Chapter Text
Prostitution was only tolerable with drugs, under sober circumstances I would not have allowed myself to have been so depraved, lusted over by men twice or thrice my age. When the buzz and the fog faded away and I was left with life through its factual lens, an inescapable despair drowned me, it pulled me further away from the shoreline of sanity until all I was left with was a constant cycle of rumination that I was disgusting. Psychological filth gripped my skin following my sexual encounters, a feeling that no amount of money could have made right, a shame so strong that it materialized in a physical sensation—even after showering I felt dirty. Though the fogged lens of substances, it was permissible, even if that of itself was self-destructive and left me worse off. That momentary second of relief was all I lived for, as without it, all I had was the lingering feeling of their hands on my body and the knowledge and the memories of what I had done. That, in all ways, was truly unbearable.
These were the thoughts that polluted my mind as I studied the environment around me, sobriety made itself known and regret seeped in. The man next to me was asleep and nude, his softness rested against his thigh, a constant reminder of what we had done. His state of undress mirrored my own, though I put effort into hiding my desirable objects, my knees pressed to my chest and my arms crossed around my legs, holding myself together tightly. The final thing, the last small element making this hell worthy of such a description, was the ceiling fan. It bobbled around, making an unsatisfying clicking sound each revolution it made.
I deemed myself punished enough. As the clock read half past twelve AM I slid my legs off the side of the bed, the rough texture of the carpet finding the soles of my feet. My clothes were scattered around his room and it was a hassle retrieving them. Once I was no longer bare, there was a brief sensation of safety, now if the man had suddenly woken up and tried to grope me, layers of clothing acted as physical barriers between his contaminating hands and my genitals. This sensation lasted until my gaze found him, softly sleeping. His presence acted as a constant threat, which was warranted—he admitted that he was a sadist who got off on torturing others, he told me so in such a casual manner, it scared me.
Loneliness griped me in a vice, as if every blood cell and bone in my body ached for another human’s touch. Love existed, but good things didn’t happen to me. My classmates had boyfriends and girlfriends, they held hands and kissed between classes in brazen displays of affection which only made my body cry louder. The only way I could get a fraction of that was by putting myself on the street, where even with the disgust I felt being at the mercy of lusting men, they looked me in the eyes as they fucked me, and that felt good.
The ache sunk back into my flesh like ice cold piercing needles and I felt an urge to climb back into bed with him. I decided against this as I had a rule—zero feelings post-orgasm, nothing past the initial bliss, especially in a sober mindset when these feelings could place a genuine hold in my mind. Keep it brief.
I was paid $100 for this, a price which sounded good hours ago, now felt grossly small for the mental anguish I was being put through. My solution came in an instant—I found his wallet on the nightstand and took another $65 out, stuffing my pockets with the loose bills. Now I was ready to leave.
When I felt the rush of early October air hit my skin and the door behind me closed, that safe feeling came back, this time genuine. A long walk stood ahead of me, but with the weather, and how the old streetlights painted the avenues and neighborhood streets in shades of glistening and nostalgic yellows, it was no chore.
My phone buzzed, pulling out an incoming call from Oliver, my best friend.
“What’s up?” I answered.
“Where are you?”
I could hear loud music over the call.
“Walking home,” I said.
“What the hell? We’re having a party here! You know, drugs galore!”
“Okay, I’m on my way. Give me a moment.”
My mother had been stressing about this day for weeks, Christmas was always a time of anxiety and restraint, it was the one day of the year when the fighting would stop. The concept of my family in a closed space was one that was better left to the imagination, not reality. Distant uncles and cousins with vastly differing political opinions—usually of the extreme variant—came together. Thanksgiving was notoriously disastrous every year, though it was the election years which proved to be the worst. Everyone has opinions, and when you have conversations, they come out. This rings especially true when celebrating a holiday based off a lie forwarded by the same Americans which committed genocide against the Natives. A fact that I was banned from bringing up at the dinner table.
