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#a328 :: Glass syringe

January 7, 2009

ENLARGEShe fiddles with it. Finally squeezes a needle onto it. And fixes up.

Big fucking horse syringe. Soup spoon full of horse. The snap and heat of the Bic under the spoon brings her to:

You’re parked in a Howard Johnson’s parking lot in New Britain, tadalafil Connecticut. In the shitty back seat of your shitty boyfriend’s shitty, malady clapped-out Camaro. Getting off again.

You’ve been sleeping here on the cracked vinyl for a month and a half now. Your hair is falling out, your arms and toes are all tracked up. The smell is biblical.

When you met that swanky guy from the Bronx at that party at Danceteria nine months ago and offered you to snort a little bump of heroin off the back of his perfectly manicured silver-painted nail, this future never crossed your mind. You wanted to keep having fun, and he promised you the best high of your week.

“Well, that’s an offer I can’t refuse!” you said, tossing your stupid head, and you held back your teased bangs with one hand, the 37 rubber bracelets crowding up your wrist toward your elbow as if to get out of the way of the fun.

And you left the world.

You never came back, did you?

The RISD degree in fashion design. The apartment on the upper west side. The paparazzi husband and the Bergdorf’s account and the rented garage space for your little pink Yugo.

You floated away and never came back.

Your divorce, your panicked mother’s disownment your sister’s pitying sniveling tears, your week on the street, your 17 furtive blowjobs for a quick fix, your sores and your crabs and your ganglia and your …

“You gonna fix, or what?”

He is drooling. His blue eyes laced with burst veins beneath sweaty, scrunched brows.

God, his voice makes her cringe.

” You got enough in there for both of us, right? Don’t short me. You better not short me, you fucking skank.”

So she shorts him.

She ties off and finds a vein behind her knee. She sinks it in, pulls the plunger a hair and watches, marveling for what seems like centuries at the florid little cloud of blood swirling up into the double dose waiting inside this fucking antique syringe he found somewhere.

And she boots it all. Because she’s done.

Done. Done. Done.

Done.

Filed under: Artifact, Microfiction, symbol, Tool, weapon | Comments (0)

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