time she’d worn them that day, or the first time she’d gotten redressed that hour. She reached over and searched for her half empty packet of Dunhill cigarettes, they were camouflaged under her bed between a wet towel and a stack of gold dollar bills. As she filled her skinny cheeks with smoke she glanced at herself in the mirror, tilting her head so her long, bright red hair fell like curtains hiding her freckles. She freed her breathe and watched as he locked the door behind him as he left. The feeling of satisfaction hadn’t quite caught up to her yet. Meaningless, dirty sex, to him, perhaps. She had other intentions.

It was a big house with many rooms, all decorated with red walls. There was an unchanging scent that lingered there, the sweet touch of cherry-blossom and peaches with a hidden trace of methylated spirits. The nights were long, but the days felt even longer. Battling the heat of three pm sun glaze poking through badly shut curtains, with brains mushed that swayed from side to side like a paper boat through a creek, they could ever barely stand to open their eyes. Like clock work their bodies ticked for another hit, another dollar. Her body ticked slower and sometimes not at all. She had a far bigger demand than they did.

After a while she too, stood up and locked the door behind her, she made her way down the stairs and into the kitchen. As she glanced around the light of her eyes dimmed through each girl. She was polite but never sociable, she didn’t agree with what the girls did there, even though a part of herself was undeniably scripted in those walls and in those girls. She woke up with dried lips and a parched tongue, and both her and them clenched that thirst with daily pills. She suffered from terribly vivid nightmares that kept her awake and aware of her present loneliness, her anxiety sent cold shivers down her spine, not far from the truth of the other girls who lived through consistent paranoia and sleep paralysis, you could say they were all fuelled by anger and deception, all stuck in a vicious cycle of lust and ecstasy, but she didn’t live there for money, she got her high from taking what was once stolen from her. She got her high by taking lives.

By the time she had finished swallowing her pill, she was met with a tall, handsome man who wore a gold banner on his finger, she smiled as she had the pleasing thought that soon his lips will taste the poison just like hers. And slowly she would spread what was once given to her by a guy like him who cheated on her with a girl who smoked Dunhills and collected gold dollar bills.

By: Moara Prado


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