But Christmas wasn’t about that, Christmas was about giving gifts to people you pretend to care about. It’s a holiday where you shut up and put up a mighty façade. You sit down, you eat good food cooked with love, you say thank you as you open presents containing unflattering objects that you either toss in a week or store for the foreseeable future, and you hug your relatives goodbye before leaving to your car outside in the snow. Only once you’re alone, can you sink your face into your palms and mutter ‘that was a fucking nightmare’ before driving home to drink.
To a five-year-old me, Christmas was the most magical time of the year. My mind hadn’t yet been corrupted by family drama, and I truly thought that we had settled our differences to enjoy each other’s company in genuine ways. Before I was aware of Aunt Sally’s drug habits, and the open secret of Uncle Jim’s affair, it was magical. It’s easy to buy good presents for a five-year-old, you go to the toy aisle in your nearest conglomerate chain superstore, and you pick the flashiest item, telling yourself it’s for the best as you wince at the price tag. Such sacrifices must be made to keep up the magic of Christmas.
My grandparent's house, the designated spot for our annual Christmas dinner, was always abnormally warm, with snow caked up past your knees outside, the inside felt like a blanket, or your designated spot to sit around the fireplace. To the left of the door sat a wooden box filled with lollipops that hadn’t been touched since the 90s, with grungy cobwebs that strung from the ceiling to the shelving units, the wood paneling once pristine now separating with the mild scent of must and mold. It was a rule in our household that any and all food produced in my grandparents’ house was not to be eaten, considering the state of their kitchen. I was forbidden from entering the basement, and the upstairs, where the conditions were much more dire. They didn’t cook much, and as such, the rule was easy to follow. Most food was brought in by everyone else.
There was a plethora of ‘so good to see you’s, and ‘wow, you’ve grown so much’s. Uncomfortable hugs and cheek kisses, and the stifling of political word vomit, an atmosphere of unease as everyone tried their best to maintain this front of an honest to definition functional family. Comments like ‘where’s the alcohol?’ were laughed at, later to be dissected during phone calls, serving as the foundation for interventions behind closed doors. We all had different last names from current and long-ended marriages, but one thing was true, we came from the same bloodline, and this fact was undeniable due to our actions.
The half-mile long driveway heading up to their house grew unstable during the winter, especially after such a snowstorm the week prior, but we managed to pull through and park close enough for a short walk. My sister was right behind us, with her son in the backseat and a vastly emotionally unprepared boyfriend in the passenger seat. I waved.
“I bet you could make a good snowman here!” my father said to me.
“You can’t, it’s too dry.”
Inside was the usual sights, though our Christmas crowd was substantially bigger this year, already there were close and distant conversations happening. It was a field of flannel, cousins shout-talking, singing commercial jingles between sips of beer. Softly played a muffled Don McLeans’ American Pie servicing as the audio color wash of the scene before me. Hanging my coat up, I walked into my usual spot where the kids hung out, a sort of secondary living room where the actual Christmas tree was, standing proud between stained polished floors and tacky couches and corgi-themed pillows, soaked over in shades of browns and yellows. It was barely after five-thirty and nearly dark outside, that was how you knew winter was in full force, the concept of a sunny day inconceivable until mid-April.
Piercing through the chemically produced floral stenches—as per usual in an old person’s home—was the smell of food, good food, perfectly cooked ham and turkey, sides of cheesy potatoes and salads, casseroles and deviled eggs. Completed with fountain drinks and alcohol.
Couldn’t this have lasted forever?
The thumping of music filled the air; pulsing shockwaves sent out in rhythm beneath my feet as I gazed upon the house in front of me. Ignoring the creeping sense of danger in my gut, I pushed forward though the sparse crowd—mostly people walking to leave, or to throw up. None of it was my concern, what others did with their own lives did not bother me as long as I was not an accomplice, nothing bugged me more than being wrapped into someone else’s business. Regardless, there was somewhere I needed to be: that house.
Walking through the door was like crossing the river of Styx into Hell, the volume of the music increased tenfold, paired with blinding flashing colors of all shades and a crowd moving to the relative tempo of the music, though they resembled more a liquid—a single organism than a group of people. Again, it did not concern me as dancing was not first on my agenda. This party had been planned for weeks, a house set up for demolition tomorrow, today, we party. No rules, destruction permitted and expected. It was a piece of shit, it deserved to get torn down, even before the party there was nothing worth salvaging.
