The Music Of Life

Long Nights, Strange Men

I shiver in the cold as I take a little bit more of the powder that is keeping me alive. Rosy cheeks stand out on my pale face, and I pull coat tighter around me, sucking my lips slightly to try and get some warmth into them. My lungs burn, and I cough, the initial taste turning sour before the relief comes.

I feel my way down the alleyway, the moon being my only light source as I stumble the short distance to my flat. I'm yelled at before the building door even closes by the landlord. "There's a man in your room. Maybe he'll help you pay your bloody rent," he tells me. I turn my key, and find myself staring into the face of a stranger, and I know it'll be another long night.

The next day I walk into a class at college, sitting in the seat in front of my red-headed neighbour as usual. I pay no attention - I haven't done this whole year. But red-head always writes two lots of notes, and hands me one as we leave class together. I run a hand through greasy hair, and attempt to wipe away weeks of smudged makeup. I don't want this, I want to scream. 

I bump shoulders with some tall guy who dumps a bag in my pocket. Same as every day, because he knows I'll kill him if he doesn't. I hesitate by the doors. I don't want to go home, but I have to, so I find my alley, empty the packet, and drag another man into bed. And when the money is in my hands, I turn up the heating, and try to forget it all.

I wake up to the sound of rain hitting the window. I pull on my coat, and leave, and try to survive another day at college. I almost do. Some college kids push me into a puddle, and I rip my gloves as I panic, trying to get back on my feet. When I finally get into my flat to change, I leave trails of water all over the floor.

I shove some change and some notes over the desk as I leave the building again. I rub my eyes as I find tonight's client, croak as I speak. He looks in sympathy. "How about I just call you tomorrow, love?" I tell him I don't have a phone.

The days pass in the same way. College. Notes from Red-Head. Powder from Tall Guy. A brief stay in heaven and a long stay in bed.

As I wander out into the night, Red-Head grabs my arm. "Don't go," he whispers. "You'll freeze out there." I shake him off. The snow falls, and I barely make it to my alleyway. I lean my head against the wall, and close my eyes.

Tomorrow, Red-Head will turn on his television. The first headline on the local news will be about a young adult dying of hypothermia. He'll write out two sets of notes. And he'll throw one in the bin.

He'll write about the daydreamer, the girl who had been slowly dying inside since she was eighteen. About how her mask was beginning to fall away - telling the world she wasn't coping, she was living on drugs and paying with money she'd earned in bed. About how he tried to tell her it was too cold outside, and how she went anyway, because that's how she survives under the upper hand - by ending up somewhere in the Motherland.

About how the worst things in life come free to us. How all his angel wanted to do was fly.

And about how sometimes, angels die.