A series of turns led me to my desired destination, the bathroom. Behind the door, Oliver was making out with his boyfriend, Jack.
“Hey,” I said to announce my presence.
Oliver pulled from Jack, motioning for me to kneel down next to him.
“Kit!” he said. “Glad to see you here. I’ve good shit, here.”
“Thanks, you’re a lifesaver,” I said.
Oliver reached into his pocket and pulled out a metallic bag, filled with a fine powder of which needs no introduction. Scoop, line, finger over nostril, inhale, bliss.
“You know, we snort that shit because there’s like, a lot of blood vessels in your nose—like, a lot a lot,” Oliver said, his voice bordering on shouting as the music got louder. “It hits a lot faster, that’s why you bleed so much when you get a nosebleed. The only other part of your body with that many blood vessels is your asshole.”
Oliver explained this to me every time cocaine came out. It’s an interesting fact, yes, but you only need to hear a fact a few times for it to take hold within your memory. I think he liked the fact because it allowed him to talk about assholes, he was immature like that. Glancing down, I noticed Oliver’s hand in Jack’s pants. They were perfect together, yet they were detrimental to each other. Two addicts deeply in love, supporting each other emotionally while upholding their addictions. Oliver had Alcohol, Jack had heroin.
Let it be known that I am not the type to bump cocaine often, I don’t like how it feels going in, but right now, I needed a fix, and with Jack’s connections, finding specific substances was never a difficult challenge. I recoiled, wiping at my nose.
“Good shit?” Oliver asked.
“Good shit. I’m gonna head out, see if there’s any dick out there willing to pay.”
“Be careful,” Jack said as he clutched Oliver’s hand to his crotch.
“I will be, same to you two, be careful. People ain’t tolerant around here.”
“Mhm."
With that, I got up, steadying my stance before exiting the bathroom. Outside, the stimulation had gotten much harder to tolerate. I didn’t even need to dress like a whore, people who knew me knew what I did. A couple years ago, this would have been the greatest night of my life, but these parties have gotten too extreme, and I was growing mature, I felt it. That extreme teenage mindset, seeking out danger and excitement was fading. As was my face, now it resembled that of a full-grown human being, no longer containing the shine of youth.
Stepping over piles of trash and people, the kitchen now lay in front of me, where people had ripped off wooden cabinets and busted up the counters. By now, the air was thick, filled with particles of dust, probably taking further years off from my lifespan. Boys grinded against girls, and cheering was constant. Distant crowds chanting on people chugging alcohol and muffled moans behind closed doors and through thin walls, topped off with the screams of that douchebag who punched through a window with his bare fist, who now laid beside the pool where he was gushing blood.
This girl sat on the counter, her boyfriend settled between her legs—I’ve seen them around school, they were nice people, genuine, a rare positive trait to hold here. The girl placed a white pill on her tongue and went in to kiss her boyfriend. It made me wonder if I’ll ever have that, a lover to take drugs with. Oliver has it, this girl has it, and many others here have it. I’ve never had it, I’ve always had to reduce myself to an object of pure desire—nothing else, only a piece of flesh to fuck. No complicated emotional bond necessary, and I get paid for it. But every time I walk out onto that street, every time I find myself between a man’s legs, of whom I didn’t even bother asking for a name, a little part of me dies. That same part that reveled and lived in things like Christmas dinner with the family and racing down hills with bikes, that feeling of excitement when that new friend you made has a pool in their backyard, or a trampoline. No fraction of that version of me will ever return.
I made eyes with several men around the room who looked like the type for my endeavors, nobody gave the same look back, a few even grew disgusted at my non-verbal proposition. On the counter sat a half-empty pack of cigarettes and like a good shirt in a chain retail store, it was gone and placed in my pocket fast enough for nobody to notice it was ever in my hand.
Now equipped with something to cope, I walked out through the broken glass sliding door, pushing through the crowd around the aforementioned bleeding-out-douchebag. Eventually I got past the tree line and found myself by a creek. Crouching down by the thin stream of water, I pulled out the carton and a lighter—a junkie always carries a lighter with him. A click, sizzle, inhale, and exhale, and things seemed less bleak. Oliver’s cocaine, advertised as ‘the good shit,’ was not in fact good, as much as it was likely halved with flour or something else to weaken its potency. It burned bad enough that I had to check to make sure blood wasn’t oozing down my face, there was a little, but not too much.
A voice came from behind. “Hey Kit.”
I turned. “Hey Dawn.”
Dawn and I have been friends for most of our lives, we lived in the same trailer park as small children, and we have never separated as friends since. She has always been this person in my life, an everlasting, reliable person. While everyone else seemed to be variables, Dawn stayed. When we got off to be with the current boyfriend of the month, we always knew we had each other when things would inevitably crash down. While I consider Oliver a closer friend, we don’t have nearly the connection I have with Dawn.
Then she started talking to Doorknob, a nickname I gave to a monstrosity of a boy. Everyone knows that he hits her, and yet she pushes us away when we try to help her. There is no sight sadder than someone you love falling into such a horrible trap.
“Whatcha doing?” she asked, kneeling down next to me.
“Thinking,” I said, handing her a cigarette. “Your makeup looks good tonight, did that dumbass man of yours allow you to be a person tonight?”
Dawn smiled, with that laugh of which sounded more like a whistle than any other laugh or chuckle I’ve heard. “Thank you,” she said. “I spent half the day getting it done. It was a fucking nightmare. Whatever—what are you thinking about, Kit?”
“Well, it’s hard to articulate.”
Dawn blew out a puff of smoke and drew closer. “I’m listening.”
“I’m lonely. That’s the gist of it.”
“Everyone’s lonely. Hey, did you see the guy back there? His arm’s split straight open; an ambulance is on the way. Wanna watch?”
“Sure.”
The crowd was audible, growing in volume as we moved over. The boy’s name was Max, he was a senior—the grade above us. He was known for being rowdy, jumping through a window was on board, nothing new there. But eventually luck caught up to him, and he looked real rough, on his back, groaning. Dawn wasn’t exaggerating, his arm was cut vertically, dripping out a steady stream of blood, deep enough that the yellow of his fat was visible.
“You think he’ll make it?” I asked.
“Probably not,” Dawn said.
“That would make him the third to die this year.”
“Shit. What happened to the other two?”
“You didn’t hear? Jake Keffer and Marcus Smith were drinking—Jake decided to drive and wrapped the car around a tree. Killed em’ both.”
“Didn’t that happen last year with the Jabecki brothers?”
“Mhm.”
Dawn stuffed out the last of the cigarette. Distant sirens drew closer, and the crowd began to take off in every direction, shouts and hollers rang out.
“Shit, my truck’s out there. Time to bail?” I stood up.
“Yeah. I have a ride. Drive carefully.”
We separated, Dawn stayed while I fought my way through the crowd. People were pushing, screaming, the kind of chaos you see in an old disaster film when everything’s falling apart, people are dying and the imminent danger chases the protagonists. It’s mental comparisons like this that allow me to view life through an outsider’s lens—it allows me to keep anxiety at bay, something which used to control me. I always hated loud noises.
“It’s the police!” someone shouted, which only made the crowd panic further.
I managed to fight my way to my truck, and I hopped into the driver’s seat. Making my escape without taking out a running partygoer would prove to be a challenge. I figured a slow but steady pace would keep things safe. As I pulled out, I spotted Jack and Oliver running while holding hands—it was cute, they were so deeply in love. Oliver was laughing, his mouth agape and the edges of his lips pulled upwards. Jack, ever the grounder, looked more pessimistic.
They seemed to know where they were going, so I kept them be and focused on being a safe driver, especially as other people driving away took a more ‘pedal to the metal’ approach to getting away. The ambulance pulled into the driveway, as I moved past them, I was able to turn onto the main road getting out, where I could then pick up speed. What a waste of a night.